Business is Served

Like secretaries and shoulder pads, power lunches went the way of the ’80s. The rules have changed, but the deal-making still goes down. Here’s where the players break bread


By Jamie Maw and Chris Gonzalez

There was a time when three-martini lunches prevailed in our town, the bleary-eyed denizens of Hy’s Encore stumbling onto Howe Street into the setting sun, penny-stock boosts agreed to. In the ’70s, the action was also at The Dev Seafood House, where prawn cocktails accompanied much stronger ones. Over at the Hotel Vancouver, The Timber Club saw entire forests bought and sold—the beef steaks were served up on wooden charger plates etched with the names of leading forestry executives. On Hastings Street, the hallowed walls of the stately Vancouver Club back-dropped arbitrage and acquisition, even if club rules explicitly stated that talk of business was forbidden. Quite often, booze-fuelled lunches moved back to Bar Three, the aerie on the third floor adjoining the city’s best pool hall.

Power dining changed mightily in the early ’80s. Thank the advent of women in decision-making positions and the arrival of lighter, even nouvelle cuisine. Both of the era’s iconic power restaurants—especially at lunch—were located in the Four Seasons, first at the witheringly expensive Le Pavilion, where the sophisticated French cooking of Michel Clavelin underwrote more sophisticated financings, some that would soon be gutted by dramatically spiking interest rates. The hostess at the time was the inimitable Moira Fitzpatrick; her uncanny radar ensured that sworn business enemies went to opposite corners and that gentlemen entertaining their “nieces” were discreetly ushered to back banquettes.

Here, the power lunch had three constituent parts: the first half hour a general foray into matters of sport and other personal exploration; the second half hour consumed by ordering, eating, and outlining the deal at hand; and finally, over coffee, closing it. After lunch, a trolley of vintage ports and a wheel of Stilton was pushed around Le Pavilion by the recently arrived John Blakeley, who now owns Bistro Pastis. “My eyes were as big as saucers,” Blakely recalls, “from the sheer amount of money being spent.” Blakely’s naiveté was soon banished by chef Clavelin’s propensity to continuously drain a coffee mug of vin rouge; it was often Blakely who was charged with frog-marching Clavelin back to his office to sleep it off before dinner service began.

Le Pavilion was eventually shuttered, but soon Chartwell—Vancouver’s paramount downtown power lunch riposte—rose in its place. It was decorated in a Ralph Lauren take on Sir Winston’s country seat (a painting of which was positioned over the fireplace); the kitchens turned out delicious daily roast specials and lighter plates of fish, prepared by a brigade of young chefs, many of whom—such as Michael Noble, Rodney Butters, and Bernard Casavant—would go on to even greater glories elsewhere. Susan Minchin was the gatekeeper and her Christmas gratuities were legendary, often denominated in generous Holt Renfrew gift certificates. But times had changed, and with them the emollients of luncheon: in lieu of noontime martinis and highballs, Chartwell was notable—egads!—for its wine list and miniatures of Perrier, still a novelty. Joe Segal, the businessman-philanthropist, famously had his assistant call the restaurant only when he didn’t require his usual corner mezzanine table. From his perch, he would turn up his state-of-the-art hearing aids (“the same ones that Ronald Reagan wears,” he once told me), to better eavesdrop on adjoining conversations. At one lunch he popped one out and stuck it in my ear; I tuned in to an exciting, real time stock swindle five tables away.

We knew power lunching was over when Chartwell shuttered its lunchtime service a few years ago, its staff disbanded across the town. It was replaced by power breakfasts (birthplace of the lamentable egg-white omelette), deskbound sandwiches, and even noon-hour jogging; we lost a collective hinge in our day, the face time that lubricated relationships.

But power dining, and especially the power lunch, is back, say some—whether it be a reaction to impersonal electronic communication, or simply the excess cash swamping the city. At the strategically located Metro, chef-proprietor Brian Fowke says his average lunch cheque is just ten dollars off dinner. If Hy’s Encore is the oldest survivor (it is still peppered with the larger-than-life), newcomer Italian Kitchen attracts a stylish power crowd most days. The newly minted Boneta is the place du jour for restaurant industry types—especially on Monday evenings—and its Fuck Off Friday luncheons encourage a salubrious entry into the weekend. On the West Side, The Smoking Dog attracts the likes of Bruce McDonald, Larry Campbell, Gordon Gibson, Peter Wall, and Rick Doman to its patio. Provence on West 10th is for ladies who lunch, drawing on Shaughnessy and UBC-types. Peter Brown’s Bentley is often seen parked outside Il Giardino—he uses Umberto Menghi’s spot as a private salon to arrange and celebrate financings. And at Yaletown’s Glowbal, younger, tech-savvy types trade gossip and Electronic Arts shares on the buy now, play later plan.

Power dining is extant no matter the time of day, or night. Fuelled by aspiration, emulation, or merely excess cash flow, power diners pick their venues carefully. Herewith, a handy guide to where to go to watch the deals get done.—Jamie Maw

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