Our Hood Smells Good–Mostly

Many of you know that I’m on the super-taster and super-smeller spectrum–nose like a bloodhound, lungs like a canary. I’ve written before about how this affects me in unfortunate ways here in Montreal and my life in general.

But this year, our new neighborhood’s smell-scape is better than all our previous ones. Sometimes, it’s utterly transporting.

A few weeks after we arrived, when the weather was still chilly and grey, I took an early morning walk to the local market in my snug fleece coat. I do errands early to avoid rush-hour exhaust fumes and pedestrian smokers, like you do when you’re a super-smeller.

I had my N-95 mask ready around my neck because yes, I still mask when going inside public buildings, but for the nonce I was enjoying the cold air on the street: bracing, and smelling *clean*, like clear spring water.

I’ve learned to enjoy fresh stimulating air when I can, especially in the city, as it never lasts long. One diesel truck or smoldering cigarette ruins it, and I’m left with the scraping pain of post-chemical exposure.

Whilst I was reveling in this lovely air, a breeze wafted a strong, spiced aroma over me, an olfactory wave so overwhelming I stopped mid-sidewalk, just sensing, bloodhound nose engaged.

OMG, I said out loud, almost a moan. What is this enticing, seductive smell? this savory perfume bewitching my being?

It was, I concluded, sizzling cumin and onions, a large batch, being grilled nearby, most likely in one of the many small restaurants lining Boulevard Jean-Talon. I, hypnotized by its sensual allure, crept forward, sniffing, trying to discern the direction from whence this delectable perfume came.

I couldn’t find it. The chilly breeze spread its bouquet along several blocks–past the Mexican diner, the Peruvian kitchen, the Haitian grill, the Algerian casse-croute–it could have been from anywhere. I couldn’t source it but I didn’t care. I just soaked up its rich and unexpected goodness, strolling and inhaling deeply, thanking the Maker for a world where onions and spices and grills and vents could grant such untrammeled pleasure to nameless passers-by, namely me.

We’ve been lucky enough to experience Cumin and Onion Heaven a few times since we got here. Those wondrous culinary clouds, an anonymous gift from our local holes-in-the-wall, continue to enrapture. It is always love at first whiff.

But that’s not the only aroma we get to enjoy here. Our apartment is just a few doors down from a busy bakery and sometimes, when we go out to the park or for a bike ride, they are baking their cakes. The cheering vanilla smell of birthdays, holidays, and viennoserie wafts us into bliss. It is divine.

But.

A couple of the bakers are dedicated smokers, and come out onto the street for their ciggie breaks several times a day. When I see their white chef coats I hold my breath and hustle past, trying to avoid the saltwater sting of second-hand smoke–a few seconds of which can wreck my breathing for several hours.

It’s not all cakes and cumin in the hood, though. Now that the weather is hot and humid, the street smells can be abhorrent. For example: if the weekly garbage day falls during one of Montreal’s frequent heat waves, a vomity vinegar smell of rotting food suffuses the entire road, with no escape, until the trash trucks haul the rotting stench-brew away in a billow of toxic exhaust. Suffice to say, I stay inside until they are gone.

If it’s not trash day, and one opts to walk to the store, there’s often a steaming aire-du-poo that makes one wonder, rather unhappily, about its source. No comment.

I have had, necessarily, to reflect on all this, on controlling my environment and protecting my health (mental as well as physical–not being able to breathe well is pretty depressing). If one has a car, one can lock out not only bad weather, but the sounds and smells of the urban environment. If you must walk or cycle everywhere, as we do, you are part of the environment, and experience the street directly with all your senses, and no ability to opt out.

For me, with my bloodhound nose and canary lungs, the airborne chemicals of the city are front and center and, more often than not, they feel poisonous. My respiratory sensitivity shapes my life wherever I go, but this year I’m happy that I can relish a few moments of olfactory delight as I look among the garbage and the flowers of Villeray.

More cake and cumin, please.