Montreal Bagel and (No) Schmear?

It feels like NYC bagels are having a Jacob Elordi moment—suddenly everywhere, with that undeniable “it” factor. Last-second pop-ups, lines around the block, selling out their gourmet stash before breakfast is even over. I keep seeing food influencers and full-blown “dough queens” posting delicious videos of them biting into crispy-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside everything bagels—wispy fronds of dill, mounds of house-made schmears, and food porn pin-up shots of stacked smoked fish.

One bagel for the experience, the other for the Gram.

And then there’s the Montreal bagel.

On a recent trip up North, it was easy to see Montreal bagels aren’t in it for the hype.

They’re more like a character actor—reliable, unpretentious, with just enough low-key sex appeal without trying. The kind of presence that quietly steals the scene, then lingers in your mind longer than you expect.

Sans Schmear

I’m just going to say it—people in Montreal eat their bagels raw dog.

It was the first thing that stood out.

Okay, maybe after the wood-burning ovens. And the aroma of roasted sesame seeds and charred sweetness hanging in the air. Yeah, and the bakers tossing freshly baked rings into metal baskets like they’ve done it a thousand times that morning already.

But then, you'll see it.

The regular flavors were all there—sésame, pavot (poppy), ail (garlic), and tout garni—an everything bagel they call all dressed. Other than the spelling, it all felt familiar. But I took French 1 in high school, so I was good.

People were just biting into them. No cream cheese. No butter. Just straight up.

Sure, there was a glass refrigerator stocked with individual Philly-brand cream cheese and packets of beurre, but… what, you’re supposed to grab one and do it yourself?

What are we, animals?

Maybe I was expecting something more exotic—more French Canadian. Like a smoked muskellunge spread pulled straight from the St. Lawrence or something… I don’t know.

But then I looked around and did like the locals—I took a bite.

Sweet. Chewy. Perfect.

I was wrong. My bad. I get it

A Bagel’s a Bagel’s a Bagel, Right?

One bite and I quickly found out there is a difference. Same genus, different species.

In 1919, Russian-born Isadore Shlafman opened the Montreal Bagel Bakery with a partner, Chaim Sligman—the first of its kind in Canada. But these weren’t the same bagels coming out of Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

Fairmount (Left) St- Viateur (Right)

Montreal’s version is made with flour, malt, and egg, boiled in honey-sweetened water, hand-rolled smaller, then baked in a wood-fired oven. You end up with something denser, with a subtly smoky char and just a touch of sweetness—these aren’t bagels, they’re Montreal bagels.

Thirty years later, “Grandfather” Isadore moved his shop and renamed it Fairmount, where it still turns out bagels the same way today. Then in 1957, just a few blocks away, Myer Lewkowicz—a Holocaust survivor from Poland—opened St-Viateur Bagel after learning the trade locally.

Two shops. Same neighborhood. Same tradition. Two seriously loyal fanbases.

But they are different—and worth taking the Pepsi Challenge.

The OG Fairmount is sweeter, fuller, with less of a char. St-Viateur is thinner, darker, more dense, with a deeper toast and an aggressive coating of seeds on the outside.

I May Have Overreacted

After I left Fairmount with my bag of booty, I immediately spotted its companion across the street—Café Fairmount Bagel, a sit-down spot with a full menu of tuna and chicken salad sandwiches, cream cheese spreads, and coffee.

Yeah… turns out L’Original Fairmount Bagel is takeout only.

In my defense, St-Viateur was takeout too—no egg sandwiches, no spreads, nothing.

But Montreal bagels show up all over the city. They were on my room service menu. At the coffee shop next door.

This smoked salmon bagel—loaded with chopped cucumber, capers, and dill—from Crew Collective & Café (set inside the ridiculously opulent former Royal Bank of Canada) was perfection.

The reality is, Montreal bagels don’t need a schmear—but don’t let some punk American food blogger fool you… Montreal’s got the schmear.

Get two. One raw dog. The other for the schmear.