Illustration: Dorothy Leon
There’s a certain magic sewn into the faded red, white, and blue of the Montreal Expos cap, and I didn’t fully understand it until I left.
Here in Los Angeles, where loyalties are as fluid as freeway traffic or Hollywood marriages, and last week has already gone vintage, I realized there’s one thing I always carry with me no matter where I go. It’s that hat. The curved brim is a symbolic “M” that for some reason hides the nostalgia of the entire city. I throw it without thinking. What started as a way to hide a receding hairline has grown into an almost religious ritual. And invariably, by the end of the day, someone will say something about it.
“Montreal?”
“The Expos – It’s Bringing Me Back!”
“I had that hat when I was a kid.”
Whether you’re drinking coffee at Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank or watching a Little League game in Encino, an Expos cap is an invitation. It’s an icebreaker that cuts off small talk and jumps back into memory.
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And that’s the restaurant.
Tucked away off Beverly Glen Boulevard, it’s one of those family-owned Italian spots you’ll only find if someone tells you about it, or if you’re lucky enough to stop by and keep your matchbook. At Il Segreto Ristorante Belair, the cap seems to be the most important thing. The moment I walked through the door, I heard him thump across the room.
“Adam, my friend! What, Saint-Viateur Bagels is closed and you’re still here?”
Waiter Nicola.
He is from Ville-Aimard. It’s a small working class area of Montreal and I couldn’t find it on a map. He came to Hollywood decades ago chasing stardom. Life had other plans. Now he glides between the tables like it’s his own stage, and his voice carries just enough to make the whole room feel like he’s an extra in an indie movie he’s starring in.
But my case is different.
The cap will do it for you. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a guy eating carbonara, I was family. Paisan, he would say. Like we both stepped off the same boat in Le Vieux Port, even though the only thing we really share is our upbringing in Montreal and a kiss on both cheeks, a tacit understanding of Les Tamtams, Leonard Cohen, Mitsuu, Just for Laughs, and DiSalvio.
Like the Quebec song, Pop Goes the World.
He grabs my shoulder and leans in, calling me “Cusine” and I calling him “Mishpoka.” And for a moment, Beverly Glen could be the same as Sherbrooke Street.
We talk about nothing and everything. The weather on the way back. The pastrami here is just bad no matter what you try. He will mention the real Cusine, which is still in Ville-Aimard. I talk about the streets I used to know and my Italian friends from Dawson College. That all applies.
Sometimes I meet another foreigner from Montreal. You can immediately hear the nostalgia baked into the Franglais dialect. And soon the inside jokes begin.
“Is Schwartz Deli’s smoked meat still the best, or did Snowdon Deli win?”
“It depends, are we talking about 1am after a pub crawl at Prince Arthur or a platter at Shiva?
“So, how about the cultural spots in St. Catherine, if you know what I mean… purely for research?”
I laugh because I don’t need to explain. It’s an abbreviation.
“Have you ever encountered an orange julep on biker night? It feels like you’re in the middle of a turf war!”
That will definitely land. This restaurant and roadside attraction is a place you have to experience firsthand to understand. On the outside is a giant glowing orb in the shape of an orange, big enough to serve as a beacon to 747 pilots, and the sweet drink is rumored to be part OJ and part egg white. I remember the summer air smelling of French fries and steam (Montreal hot dogs) and the dizzying plumes of diesel smoke rising above the Decarie Expressway. We swap stories about the infamous Olympic Stadium and the team that was still ours even if we didn’t win.
Former Major League catcher Gary Carter holds up a New York Mets cap and a Montreal Expos cap during the 2008 All-Star Game ceremony at Yankee Stadium in New York.
One night, it was a security guard at a movie theater in a rough part of Los Angeles. It’s a place you wouldn’t expect to be tapped on the shoulder. He quickly clocked the cap. His whole demeanor changed.
“My dad used to take me to Mets games. I’m from New York,” he said, his accent still present.
“Gary Carter, right?”
We both stopped. There was no need to say it out loud. The weight of that catcher’s name, what he meant, and how it all ended a few years later with an inoperable brain tumor at just 57 years old just sat there.
“But Andre Dawson?!”
And just like that, we were transported back to the summer of 1991, grinning once again as we watched Expos pitcher Dennis Martinez pitch a perfect game against the Boys in Blue at Dodger Stadium.
Here in LA, wearing that cap is like a secret handshake.
“I’ll give you endless refills of popcorn. Just don’t tell the manager.”
He didn’t need to explain why. Yoppi!
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In Hollywood, a voice could be heard from on stage at the famous Comedy Store in the middle of the packed main room. “Expo Hat!” It was Howie Mandel, spotting it from across the room like a heat-seeking missile. There was a quick nod, a smile, no attempted handshake (out of respect for Howie), and no long conversation required. That unspoken bond was strong enough to interrupt his finely tuned flow with Nos Amour’s memories.
Another time, in a crowded lobby in Winnipeg, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there he was – Kevin McDonald. One of the children in the hall. Something I was obsessed with growing up. And somehow it was the hat that opened the door. we talked. More than just a temporary thing, we stayed in touch, discussing an idea for a TV show about a ragtag team of Canadian astronauts from Manitoba (winnipeg winters are colder than Mars).
It all starts with the Expos logo, the same Quebec bat signal.
Expos players participating in the 1982 MLB All-Star Game in Montreal, from left: Gary Carter, Andre Dawson, Steve Rogers, Tim Raines, and Al Oliver.canadian press
That’s the story of Cap.
The way a defunct franchise creates a truer connection than most current teams is profound. Maybe it’s because the Expos didn’t get a proper farewell. Or maybe it’s because Canadians carry our stories around in a special way, neatly packed in old, faded Steinberg shopping bags, even when we’re scattered in places like Los Angeles.
Because that cap gives you a special membership that’s more valuable than Costco or Soho House. Wearing this, it’s like being quietly “made” in a crowd, not in the dramatic sense you see in Scorsese movies, but in the sense of instant credibility. You can’t go wrong.
In a city that is permanently under construction, the expo cap is stubbornly unchanged, like the Wilensky special. If you want your sandwich without the cut or mustard, you’ll probably have to root for the Nationals.
I have come to rely on hats to remind me that identity is not something I leave behind when I cross borders, trading in ice storms and earthquakes. It’s something you wear forever, waiting for the right person to notice.
Or a proper waiter (hi Nicola!).
Or a familiar voice coming from across a crowded room.
Because they always do.
And for a split second, when you’re standing in a dimly lit restaurant, multiplex lobby or comedy club on the edge of Beverly Glen, you’re not in Los Angeles.
You return to Montreal, praying that the roof will stay on until at least the bottom of the 9th inning.
Adam Steinman left Montreal for New York in 1998 (on a Greyhound bus on the same day as the infamous January ice storm), but he’s forever a Montrealer at heart. He is currently based in Los Angeles, where he works as Executive Vice President of Global Format and Acquisition at Blink49 Studios, and travels the world wearing his Expos hat in search of the next hit TV show idea.
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