Twenty-four hours in Lausanne | Ribs and kids

(Lausanne, Switzerland) For the visitor arriving from Quebec and looking for his bearings, the sign has something comforting. We leave the station, take a few steps to the right and there it is, in big letters: “Les kids du Québec”.

Éric Bélanger had arranged to meet us there. Not the former NHL player, but rather the new director of the two branches of this sports bar (the other is in Fribourg), equally passionate about hockey, expatriated with the Helvetians for 27 years. Here he is waiting for us with a “Quebec aperitif” on the table.

The animal kingdom is there: merguez, hot dog sausages and other meats, interspersed with fries, on a base of focaccia, topped with barbecue sauce. Do you have the recipe ? Don’t look for it in Three times per day.

We know Christian Dubé, Stéphane Rochette and Maxim Noreau well among Quebecers who make a living from hockey in Switzerland. But there are also Éric Bélangers who live on the outskirts of hockey.

Until very recently, he ran the Vaudoise hockey store, the Lausanne HC arena, where an old bench from the Forum recalls his attachment to his province of origin. As a teenager, he left Salaberry-de-Valleyfield by bus to attend CH matches. “It took 1 hour 45 minutes just to go!” “, he remembers. Today, he maintains his links with Quebec as best he can, notably by tuning into BPM Sports on the web.

This former Campivallensian is an open book of hockey anecdotes. It starts in the 1990s, when he frequently found himself in bars with Shayne Corson. “Darcy Tucker really liked my sister-in-law!” », he says, still amused.

Here, his proximity to the Lausanne club opened doors for him. When the Philadelphia Flyers came in 2019 for preseason games, he worked in support of the team’s equipment attendants.

Now he’s getting into the restaurant business. “We put out 80 poutines a night. It’s our biggest seller,” he says proudly.

The discussion inevitably turns towards cheese and its ability – or not – to make “squik squik”. “The one we have, it melts with the sauce. We found one that goes “squik squik”, but it comes from France, not Switzerland. I don’t want to show up here with my big clogs and crush our former suppliers,” he explains.

Poutine is not the only reminder of Quebec in its bar. It is added to a fleurdelisé flag, a Molson sign, but also Maudite and Boréale in his fridge, not forgetting relish and baseball mustard, condiments not exactly common in this corner of the world.

This is without forgetting the crowd screaming the chorus of Dana’s tribe, which the good Hélio runs at the moment when the clientele is warming up. Manau is certainly a French group, but anyone who has set foot in a karaoke bar in Quebec has already heard partygoers singing their hit at the top of their lungs.

A vertical city

Our desire to test the products of Les Gosses du Québec, in the name of rigorous information for readers of The Press, will have furnished this Thursday evening. The place is all the more difficult to leave as passing Quebecers and players in the world of hockey come to hang their feet there.

But Éric Bélanger recommends an itinerary for the next day: from the cathedral, go down the coast – “there are beautiful views of the roofs of the city from the stairs” – to Lake Geneva, from where we see France, with a stop, weather permitting, at Milan Park. Return by metro, as time is limited between morning training and the evening match.

Valuable advice. The walk is fabulous, with the only negative point being this damn changeable weather. Every 20 minutes, the clouds return, drop a shower, then leave again, like in an episode of Flintstones where the scenery loops back behind Fred who is driving.

The Milan park is built on a hill that can be climbed using the stairs. The exercise is worth it. The reward: a breathtaking view of neighboring France and Évian-les-Bains.

There is not enough time to visit the Olympic Museum. We will nevertheless return with an unforgettable memory: sore thighs, the result of the long descent on foot, constantly on the brakes so as not to hurtle down the old town on our butts.