I arrived at Myst on the edge of Old Montreal promptly at 10 for my reservation for one. "May I direct you to the bar for a drink while we prepare your table?". Fifteen minutes and two scotches later I am shooting the hostess an impatient look. She rushes over.

"What's a nice boy like you doing eating alone?" she explains with a pout as she grasps both my hands in hers. She explains that there simply are no tables in the restaurant section.

My eyes rolled. Shock registered on her face. I guess the fake tan, fake breasts, pouty lips and physical contact had always excused her failings in customer service in the past.

I was offered a table in the bar section and a free drink. I accepted the table but not the drink. Was I being too stubborn?

At least the manager made a more appropriate reparation by ensuring I was served by a waiter and not by the barstaff whose divided attention usually attended to the tables in the bar section.