When I was little, my parents could always bribe me with a trip to “the Big Indigo” at Bay and Bloor in Toronto. Though I often got lost in it, I’d always leave contented, gripping two or four or six shiny new adventures upon which I couldn’t wait to embark. Bookstores are still one of my happy places, though my old Bay and Bloor mecca has been replaced by a handful of smaller, quieter, independent booksellers. Yet standards fall when you’re thrust into a new city, and it took eight months of living in Montreal and a post-exam euphoria for me to forego the Indigo five minutes from home and meander west towards the Nicholas Hoare bookshop.

The anti-Indigos I frequent tend to serve those inclined towards social justice, the arts, granola and socks with Birkenstocks. Nicholas Hoare is more afternoon tea than organic applesauce, but just as delicious. From its sweater vest-clad salesman who reminded me of my high school Latin teacher to the multiple books on hidden London history, it is indeed, as its website claims, “modest by design, British by inclination and eclectic in taste.” I’m falling in love.

With its shelves dedicated to novels by Montrealers and books about the city itself, and with its salespeople who read when there are no customers to serve, Nicholas Hoare, despite its locations in Toronto and Ottawa, is in no danger of becoming a soulless, successful chain more interested in business than in books. I managed to find four books I couldn’t resist. Interestingly enough, one of those must-haves was Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, which I couldn’t find at any

Indigo in Montreal the week it was making headlines.

Rows of books tempting me to max out my very first credit card aside, Nicholas Hoare still delights, mainly because of its staff. As I browsed, the phone rang, and I couldn’t help but eavesdrop. The saleswoman who answered seemed a little surprised (“Well, we’re a bookstore…”), but gave the caller information on an upcoming book launch, and I shrugged, losing interest. But my interest was piqued once again when the saleswoman, having put the caller on hold, brushed past me and strode towards her colleagues.

Apparently the caller was an elderly relative of a frequent customer. She was new in town, and was looking for some sort of community activity. A bookstore wouldn’t be the first place I’d call when in the pursuit of future besties, but instead of politely apologizing for being of little service and hanging up, the saleswoman was asking her colleagues if they knew of an activity or organization to which she could direct the caller. One of her colleagues suggested a Mozart concert at a downtown church, and the woman bustled off to relay the information.

I’ve never seen that happen at the Big Indigo. But I guess the staff at Nicholas Hoare, having wept, fallen for, shuddered at and railed against so many characters, realize that in both books and life, it’s the people who matter.

1366 Greene Ave., Westmount.

~ Sara Tatelman