In this multitasking, multicultural world of multiple meanings and identities, Chalet BBQ has succeeded the old-fashioned way: by taking one simple thing and doing it preternaturally well.
The house specialty is rotisserie chicken and the stuff that comes with it – that’s it, that’s all. There’s nothing else on the plainly printed place-mats/menus. There are no mouth-watering pictures of succulent golden-brown poultry plastered on the walls, and the décor is essentially the same as it was when the place opened in 1944. There’s no need for the usual bells and whistles because this is what would happen if Bulgarian strippers were reincarnated as chicken and served up with gravy, a side of coleslaw and a pile of crispy, homemade fries. One little taste and you’ll be drooling for more.
Some say the secret to the Chalet’s success is that the chickens are killed and plucked every morning in a secret room in the basement, others that the unique salty flavour is produced when the frustrated illegal immigrants who work in the kitchen urinate over the slow-basting chickens. All I know is that for four generations now, all the male members of my family and a few of the females have managed to get themselves arrested within the hallowed walls of this Montreal institution or in the parking lot out back. Something about being hammered and tearing into a juicy drumstick just makes us crazy.
Try it. You’ll see what I mean.
5456, Sherbrooke West