Dispatch from the Draft Zone We came to a highly rated restaurant looking for a civilized dinner and found ourselves strapped into a seat directly in the line of fire of the front door, where a vicious little breeze had been waiting all night for someone to ruin. It was 5°C outside. The door was being held open a few centimetres by a duct-taped doorstop, a ‘temporary’ measure against slamming that had hardened into policy, like most temporary measures do. Our waitress took one look at the situation and declared it unsolvable, then slipped back to consult the chef, who presumably emerged from a cloud of steam to deliver the ruling: a slamming door is a crime against the dining experience, but a table of paying guests slowly turning blue is simply atmosphere. The doorstop stayed. Our humble petition to slide the tables over by 30 cm, or regroup them so we weren't sitting in the wind tunnel, was rejected without a hearing. Then, miraculously, other guests left and we were offered a new table. A kind gesture, and one I suspect we purchased with sustained, theatrical discomfort. I'll grant them the benefit of the doubt, but only just. And here is the cruel joke: the food was magnificent. The by-the-glass wine was perfectly fine, the $75 seafood platter was worth every cent, and the octopus was the kind of thing worth smuggling out in a coat pocket. Whoever is running that kitchen deserves a medal. Whoever is running the front of house deserves a space heater.
