What lunch at 'The Savoy' should have been

Montreal is still a treat. Drove down yesterday for lunch on our wedding anniversary and it felt like a little re-honeymoon. When we married, we honeymooned in Montreal at the Hotel Bonaventure; this time it was lunch at one of the premier hotels in the city -- The Sofitel. Nevermind that they had to tear down the historic Van Horne mansion to erect it; that's Montreal politics for you. Cornelius Van Horne was the builder of the National Railway -- a creator of Canada, if you will. Van Horne also served as a governor of McGill University from 1895-1915 and was one of the first in Canada to acquire artworks by members of the French impressionist movement. Quite a guy by all accounts. But only in Montreal would you get permission to demolish such a monument to Canadian history. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge to a few dodgy burghers, grease a few wheels at city hall, palm a few decision makers and -- as an old boyfriend of Sarah's used to say -- "It poofs!" Gone! (I really liked George, but I digress.)

Remember our experience at The Savoy in London -- how nothing worked right? Well, lunch at The Sofitel is what The Savoy should have produced. With fewer waiters, busboys and table captains, The Sofitel nonetheless had us seated at a well-shaded, choice table on the patio, water and bread at hand and drinks served within ten minutes of our arrival. All gussied up in chapeau and high heels (of course), I ordered steak tartare -- an enduring favourite not served everywhere. It was divine, absolutely melt-in-your-mouth. Not too many capers or onions to drown out the flavour. Just delicious.

Looking around was the most fun. Montrealers have returned to their '70s habit of downing a couple of martinis and a bottle of wine at lunch. I myself participated in more than a few such "downings" when I worked in the journalism business and had a publisher who didn't like to drink or travel alone. The youngest and prettiest on his staff (just a fact because all my colleagues, with the exception of one middle-aged female, were male), I was the one he always picked. Willingly and eagerly I went. I mean, Montreal and Toronto on an expense account with your publisher when you are 22 years old? What's to worry about?!

There was a real cross section of business men and women, middle-aged matrons and motley family gatherings. The matrons were decked out in suits, sensible shoes and expensive, conservative jewellery. With every hair elaborately coiffed and under rigid control, they discussed children, grandchildren and absent females -- the latter getting a breathtaking going-over. Some of the business patrons were fairly well-dressed, but it was the father/daughter and mother/daughter combos that attracted my attention -- naturally for all the wrong reasons. What are people thinking having an expensive lunch garbed in baggy jeans and flip-flops? Not designer jeans, grubby ones. Pile on autrocious table manners and you have a disagreeable mess.

The topper presented itself in the form of a grandmother, daughter and infant. Not only did they push into the confined patio with a HUGE stroller, they proceeded to pretend to order lunch, but quickly changed their minds when the bread basket arrived. No, we'll just have coffee. So there they sat, scarfing the entire bread basket while ordering only coffee. Quite a trick. Any minute, I expected one of them to pull out a couple of slabs of ham from a purse and make a sandwich! You could tell they had done this before. Just to ice the cake, the grandmother -- sporting frayed jeans, ratty birkenstocks and matted, orange hair flowing from grey roots -- added insult to injury by promptly lighting up and propelling revolting cigarette smoke in every direction. She then proceeded to parade the baby up and down so we could all venerate it. Please. After the daughter fed it, gram again grabbed the kid which then proceeded to vomit all over her. I had to laugh.

I guess I notice all these events with a keen, writer's eye because I later scribble them. B. didn't catch any of it. But the waiters miss nothing. I said to Martin, "Man, you have to put up with everything, don't you!" Smiling he replied, "Madame, you don't know the half of it."

Nevermind, it was all great fun and I pulled a blog out of it.