Pasta Pooks

Montréal, QC

9

At Pasta Pooks, the team channels years of pop-up energy into a permanent home that’s loud, confident, and completely devoted to the art of pasta.

17 November 2025

Editorial by Tara O’Brady
Photography by Johnny C.Y. Lam

Restaurant

Pasta Pooks

City

Montréal, QC

Address

6704 Clark St

Learn More

Pasta Pooks

Pasta Pooks is dialled in. Pumping out all killer, no filler.

In Dinette Triple Crown’s old spot, it’s the first foray into permanence from Luca Labelle Vinci—Pooks—and Victor-Alex “Coach Vic” Petrenko after years of legendary pop-ups. Along with Kai Borst, chef de cuisine, this gang earned their cred at Nora Gray, Impasto, Mano Cornuto, Gia, Doubles, Maison Publique, Mon Lapin, and Menu Extra.

Chef Luca “Pooks” Labelle Vinci, the restaurant’s namesake, rolling out fresh pasta sheets.

Seating is in demand. It opened with a half-dozen stools inside that offered Jar Jar Binks, Garfield, and sweaty proximity to greatness. When days turned warm, they debuted a sidewalk terrace so streetside that servers take tortelloni into traffic. Daily pasta-making took up the dining room, but not for much longer. Soon you’ll be able to snag a front-row seat to the action—Coach is eccentrically renovating part of that precious square footage to welcome more fans in.

Tossing tagliatelle in a deeply flavoured Bolognese.

The savvy wine list, kept in line by Martin Pariseau (Menu Extra), skews natural, slightly nerdy, and nudges the right edge of weird. Ask what to drink — someone will have an opinion, it’ll be on point. The menu is as short and brash as a graffiti tag. High value, with full awareness of its worth.

Antipasti of asparagus and a sabayon made incandescent by Conestoga yolks. Haricots Caesar gives the beans a full coating of oomph. Then there’s the no-holds-barred Philly-style cheesesteak—the oneness of meat and cheese on sesame rolls made to spec by Boulangerie Automne.

Spinach ravioli with butter and sage.

Gnocchi in pistachio pesto moves like silk pyjamas. Filled pastas are the house flex. Ravioli, thin enough to reveal the green of its spinach, sits smugly in butter and sage. Their Bolognese defines the genre. Even the desserts go harder than they need to—chaotically joyful, wholly honest. Don’t wait. You’ll want to say you were here before they got big.

We went twice in a weekend. You probably will too.