Mme Cora's letter
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November 9, 2025
The unforgettable recipe of my success
Early in the story of Cora restaurants, around the time when we had opened our sixth or seventh Quebec restaurant, people from all over the “belle province” began to take notice of us. Families drove kilometres, crossed bridges and lined up at our doors to enjoy a Cora meal.
Expecting a magnificent Taj Mahal of restaurants, these new customers rushed into a delicious cloud of aromas, mingling vanilla, French toast, cinnamon and crêpes. Their wide eyes looked for extravagance, opulently decorated walls, fine cutlery and fancy waitress uniforms. None of that was true. What they did find was a big grin on every face, interjections of delight coming from every table and plates bearing extraordinary looking dishes.
In a space that looked as if it had been patched together by a crew of resourceful teenagers, with the names of dishes in big, attractively drawn letters on the walls, this new restaurant concept gave customers a lot to talk about. Not to mention that we served primarily breakfast dishes, with a small lunch selection for people working nearby. Plus, with an early closing time of 3 p.m. come rain or shine, customers couldn’t dawdle if they wanted to enjoy a meal.
This huge chorus of compliments reached the ears of the Quebec business establishment.
— “Who is this middle-aged woman who’s appeared out of nowhere? Where did this new restaurant concept of only serving breakfast come from? From Europe? The U.S.?”
— “From her own head,” answered the assistant manager of an insurance company to his boss.
I remember him clearly! He was a fine young man, who, one Sunday, bravely made his way across the restaurant, navigating the waitresses zig-zagging between tables and the coffee pots swinging to and fro from the fingers of inexperienced busboys. I was in the kitchen of a newly opened restaurant keeping a watchful eye on operations. My heart, hungry for love, was absorbing every burst of delight emanating from the tables.
— “Mme Cora, here’s my card. We’d like you to share your “recipe for success” with employees at our insurance firm. We’d be pleased to have you—your reputation precedes you.”
That Sunday, after the man greeted me with his hand over his heart, my neurons simply froze, unable to transmit anything to the rest of my body that had been thrown into disorder. Cooking came easy to me. Explaining a recipe to my kitchen staff was child’s play. But speaking in front of a group of people so full of self-assurance that they are capable of selling it was something different altogether. It was as if a lion had just entered my cage. I was terrified. I had never given our success any real thought and certainly had never tried to put it into a “recipe.”
Yet the next day, an angel who knew what my future had in store for me, entered my head and switched my brain back on. The day I had decided to make real crêpes immediately popped into my mind. Crêpes like my mom used to make at home in Gaspésie. I remembered the thick white batter that she poured into a large skillet, the crêpe’s crispness on my tongue, the delicious flavour exploding in my mouth. I’d just realized the secret of my success: a lot of hard work and quality ingredients. The analogy proved to be true, and the knowing angel insisted that I base my recipe for success on my mom’s crêpe recipe.
So here is the famous recipe that has been explained dozens and dozens of times in front of different audiences at schools, universities, businesswomen’s associations, entrepreneur gatherings and large companies. I even managed to bumble my way through an English version of it for a TEDx Talk which you can still watch on YouTube!
In a large bowl of your choosing (a metaphor for a physical space, a vessel containing your business idea):
Break a few eggs (symbolizing life and creativity).
Pour sufficient milk (representing rigour and unique expertise).
Add the ingredient you need the most of in the bowl—flour (representing work, tenacity).
Season with a pinch of salt (representing doubt, reflection). A tiny amount keeps you humble and motivated to constantly improve. Be careful though! Too much of it will eat away at your business like a horrible ulcer.
The last ingredient, which is also the most important and must be used generously, is you—your devotion, passion and optimism, as well as your entire character.
Lovingly mix in your business’ DNA and mission.
There are no measurements in this recipe for success. You are the measuring cup. No strainer to sift the flour (work) or whisk to froth the eggs (life). You must add enough creativity to stand out from others. You must focus on your specialty without allowing yourself to be distracted by others.
Almost from the start, I noticed the burst of delight, as brilliant as an auspicious star, in our customers’ smiles. Courage, tenacity and determination will help your business grow while enthusiasm acts as a divine vessel for your best plans. And when success does finally arrive with silver hair, it too stops to ask itself how it managed to get there. Like I did, it looks for a recipe that explains its accomplishments.
Since that very first morning in May 1987, reinventing the art of breakfast with original dishes that treat people to memorable times has been central to Cora restaurants’ DNA.
Cora
☀
November 2, 2025
Things I'm grateful for
A gratitude list is an expression of thanks for the people and things that make you happy. Ideally, you should create one each day, paying homage to the little moments that brighten your day. Note everything that elicits a sense of gratitude in you during the day; things that you feel thankful and lucky for.
Experts on the matter say that it can be a difficult exercise at first, but one that quickly becomes second nature. You can also thank life every night before you fall asleep or each morning when you wake to another day of being alive.
I personally have my own gratitude ritual. Every Saturday afternoon, after my nap, I pour myself yet another coffee and open my pink notebook which I fill with huge THANK YOUs. I discovered gratitude during the pandemic. Instead of worrying I’d die, I started to thank the universe for being alive each day. Fear faded away, and I slowly learned to recognize the good things that were happening to me.
I can say that I’m grateful for being alive every day! I always have a good reason to say thank you to a friend, to a good idea and especially to the wild woman inside my head who keeps me alert and inspired.
Here are a few sentences taken from my gratitude list:
– Thank you, my friend! Your burly arms and enjoyable company were just what I needed to install the two new IKEA bookshelves in my living room.
– Thanks to my children who shaped me into a courageous mother.
– Thank you, dear Pénélope, your love keeps me alive.
– Thank you, dear grandchildren, for visiting and keeping me company.
– Thank you to my generous neighbour for giving me such delicious jams!
– Thank you to my friends who invite me along on outings and events.
– Thank you for all the coffees I’ve enjoyed with great company!
– Thank you, dear Claude, for repairing the thermostat for my heated floor.
– Thank you, dear Bruce, with whom I always have deep conversations.
– Thank you, Marie-Pierre, our circle of friends’ favourite aerial host, for all the delicious, privately imported chocolate she’s brought back on her flights to the Old World.
– Thank you for the inspiration I am gifted with from above.
– Thank you to the wild woman in my head who inspires me and governs all my thoughts.
– Thank you for my perseverance, my patience and my love of words.
– Thank you for my advanced age, and to this sublime life that keeps me strong and healthy.
– Thank you, Time, for this incredible sleigh ride.
– Thank you for the spot you’re keeping warm for me up there.
– Thank you, dear life, for allowing me to recognize what’s good for me.
– Thank you to my ex-husband for being just vile enough for me to finally decide to leave him.
– Thank you to all my cherished readers, who follow me each week through my Sunday letters.
– Thank you for all the comments you leave for me week after week.
– Thank you to the sea, who’s fed me all my life and continues to do so.
– Thank you to all the handsome gents who grace my dreams and feed my hope.
– Thank you to my 10 well-practised fingers that still allow me the pleasure of cooking for my children, grandchildren and even for my colleagues at the head office occasionally.
Since I’ve started making these lists of gratitude for the universe to hear, I always look forward to tomorrow to see what I’ve learned to appreciate more.
“VERBA VOLANT, SCRIPTA MANENT.”
Spoken words fly away, written words remain.
Cora
♥️
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October 26, 2025
This aging body
The other night, this aging body dreamt of death. It was wrapping itself in the bedsheets, twisting and turning. Its mind was terrified. It imagined the worst.
Like a wounded animal, this aging body took its breaths in quick gasps. Everything eventually comes to an end, it thought to himself. Too soon, too late; the body couldn’t bring itself to pray. Why did the night seem longer than usual? Was that death knocking loudly at the door? The uneven somersaults and jolts of its old heart frightened the aging body.
The aging soul used to tell anyone who would listen that its battered body would live to be a hundred. And that night, death hovered above. Like a white-necked condor, an imaginary vulture watching its prey.
If I knew how to write as well as dolphins swim, I would have a real story to share with you this morning. But the time has come to let my fingers type freely, to let my imagination jump the fence of logic, undo the shenanigans of everyday life and dive head first into an ocean of new verses.
This aged body, this tarnished flesh
These crumbling legs, these arms that haunt me
This cracked neck, these bulging veins
This withered forehead, this decaying skin
These tired eyes, these faded irises
These deflated cheeks, these lukewarm smiles
This mistreated belly, these dull scars
These crumpled breasts, their faded nipples
These marbled hands, these bluish veins
These gnarly fingers, one climbing atop the other
These dented toes, big tired feet
This paunchy waist, ruined appearance
This clumsy back that carries its cross
Age sneaks up on me and devours me like a wolf
I run and run, I cry out for help
Whatever happens, I’m adrift
In the den of time, all I hear is the wind
Inevitable loneliness, alone at the table
Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, I am numb
I feel death ripening inside me, like a clinging fruit, a persistent sun
My senses fall silent, my heart finally settles
A scent of raspberries lingering on my neck
I grieve, I cry; my time has come
Falling asleep like Ophelia, rosewater in my bed
Last wishes, first shovelfuls of earth
I’ll see no more spring, no more bright autumn, no more sleepy winter
Slowly my memory dims
I forget my name, my age and the colours of my life
I’m strong, I’m dead
There’s that little ant sound that stops at the end
Cora
♥️
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October 19, 2025
Words of my life
MOM
This hard-working woman from Gaspésie who gave birth to me. She died fairly young in a terrible car crash. By some miracle, my three young kids who were in the car with her came out of it unscathed. In the morgue, I saw her body and had to identify her horribly disfigured face that was once beautiful. At the funeral, an aunt revealed a secret about my mother, and I finally understood why she had lived her whole life with a broken soul. As a young adult, the church and her family forbade her to marry the young Protestant she was passionately in love with. Misery ate away at her heart, troubled her mind and ravaged her body with eczema, which often laid siege to her hands.
DAD
This man of a few words, sadder than the autumn. He was crazy in love with my mom, and she didn’t love him back. Every night after dinner, Dad would sit in his large armchair. He’d open the turntable and listen to Mario Lanza sing “O sole mio.” All I have to do is think of Dad and I can see big tears rolling down his cheeks. Mom would yell; Dad would sob. It was a total mystery to me how babies were created.
WRITING
In my youth, writing quickly became my ultimate consolation. In the small house in Caplan, I’d take a few steps down to the basement, pull on a string and the light would flow. I’d compose small sentences on the back of old calendars Mom kept for us. Words that rhymed with others, a four-line stanza, a short poem. I was discovering beauty and the power of words.
READING
My refuge and my greatest hobby! As a young college student, I read profusely about world history and the great classics, including the fantastic mythology of Ancient Greece and anything else that I’d come across that was modern. I craved the poets: Baudelaire, Verlaine and Alfred de Vigny. Later, I devoted myself to recipe books and all the guides that revealed the art of succeeding in business. When I eventually reconnected with reading for the simple pleasure of it, I threw myself into biographies and went back to poetry and novels. I still have the habit of reading only one book at a time, and I never hesitate to drop a mediocre, disappointing or useless volume.
WORDS
Elaborate words are like human beings, like gold nuggets to string together in lines. When I write, I always try to avoid rambling sentences, absurd adverbs, lazy words or rotten turnips.
COFFEE
Whether I’m sitting at my kitchen table, at the office attending a meeting, at the restaurant with friends or lying down on my red couch with a book, you’ll always notice a cup of coffee near me. It’s as certain as the sunrise tomorrow! I take it with milk or cream and no sugar. This latter omission comes from my time as a restaurateur, when I didn’t have time to prepare anything fancy. I savour this exquisite liquid in immoderate measure– at least six to eight times a day.
SUCCESS
My professional life really started with the primal need to survive and feed my kids. If I operated a restaurant, we’d at least have something to eat. Success appeared in 1987, in a small 29-seat diner. I drew a wonderful, smiling sun. “A real logo,” like the wise ones say. A sun that now illuminates more than 125 franchised restaurants across this vast country.
GLASSES
I always loved creating my necklaces, bracelets and broaches. I did it because my budget didn’t allow me to buy any, but also because I was creative and had the time to do it. I love dressing up in a lot of extravagant colours and to style my outfit in a single colour, from my socks and shirt to the occasional bandana, a watch and my pants. I dare to wear colour because it keeps me alive. You might even compare my wardrobe to a big set of 24 coloured pencils. I love glasses and I have some in almost every colour; retro frames I have found at flea markets.
LOVE
The great unknown! I may have caught the eye of a few handsome men, but at 20, life had already broken me. With not a single breath of love between the two spouses, just like my poor mother. Once divorced, I no longer looked for love, but set my sights on success. I never had time for love while I worked to make my sun shine in more and more Canadian cities. Now an old lady, I’m looking for a handsome poet who might recite a few agreeable lines before I fall asleep.
PROVIDENCE
I’ve always believed in “help from above,” or more specifically, in a divine providence that guides me with a wise, steady and loving hand. Still today, riper than an apple in applesauce, I live, write and constantly try to ennoble each of my lines by offering a prayer and a word of thanks to the Great Manitou.
AGING
Damned aging makes me think of the terrifying boogeyman of my childhood! It can undermine us and hound us through fear. “GETTING OLD IS A REAL PAIN IN THE BUTT,” said the renowned French writer Bernard Pivot, whom I dreamed of meeting. “Getting old is depressing,” he said. “It’s unbearable, it’s painful, it’s horrible, it’s dreadful, it's deadly! But I preferred “a real pain in the butt” because it’s strong yet it doesn’t sound sad. Aging is a real pain in the butt because we don’t know when it started and we know even less when it will end.”
Cora
♥️
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