Sunday, April 28, 2002
How the other half lives - THE COMMENTARY
By Joseph Planta
VANCOUVER -- As a raconteur of racking up prizes and a connoisseur of contests, I keep an eye and ear on the papers, radio, and television for raffles and the sort. If the prize is right, then I’ll enter. In my day I’ve gained my share of swag from radio shows, and movie passes from newspapers. It’s addictive really, but it’s also good to get something for free. I mean, if they didn’t want people entering then they’d have not put up a contest in the first place, right?
Well, stopping in at an ice cream joint for an ice cream a while back, some sharp listening on my part picked up on the P.A. system (which had a local music radio station playing) that a contest was up and running for tickets to see famed tenor Luciano Pavarotti in concert. Never one to pass up winning something for nothing -- and especially since I’d never want to spend $400.00 for seats -- I entered the contest. It’s one of those things I guess, where it doesn’t matter if I win or not, but if I do, then great. I also told some friends of mine to enter and one of them did and guess what, won.
The prize was first class. Four prime seats to see Pavarotti, a limo, and a swanky dinner at Chartwell in the Four Seasons Hotel. Well, my old friend, invited me along. (I guess consolation for my referring the giveaway to her.) Then out of nowhere Pavarotti’s promoter Tibor Rudas pulled the plug and cancelled the show. Reports had it that sales were at a paltry 25% of General Motors Place. Now one could blame that on the sheer overrated nature of the performer, or the fact the 1997 New Year’s Eve do with Pavarotti and the two other tenors, Carreras and Domingo, was a logistical nightmare, not to mention egotistical flop. Remember flamboyant, and now discredited promoter Tina Vanderhayden and her now defunct Headquarters Entertainment? Not to mention the fact The Three Tenors themselves decided at 11:30 to bag out and exit the stage, leaving the concert goers (who’d shelled out hundreds or thousands of dollars) to celebrate the turn of the year sans opera’s biggest superstars.
Well, with the Pavarotti show no longer, my old pal, contest winner May Chan, decided to go on with the free limo ride and the dinner at the posh Chartwell. The dinner took place a Saturday or so ago. It was interesting to say the least. Suffice to say, I and my dinner companions are not the ilk that high-step it out to schmooze and booze with the demimonde. But for one night we were. I was most pleased for my friend May, because she’s practically never won a raffle in her life. (Though there’s a myth out there that she did win a pie eating contest when she was a little girl.)
We were summoned to Chan’s house at 6:00 where a limousine was waiting. We got in and it took us all the way to the Four Seasons, where the door was opened by a prompt and alert bellhop. He directed us to the lobby of the Four Seasons, which is a vast room with a brownish, brassy sort of look. It looks very ‘80s, with leather sofas and all. To your left you’ll see two escalators which upon boarding will lead you the ‘official’ foyer of the Four Seasons. It’s all very clean and you see the distinguished concierge clerks in handsomely donned uniforms. They look like costumes really. We spot Chartwell, which is fronted by oak panelling and spotlessly cleaned windows. The maître d’ stands behind his lectern, subtly lit, wearing a dark suit. He confirms Chan’s reservation, and directs us to the complimentary coat check, where she gives us a ticket, no. 237 if you must know. We return to the dining room where the maître d’ directs us to our table. He dutifully guides the ladies, pushing their chairs in, whilst I am left to do that myself. (Actually, later in the meal when I excuse myself from the table and return from the loo, a busboy pushes my chair in for me.)
The menus are distributed by the maître d’, who in a most British accent, directs us to the a la carte menu and the specials of the day. I couldn’t tell if the accent was show, but I did notice it got stronger as he said, “In my custody, I have tonight’s wine list. I shall surrender that for your perusal.” Chartwell, is modelled after Sir Winston Churchill’s getaway of the same name. It’s oak panelled on the inside, conveying the refinements of something akin to a set you’d see on Masterpiece Theatre, or some lunch room at Windsor or Sandringham. When you sit down, the tables are set and the main plate, which they take away after we order, is fine china which has a blue pattern on it. Again, must be something related to Churchill. There’s a going fireplace and paintings lining the walls. The flowers that are the centre piece on our dining table are housed in an old tea pot. It’s probably silver and a tad tarnished. Then again, I think that’s for effect.
We all look through the menu and see what we’ll fill our gobs with. I decide on the filet mignon, which is adorned on a mash of butternut squash and pesto gnocchi. We all have appetisers. Two of us go for the seafood minestrone, whilst another goes for a Caesar salad. May Chan has something fishy. Before ordering, I fulfil the great task charged to us loyal Rafe Mair listeners. I ask the waiter, an ably vested bloke named Lance, whether the salmon is farmed or wild. When he says farmed, I mumble under my breath, “Well, I won’t have that, I’ll have the minestrone to start and the filet mignon instead.”
The service was impeccable. And I expected it so, as two days previous the Vancouver Sun had doled out its restaurant awards for the year and the so said Chartwell claimed five. Best Service was amongst them, as was Best Business, and Best High End in the Downtown area. It took the Best Downtown overall, and could have taken Best Overall, however thanks to the multimedia culinary darling chef Rob Feenie, his Lumiere took that prize.
Before getting our meals, Lance, the able waiter, offers up the desert menu. Seems some of chef’s speciality take some time to prepare. The apple torte, Grand Marnier soufflé and the chocolate soufflé were it, and the ladies each chose the Grand Marnier. I remained sceptical, waiting till after the meal to peruse the dessert menu for myself. I end up picking the creme brulée, which is delightful if I do say so. It was adorned with a piece of mint, a couple preserved strawberries and a frozen ball of melon.
The ladies spring for cappuccinos and I settle for a glass of “ice water, without the ice.” We sit and chat some more. May Chan delights in the conversation and the fact she won a decent prize. Seems the pie eating contest doesn’t add up to this. 8:30, the limo is supposed to come get us, so two of us leave to retrieve the coats. May stays back to settle the bill. Maria, one of May’s friends, and I get the coats but end up stiffing the coat check lady. I didn’t think we had to leave her with a tip, as it was a “complimentary” coat check. Plus, we reassure ourselves, the radio station would probably pick up those costs.
We were schlepped back to her house and at around 8:50, when we got there, it was practically midnight for our pal May. Cinderella’s night out was over, the limo turned into a pumpkin and she went back into her house. The three of us decide to skip on May’s offer of tea. “We all hate you now,” comes my reason for refusing the invite of a night-cap. May Chan tells me afterwards that she had a good night. Contests are fun things. I hardly ever eat at swank joints like Chartwell, so it was fun to tag along. I usually scarf down tacos for lunch with a certain bumbling burrito buyer I know. This night out on the town, limo and all, reminded me of Shirley Maclaine in Sweet Charity. Somehow I expected May to jump up and exclaim to all, “If my friends could see me now!”
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An archive of Joseph Planta's previous columns can be found by clicking HERE .