There’s No Smell Like Home
In Montréal, you can trace the arrival of immigrant groups by walking north along Rue St. Laurent from the port. An immigrant arrives, trudges past previous groups until he finds virgin territory, and there he opens a restaurant with home cooking. Other people from the old country arrive, trek up the hill past alien smells, and move into apartments on a street that smells right, just like their childhood homes. You walk through the garlic of the Vieille Cité, the soy sauce of Chinatown, the peanut sauce of Little Thailand, the taramasalata of Greece, ever northward, until you are brought up short by the newest colony, Little Haiti, which smells of—well, only the foolish look closely into th . . .