Canada’s Middle Child

Does birth order dictate destiny? In high school, for instance, first-borns become class presidents, while last-borns adopt the persona of class clown. But what about the overshadowed middle child?

Transfer that dilemma to cities: Between New York and Los Angeles, there’s … what? Flyover land. (Hi, Minneapolis!) In Canada, that’s true, too — as in “overlooked” Winnipeg. It’s the geographic center of Canada, but under the radar.

All it takes to boost this image (is there even one?) is a visit.

The earliest European visitors were fur traders, who settled at the confluence of two rivers to launch a trading post. Today, that very spot where two rivers join is the city’s liveliest destination, called The Forks. Its Market building teems with food stalls of countless ethnic stripes plus indie shops to clothe you, clad your home and spark your mind (bookseller alert).

Stroll along the riverbank, laze in a lawn chair or sign on with newly-launched Turtle Tours for a trek that illuminates First Nations sites, including a moving ceremonial circle. As you stroll, you’ll spot the white strands of the iconic Riel Bridge leading to St. Boniface — like a French-speaking St. Paul to Winnipeg’s Minneapolis.

The tower spiraling skyward not far away rises from the Canada Museum of Human Rights, heralding groups often historically stripped of those rights, such as immigrants, women, First Nations people and … the LGBTQ+ community. Its current exhibit — chilling but vital to document — details “Love in a Dangerous Time”: the account of the purge of gays and lesbians by the military, Canadian Mounted Police and government agencies from the 1950s to the 1990s. It illuminates WWII’s castigation as their “medical condition,” to be “treated” with the likes of a Fruit Machine (really!) for fear of blackmail during the Cold War.

The exhibit asks, “What is normal? And who gets to decide?” Enter the infamous Interrogation Room for those picked up on the street or tailed with special cars. It concludes with a video dance sequence of this hide-and-seek, created by the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. (BTW, Canada legalized gay marriage in 2004 — the fourth country in the world to do so.)

Ah, the beloved ballet! The company, bestowed a stamp of approval by Britain’s royals, was formed in 1939 and today hosts 50 live-in students, selected by audition, and 26 dancers, whom visitors (by appointment) can observe rehearsing via a windowed balcony — today perfecting a new version of Sleeping Beauty. The tour includes a walk-through of the costume shop at work.

A few blocks away, Winnipeg Art Gallery grabs my attention with an exhibit called “Crying Over Spilt Tea,” a pun underscored by a pile of broken bone china dishes — the bone in question coming from slain buffalo. Nearby, a huge installation gallery salutes the provocative sculptures of First Nations artist Abraham Anghik Rube. But the star of the permanent collection, in a space called Quamajug, is a rising three-story glass cylinder holding thousands of small sculptures (many sleekly rendered animals) by Inuit artists. If it happens you’ve inherited a fortune, stop at the sales gallery to bring home your own selection. (Me, I browse with jaw-dropping wonder.)

Speaking of fortunes, how about a look at money in the making? That’s the focus of the Royal Canadian Mint — a 20-minute drive out of town — where coins are produced for over 80 countries — 15 million per day in peak times — which visitors can observe from balconies overlooking machines spewing coins a la Vegas. If young showman Cade is your tour guide, you’re extra-lucky. He’ll point out rare items, like a black nickel produced to mark the death of Queen Elizabeth. No spendable souvenirs, alas.

Back downtown, the Manitoba Museum unspools the province’s history, starting with the city’s founding in the 1870s by Louis Riel, a Métis (half Native, half French). But, before that — long, long before — during the Age of the Dinosaurs, lived the creature that the huge, sci-fi-looking skeleton scaring you, which was dug up nearby, belonged to.

Proceed through the Boreal Forest (complete with mosquitoes on display), on to the star of the museum: a replica of the Nonesuch sailing vessel of 1668 that ferried Hudson Bay Company furs to London. Climb aboard, matey, and give the ropes a tug. Continue to stroll the streets of the city circa 1920, peering into a drugstore, lunch counter, movie theater and more.

Close by outside, the actual streets of 1920 (and earlier) still exist in the red-brick Exchange District (guided tours available, which provide excellent “insider” information). Guide Artie points out the former dry goods store (which boasted live fashion models), the home of the Anarchists Society, Newspaper Row (three dailies competed from adjoining buildings), Bankers Row (with 20 — count ’em — banks) and a skyscraper rising here in the “Chicago of the North.”

Artie brings to life the city’s infamous General Strike of 1919, launched by female telephone operators, which brought in the Mounties with midnight raids of labor temples and culminated in Bloody Saturday (a life-size sculpture of an overturned streetcar marks the event).

Time to Eat

Straight off Delta’s hour-and-a-bit flight and checking in at the riverside Mere Hotel, I found myself sipping a Prairie Common brew at Nonsuch Brewing Co., just a block away. I noshed on house-made chips while debating between their award-winning double smashed burger and the unique squash burger, featuring a tender, inch-thick slice of the sweet vegetable topped with cheddar. (Solution: Twist the arm of your dining partner and share one of each.)

Later, it’s off to the Little Italy ’hood to grab a table at the cozy, contempo Passero, where an open kitchen sends out plates like my ball-o-rice arancini: crusty, yielding to creamy, studded with mushrooms and launched on a pool of Green Goddess dressing. Skipping the meat and fish, I sped directly to the pasta list for a plate of cavatelli lush with tomato, spinach, pesto, mascarpone and pine nuts. A final, fudgy tart paired with peanut butter, dulce de leche and espresso cream sent me out the door humming.

By morning’s light, I headed across the river into St. Boniface for brunch at the riverside Promenade Brasserie, launched by a Métis chef who early on found his passion in the kitchen — this morning, delivering a smoking-hot and spicy-hot shakshuka. Bravo! Snacks at the Fork held me until dinner at Shirley’s in the foodie heaven called Osborne Village.

Cuddled in a couple of small rooms that could double as Grandma’s cottage, I pounced on a starter of devilled eggs livened with gherkins and caramelized onions, then settled on the pesto-laced radiatori, laced with basil, pine nuts and pecorino plus creative add-ins like zucchini cubes and leaflets of kale. My companion’s chicken Milanese introduced mortadella, arugula and Dijon to the usual cheese-and-tomato classic. We couldn’t manage dessert, so Grandma’s strawberry shortcake will have to wait.

I’d dined at Chef Emily Butcher’s vanguard Nola on my last visit. This time, I stepped into her newest venture, Bar Accanto, right next door. It’s a tiny hideout dressed in modern black and white (and reverberating with chatter) serving up a concise, well-curated menu of why-can’t-I-just-choose-everything treats. (Actually, the party next to me did just that.) I swooned over tempura-dressed oyster mushrooms, brightened by a jalapeno emulsion; then the chili-glazed pork belly alongside cucumber salad, a satiny saffron puree and florets of fried cauliflower. That surprise crunchy touch? Chicharrón!

One meal to go: brunch at the Exchange District’s longtime fave, Clementine. It opens at 9 a.m. and is so popular that crowds swarm the door and pound on the below-street setting, ensuring that all seats are filled by 9:01. My classic Eggs Bennie hit the spot. So did a frothy cappuccino. And the people-watching is primo.

So, let’s give it up for Canada’s middle child. Can’t wait to return. To plot your own adventure, visit tourismwinnipeg.com. BTW, the Pride Winnipeg 2026 festival runs May 26 to June 7.