If you like international travel on the skeevy side and have a lot of empty beer cans in the back of your car, you’ll find this place meets your requirements. It helps considerably if you can speak French while drunk, which I can’t. Tons of leather here, oh-so-weird Verdun stylistas, petty criminals, weary patrons with service jobs, young alkies, amazingly hot barmaids and a pool table, maybe two, in this spacious and sloppy bar in a working-class neighborhood that is never, ever frequented by tourists visiting Montréal. Every time we go to Montréal we say, «What are we doing at Monkees, again?» Moments later, we are shitfaced.