Author: Denis

Over time, the club evolved by itself.  Glen Kealy organized a chess tournament.  Harry Howith, a local poet, set up poetry readings, with the likes of Barry Lord, Bill Hawkins, and sometimes Brian Robinson, a U of O English professor, would drop in to read his poetry and play his clarinet. Bob Rosewarne, graphic designer and lithographer, met Bill Hawkins then. From this meeting emerged a series of poster poems including the well-known “Postage Stamps.” A friend, Gerard Gravelle, organized the French poetry readings.  Gerard became a journalist and news anchor for Radio Canada television and also played in numerous French and English theatre productions at Le Hibou (more on that later).

Budding folk singers arrived on the scene; people like Nev Wells, Peter Hodgson, who later adopted the stage name “Sneezy Waters,” and his brother John (who wrote “You’ve got Sawdust on the Floor of Your Heart”).  There was also an enigmatic character, called Carlos by everyone (Charles Fisher), who played flamenco guitar and would pop in regularly.  When Carlos dropped by, we would be granted with an impromptu concert, and before long George Gordon Lennox (who also played guitar) and others would join in.  The thumping of the feet did not exactly please our downstairs landlord.  He would retaliate by playing corny tunes on his electric organ when we held poetry readings—creating a cacophonous effect as the poet read.

During the period of his impromptu concerts, Charles had worked as House of Commons reporter. When the House rose each summer, he would be off to Spain where it was said he had an extended family.  When he died a few years ago, I learned from his obituary that he was also a poet and a good friend of Dylan Thomas.  Apparently, his friends had urged him to write about that era, but for some reason he had refused to do so.

In addition to the music, food, cappuccino, cakes, chess, and poetry, there was always the business side of the club.  Le Hibou was open seven days a week, and Andre fulfilled his part.  As night manager,  he had to kick the strays out and lock the door.  But after a few months of this regimen his law studies were taking a beating.  So it was with regret that Andre had to quit the group.  Not long afterwards, Jean Carriere needed the $800 he had invested to continue his studies.  Reluctantly, we paid it back and lost another good partner.

Staffing, though, was never a problem.  It was amazing how many people were willing to work for what amounted to a pittance and tips.  Many romances blossomed there.  One I recall involved my younger sister, Fernande, who was also waitress.  On the particular night in question, the cappuccinos and cakes were ready and waiting, yet there was no sign of Fernande.  Checking the front room, I noticed Fernande was seated having a spirited conversation with a club member.  That club member, Ralph Kretz, became my brother-in-law.  And of course, Le Hibou is also where I met Penny Knight, who was to become my wife.

At the end of the first winter, we had more than 500 members.  But since half of our membership were students who had exams looming, attendance began to dwindle.  Then an event occurred which gave Le Hibou much publicity and a surge in attendance.

Le Hibou was born out of what now seems a remarkable mix of seemingly disparate events: the Cold War, a live jazz club in Edmonton, Italian espresso on Preston Street, and a few Ottawa guys with a small bit of cash and big ideas. Then it was also the people who contributed, worked, or just hung out—the poets, artists, musicians, but also chess players, bakers, and actors.

It began in the fall of 1960. I was starting my final year as a student majoring in sociology and philosophy at the University of Ottawa. I had just come back from a summer job in Edmonton, where I had worked for the Department of Transport as a lab technician for a joint project with the US Air Force under a Calgary contractor. It was the Cold War, and the Department spared no expense in overseeing the construction of a new runway to accommodate large American refueling aircraft.

There was lots of overtime to be had for the workers, myself included. By the end of that summer, I had amassed what was to me a small fortune, and I returned to Ottawa feeling flush.

I came back, also having had some new experiences. Ottawa in 1960 had little to offer students in the way of live music or clubs, other than taverns and, even then, only if you were lucky enough to be 21 years of age. To my surprise, Edmonton had a few European-style bistros and even an after hours jazz club, The Yardbird Suite on Whyte Avenue, run by pianist Tommy Banks (now a retired Senator) which I frequented regularly.

While there, I began to mull over the idea that Ottawa should have a little club for students and others, a place to meet and exchange ideas, listen to some good jazz or folk music. Always a lover of food, and with a romantic vision of French cafés from another era, I cherished memories from my teenage years, sipping espresso all evening long with my good friend Jean Guy Boutin in Little Italy—Caffe Italia, to be exact, on Preston Street. Remarkably, Caffe Italia had the only, and I presume the first, espresso coffee maker in town.

I discussed this idea of a little club with a long time friend André Jodouin, also a student at the University of Ottawa. He was very enthusiastic and recruited two other friends, also students, Jean Carrière and George Gordon Lennox. We all agreed to pitch in $800—a significant amount of money at the time, considering tuition for a full year at the University cost about the same amount. André had no extra money, so his share would instead be provided “in kind” by his contribution as a live-in manager, saving him rent money as well.

On the music scene, the Tremblay concerts at the Capitol Theatre were bringing classical music and on occasion pop concerts. At one time, there was jazz and all the big bands and big names would come to Ottawa, such as Lionel Hampton, Benny Goodman, Stan Kenton, Ella Fitzgerald, JATP (Jazz at the Philharmonic) who played at the Coliseum, or again in Aymer and Hull, at the Chaudiere or Standish Hall. (Louis Armstrong played there.) But then it became too costly and the touring ended. A bit later the Circus Lounge on the second floor of the Ottawa House opened and brought wonderful small jazz combos, such as Billy Taylor, Marian McPartland, Carmen McRae, and Al Belletto Sextet, but that faded away as well. By the time the sixties came around, most of this was gone.

Fortunately, the Ottawa Little Theatre maintained a steady stream of excellent amateur theatre (and still does, though there are more companies around, now). The touring companies came but were quite sporadic. As for classical dance, it was a struggle to keep the few amateur groups going. Of course, there was dancing—shall we call it “social”—in Hull in some of the clubs, but one needed money and above all a car to get there. Such were the times in the early 60s in Ottawa.

Ottawa, in the 60s was, of course, very different from what it is now. It was, for people outside of Ottawa, considered the capital of boredom. Although its inhabitants protested, they secretly concurred with this assessment. When I worked in Alberta, not only did they consider Ottawa a bore, but as the seat of the federal government they almost considered it evil. If I mentioned that I was born and lived in Ottawa, this would illicit a chorus of groans followed by a smattering of sympathy. How could I possibly live in such a place? Even if I mentioned that one could ski just 10 minutes away in the Gatineaus, how could one compare the majestic Rockies with the puny Gatineau Hills, they would justifiably say.

Even the ethnic mix was different. Whereas Edmonton had immigrants from all over Europe, Ottawa, generally of British or French Canadian roots, had some Italian and Chinese which we French Canadians considered exotic back then. Ottawans could point to their “Chinese village” with its four restaurants, located on Albert near Bank then, a few Italian restaurants in Little Italy on Preston Street, and the remarkable French restaurant Café Henry Burger in Hull. But mostly our restaurants then served up “Canadian cuisine”—beef or turkey sandwiches smothered in thick gravy with mashed potatoes and withered peas.

Meeting places for youth were few. Some restaurants accepted loitering, like the Del Rio on Rideau Street, but there were few such places. If you happened to be 21, and you were a student at the University of Ottawa, you would head to the Besserer Hotel. But that was far from being a very congenial place. There was a men’s room for men only and another room for women “with an escort.” And of course most ended up in the men’s room, a room reeking of beer and filled with smoke. As décor, it had a few beer posters, bentwood chairs with a small table and a metal ashtray. On the counter, large jars of pickled eggs stared out at anyone craving for some kind of sustenance. At 5:00 pm the place had to be cleared unless one were eating. So the waiters would dutifully plunk on each table a small plate with some kind of stale sandwich which of course nobody dared to touch. (How long did they keep them before they were freshened up, I often wondered.) Everybody now being legal with their stale sandwiches, the drinking would happily revive. (Later the drinking age was lowered to 18. Oddly, this seemed to occur about at the time that youth had discovered marijuana. Perhaps the government, to counter this trend changed the law, thinking it was more acceptable to have the kids get drunk like dad?)

Denis Faulkner,
Founder and Owner
October 1960 to December 1968

Whenever I meet someone who remembers Café Le Hibou Coffee House, we trade stories and inevitably the question pops up, “Why not write something about it?” I often thought about doing so, wondering what form it would take. A website became the obvious answer, and with encouragement from Pierre-Paul Lafreniere, the last owner, I set off to do it. Many of us feel that Le Hibou was a particularly important part of Ottawa cultural and social life in the 1960s. Indeed, many people still talk about their good memories of the place. I have good memories too, but Le Hibou, and that entire time period, was also a pivotal period in my own life. I didn’t know it then, but as I look back, it was very defining, since without it, my job at the CBC and my meeting of Penny Knight, whom I married, would not have happened. Meeting the many artists, the singers, musicians, actors, graphic designers—some becoming famous, others not—proved quite exhilarating and fulfilling. Perhaps others will also want to share their experiences. Maybe the stories, the photographs, the posters or even an old theatre program will awaken a memory, or elicit a story or photo you’d like to share, and perhaps we could all enhance the persona of Le Hibou past.