An Evening With Jules et Jim
by Gary Singh
San Francisco Bay Guardian -- April, 2004
On any given Saturday night in Quebec City a popular bar called Jules et Jim transplants visitors to a likely setting for a David Lynch flick. Dark, smoky, its walls adorned with old movie photos befitting a bar named after the classic Francois Truffaut film, Jules et Jim is populated by an eclectic menagerie of characters. After ordering a pint of Boreal Rousse from the only bartender merciful enough to speak English, I take a seat at a knee-high table and begin eavesdropping on the surrounding barflies.
Buried among the posh restaurants and hipster clubs of Avenue Cartier, Jules et Jim is a microcosm of Quebec City itself: a mixture of old and new, a francophone locale with unwavering joie de vivre and pride in the history of the city. “Avenue Cartier is the real Quebec City,” a fellow in the bar tells me.
The history of Quebec City is the history of North America itself. Samuel de Champlain founded the city in 1608 as a strategic gateway to the St. Lawrence River. The first place in north America to be designated a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, Quebec City’s Old Town is a labyrinth of cobblestone streets lined with historical landmarks and buildings almost four centuries old. Sidewalk cafes and street performers abound. The drinking age is 18, and the bars remain open until three in the morning. The city looks, feels and operates like a European cosmopolis.
Back at Jules et Jim, an Irish woman at another table has invited me over to her group solely for the purpose of English conversation, a rare occurrence on Avenue Cartier. While Montreal is somewhat linguistically split, Quebec City is almost entirely francophone, with 98 percent of the population claiming French as their mother tongue.
I sit down next to a man drinking Bud Light. Andre’s somewhere in his 50s, with short-cropped gray hair. Another woman, also in her 50s, with long gray hair down her back, drinks Pernod out of the bottle and offers herself to every guy in the establishment. She gets up and dances with one man, and then another. In English, Andre tells me he liked Bill Clinton because he smoked out, he fooled around, and he’s a musician, and therefore a real person. “George Bush is not the American dream,” he says. The dancing woman asks me to stand up with her, and I oblige, failing miserably. “I have something to share with you,” she says, repeatedly. A few drunken sentences in French are broken up by the word, “pussy.”
Andre shakes his head and motions for me to dismiss her machinations. I recall a verse by Montreal songwriter Leonard Cohen from “Closing Time,” “We’re drinking and we’re dancing/But there’s nothing really happening/The place is dead as Heaven on a Saturday night/And my very close companion/Gets me fumbling, gets me laughing/She’s a hundred but she’s wearing something tight.” Quebeckers will spout ad nauseam that their province produced Celine Deon. I always counter with Leonard Cohen, a much better representative.
One fellow asks, “So are you Canadian?”
I tell them I’m American, and another guy puts his index finger to his mouth and says, “Sssshhh.”
My acquaintances inform me that Canadians know everything about Americans but that we know nothing about them. I tell them I’m from San Francisco, hoping that makes a difference. I offhandedly mention that, sure, most Americans don’t know that we invaded Quebec, once in 1775 and once during the War of 1812. And we got stomped both times. People in Quebec still talk about those battles. I can’t tell if I’ve managed to impress them by saying this.
However, as we imbibe late into the night, I decide it doesn’t matter. Quebec City unarguably remains one of the most charming locales this side of the Atlantic. There’s delicious food and days and days of sightseeing opportunities. Except for an occasional World Trade Organization protest, violent crime is almost unheard of. And if you fund yourself at loose ends on a Saturday night, there’s no better place to spend a few hours with the locals than Jules and Jim.