The songs of Montreal’s banished street vendors

Montreal did away with a big chunk of its cultural heritage when it started cracking down on street vendors in the 1960s. Food vendors were the first to go and, although City Hall has been easing its restrictions on street vending for a number of years, allowing people to sell art and crafts on Ste. Catherine Street and at the tam tams, it still refuses to allow anyone except mobile ice cream vendors to sell food on the street. This makes us one of the only major cities in the world with a near-total ban on street food.

Not only does this deprive us of delicious snacks, it eliminates a great source of streetlife. Today, on Coolopolis, Kristian Gravenor posted a bit about the calls of early twentieth century street vendors. He points to an article in the May 19th, 1929 edition of Le Petit Journal:

La corporation des marchands des quatres saisons, ou “colporteurs” comme on les nomme ici, est composée de braves gens qui gagnent honorablement leur vie en vendant de porte en porte, les primeurs, fruits ou légumes. On pouvait autrement classer dans cette catégorie les vendeurs de crême à la glace et les petits marchands de galettes et de blé-d’inde bouilli.

Le marchand de crême à la glace se tenait au coin des rues avec une petite voiture où était installé son bidon d’ice cream qui’il débitait à un sou le cocotier. Celui-là, il va sans dire, était particulièrement l’ami des enfants.

Un autre petit vendeur très populaire était le marchand de petites galettes et de petits pains chauds: “Galettes! Galettes! Madame!” criait-il, “pas trop de beurre dedans! … Cinq pour cinq sous! … Galettes! … Galettes! …”

Puis le marchand de blé-d’inde bouilli qui parcourait les rues avec son haridelle, en criant sans cesse, et en vers, s’il vous plait:

“Bon blé-d’inde bouilli!
Trois sous pour un épi! …”

Et qui ne se rappelle le vendeur de bluets, annoçant sa marchandise avec un trémolo dans la voix, tout comme notre marchand de bananes d’aujourd’hui: “Bluets!… Ah! les beaux bluets du Saguenay!…”

Saturday Night at the Bagel Factory about Jacob Kaminsky, a one-eyed old man who lived in a one-room apartment on Durocher Street and made his living selling balloons on Ste. Catherine:

It’s now a Saturday afternoon in early April and Jacob is standing on the corner of McGill College Avenue and St. Catherine Street in front of the Montreal City and District Savings Bank. Overhead is a large two-faced clock with Roman numerals, and the black hands indicate 11 o’clock. On a lamp-post in a sign for “The Federal Appeal.” A procession of Easter shoppers marches on St. Catherine Street.

“I have no false pride,” Jacob is saying. He is munching ravenously on a salami sandwich, crumbs spraying the sidewalk. At the same time he is trying to sell his balloons, imploring shoppers to take advantage of the bargain while it lasts.

“You want to know about the balloon guy?” Jacob says, gulping his sandwich. “Well, let me tell you. Once I was the king of coal, in Shanghai. … two f’a quartuh’. … thank you. … I was one of the richest men in the Orient. People called me Sir and they bowed before me. My hands were on the pursestrings of three million dollars. … I have no false pride. …”

Jacob throws the wrapper of his sandwich into a trashcan and plops a rather elegant cigarette holder into his mouth. He has a round florid face with double chin. Almost mechanically, he continues to cnavass the shoppers. “Two f’a quartuh’,” he barks. It sounds like an order. “You want a balloon?”

“Thank you. What happened in Shanghai?”

“The Communists took over and kept taxing me and taking away my money. I had to sell my business.”

“He was the king of lumber, as well, in Russia, weren’t you, Jacob?” asks a small guy with a moutsache who seems to know Jacob and insinuates his way into the conversation.

“Coal, lumber and transportation,” Jacob corrects. “The Communists took over and I had to leave Russia. I went to China in 1928 and become the coal king, but I had to leave there, too, in 1952 because of the Communists. This is my last destination. If the Communists take over here, I don’t know where I’ll go. … two f’a quartuh’. … thank you. … Communism is all right if you’re a Communist, but it doesn’t help a guy like me. You can write that in your story, that I have no false pride. Once I was king of goal. Now,” he pauses, “now I’m the king of balloons.”

“With all the free samples you’re giving, you’re the sample king,” chides the moustache.

All of that is gone now. Still, for all the by-laws in the world, it’s hard to quash the city-dweller’s habit of going out into the street to sell things. Even if Montreal no longer has many street vendors in the traditional sense, there is plenty of grass-roots commerce taking place in the streets. On any given day in the spring, summer or early fall, there is likely to be someone who has staked out a section of sidewalk or laneway to sell books, furniture, bicycles and assorted junk. At times, wandering around Mile End on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, I have come across a dozen of these bazaars. Some of them are underground businesses that take place every weekend.

On Park Avenue, near my apartment, there’s a big fruiterie with an impressive outdoor fruit stand. When it’s warm, the owners install a cash register outside and, often enough, one of them will stand outside urging passers-by to make a purchase:

“One dollar ananas! Sweet ananas!”