For a lot of people on the West Island, Chenoy’s was a restaurant. For me, it was part of my life for a very long time.

In fact, Chenoy’s was the first place I ever worked. I was still in high school, and it was shortly after my father passed away. I was working 12-hour overnight shifts, 7 at night until 7 in the morning, then sneaking into school afterward to take a shower before going to class.

It was a pretty rough period in my life, and strangely enough, one of the people tied to that chapter is also tied to one of my favourite Chenoy’s memories. Mike Charles. God love him. God rest his soul. I miss that guy.

Mike’s family saw what I was going through back then and basically told me to come stay with them for a while.

Years later, Chenoy’s became our regular landing spot again.

When Animal House was playing downtown, and later at Bourbon Street West, we’d inevitably roll into Chenoy’s at about 3 in the morning with our entourage and devour smoked meat pizzas, smoked meat sandwiches and whatever else seemed like a good idea at that hour.

And 3 a.m. at Chenoy’s was a scene all its own.

Looking back now, it almost feels like something out of an 80s teen movie. It was probably the closest thing we had to Arnold’s on *Happy Days*, or that restaurant scene in *Grease*. The booths were full, everyone seemed to know someone, people were coming in from bars and gigs and God knows where else, and nobody seemed particularly interested in going home.

It was just where you ended up.

Maybe every generation has its own version of that. I hope they do. But I don’t know that those places and those moments ever really recreate themselves. They belong to a particular time, with particular people, when none of you have any idea that one day you’re going to look back and realize just how special and fleeting it all was.

And then there was *that* night.

We’d been partying a little too hard, and I was definitely feeling the effects. I ordered my traditional smoked meat pizza, but apparently my stomach wasn’t interested in waiting for it. I headed for the facilities and proceeded to become very closely acquainted with the floor and the toilet.

I’m lying there, sick as a dog, when the door opens.

It’s Mike.

And he’s carrying my smoked meat pizza.

“Chris, your pizza’s ready.”

And with that, he shoved the pizza right under my nose.

That was it.

I lost it all over again.

Suffice it to say, I never finished the pizza that night.

I can still see Michael standing there with that damned pizza. Of all the things we did together and all the years that have passed, that’s one of those ridiculous little memories that never leaves you.

And maybe that’s why hearing about Chenoy’s closing hits harder than it probably should.

Places like that become markers in your life without you realizing it. I worked there when I was a kid trying to figure out how to keep going after losing my father. Years later, I walked through those same doors at 3 a.m. after gigs, surrounded by friends, laughing, eating and living a completely different chapter of my life.

Now my dad is gone. Michael is gone. Animal House is a lifetime ago.

And now Chenoy’s is gone too.

But Jesus, we had some good times there.

Times lost, maybe. But never forgotten.

Thanks for the memories, Chenoy’s.

And Mike, wherever you are, I can still smell that fucking pizza.

Chenoy’s in DDO is gone.

For a lot of people on the West Island, Chenoy’s was a restaurant. For me, it was part of my life for a very long time.

In fact, Chenoy’s was the first place I ever worked. I was still in high school, and it was shortly after my father passed away. I was working 12-hour overnight shifts, 7 at night until 7 in the morning, then sneaking into school afterward to take a shower before going to class.

It was a pretty rough period in my life, and strangely enough, one of the people tied to that chapter is also tied to one of my favourite Chenoy’s memories. Mike Charles. God love him. God rest his soul. I miss that guy.

Mike’s family saw what I was going through back then and basically told me to come stay with them for a while.

Years later, Chenoy’s became our regular landing spot again.

When Animal House was playing downtown, and later at Bourbon Street West, we’d inevitably roll into Chenoy’s at about 3 in the morning with our entourage and devour smoked meat pizzas, smoked meat sandwiches and whatever else seemed like a good idea at that hour.

And 3 a.m. at Chenoy’s was a scene all its own.

Looking back now, it almost feels like something out of an 80s teen movie. It was probably the closest thing we had to Arnold’s on *Happy Days*, or that restaurant scene in *Grease*. The booths were full, everyone seemed to know someone, people were coming in from bars and gigs and God knows where else, and nobody seemed particularly interested in going home.

It was just where you ended up.

Maybe every generation has its own version of that. I hope they do. But I don’t know that those places and those moments ever really recreate themselves. They belong to a particular time, with particular people, when none of you have any idea that one day you’re going to look back and realize just how special and fleeting it all was.

And then there was *that* night.

We’d been partying a little too hard, and I was definitely feeling the effects. I ordered my traditional smoked meat pizza, but apparently my stomach wasn’t interested in waiting for it. I headed for the facilities and proceeded to become very closely acquainted with the floor and the toilet.

I’m lying there, sick as a dog, when the door opens.

It’s Mike.

And he’s carrying my smoked meat pizza.

“Chris, your pizza’s ready.”

And with that, he shoved the pizza right under my nose.

That was it.

I lost it all over again.

Suffice it to say, I never finished the pizza that night.

I can still see Michael standing there with that damned pizza. Of all the things we did together and all the years that have passed, that’s one of those ridiculous little memories that never leaves you.

And maybe that’s why hearing about Chenoy’s closing hits harder than it probably should.

Places like that become markers in your life without you realizing it. I worked there when I was a kid trying to figure out how to keep going after losing my father. Years later, I walked through those same doors at 3 a.m. after gigs, surrounded by friends, laughing, eating and living a completely different chapter of my life.

Now my dad is gone. Michael is gone. Animal House is a lifetime ago.

And now Chenoy’s is gone too.

But Jesus, we had some good times there.

Times lost, maybe. But never forgotten.

Thanks for the memories, Chenoy’s.

And Mike, wherever you are, I can still smell that fucking pizza.

I’ve spent most of my life curious about people.

What they believe, what they worry about, what they want for their families, what makes them laugh, and why two perfectly reasonable people can look at exactly the same thing and come away seeing something completely different.

That curiosity has taken me to some interesting places. I’ve worked in radio and journalism, built businesses, taught music, owned a restaurant, written books, spent years living in Montreal, Ottawa and Toronto, and somehow ended up driving rideshare and discovering that a car with two strangers in it can be one of the most interesting places in the country.

None of it happened in a particularly sensible order.

I’ve never been especially motivated by accumulating things. Experiences have always interested me more. I wanted to try things, build things, meet people and find out what was on the other side of whatever door happened to be in front of me. Sometimes it worked brilliantly. Sometimes it didn’t. Occasionally I probably should’ve left the door closed.

But I’ve rarely regretted opening it.

Writing has been the constant through almost all of it. Even when I wasn’t sitting at a desk writing a book, I was telling stories. I did it behind a microphone in radio, in newspapers, through podcasts and in conversations with people. I’ve always been fascinated by the difference between what something looks like from a distance and what it feels like when you’re actually there.

That’s probably why I’ve never been very good at accepting the conventional explanation simply because it’s the conventional explanation. I want to know why. I want to hear the other person’s version. I want to know what happened before the part everyone is arguing about.

People are usually more interesting than the categories we put them in.

That became especially obvious when I started driving rideshare. It began while I was living in Ottawa and continued after I returned to Toronto. What I discovered was an extraordinary little window into the country.

People get into the car and talk.

Sometimes it’s small talk. Sometimes it’s hilarious. Sometimes you hear something deeply personal from someone you met twelve minutes ago and will probably never see again. I’ve spoken with newcomers beginning their lives in Canada, people worried about their jobs, students trying to figure out their futures, professionals watching technology transform their industries, parents worried about their children, people who love this country and people seriously wondering whether they should leave it.

I’ve also met plenty of people who just wanted to get to the airport without having a philosophical discussion about the future of Canada, which is probably a healthy reminder for me.

Those conversations have reinforced something I learned much earlier in life: almost everyone has a story, and most of those stories become interesting once you stop waiting for your turn to talk.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have a lot of different vantage points myself.

I know what it feels like to employ people and be responsible for making payroll. I know the excitement of building something from nothing and the considerably less exciting experience of discovering that your great idea wasn’t quite as great as you thought it was. I’ve experienced journalism from inside a newsroom, broadcasting from behind the microphone, hospitality from the restaurant floor, education through the music schools I built, and now publishing from both sides of the page.

There are easier ways to construct a résumé.

I’m not sure there are better ways to collect stories.

Somewhere along the way, all those experiences started connecting. The questions I’d been asking about people became questions about communities, and eventually questions about Canada itself. How do millions of people with different backgrounds, experiences and beliefs manage to build something together? What do we owe each other? What should we expect from the country we share? How do we disagree without deciding that everyone on the other side must be an idiot?

I’ve spent a lot of time writing and talking about those questions lately. Politics has become part of my life, but it isn’t my life, and this part of the site isn’t intended to be another political podium.

There’s plenty of room elsewhere for that.

This is where I want to write about the other stuff.

People I’ve met. Places I remember. Restaurants that disappeared and somehow took a little piece of an era with them. Music. Radio. Family stories. Things I’ve built. Things I’ve screwed up. Things I still don’t understand. Observations that aren’t important enough to become a manifesto but are interesting enough that I can’t quite leave them alone.

And probably food. There will definitely be food.

At this point in my life, I’m less interested in pretending everything followed some grand design. It didn’t. One thing led to another, something unexpected happened, plans changed, somebody interesting walked through the door, and off we went in another direction.

Looking backward, though, I can see the thread.

Stay curious. Keep experiencing things. Talk to people. Listen when they answer. Build something when you can. Write down the good stories before you forget them.

And don’t worry too much about putting them in order.