On our first foray out into Toronto, we were buying something from a shop in the Eaton Centre, and the assistant happened to ask us where we were staying. When we told her it was at the Westin she replied, "Oh, it's nice there, and they have a
wonderful concierge". This put me a little on the back foot. I wasn't sure we'd ever stayed in a hotel with a concierge before, and I wasn't even 100% sure what one was. I'd certainly not used one before, so on our return, I was determined to try this new thing out - provided it was free.
When we did return, I noticed that the concierge was actually a young-ish man who looked a bit like Steve Buscemi standing behind a desk to the right hand side of the lobby. It appeared that people would approach him with questions about Toronto, and he would answer them. That meant I needed a question. I was deliberating what I could ask later in the heavenly bath (Westin's words, not mine) when it occurred to me that I did not know what terminal to pick up my rental car from at Pearson Airport the day after tomorrow. That was my question sorted out. I'd ask which terminal the Thrifty desk was at when we set out for our evening meal.
When the time came to test how wonderful things were, I found I'd been beaten to the concierge desk by two budding young socialites (I'll call them Paris and Nicky - just for fun). No problem. They were there first, and I could watch them and pick up some tips on concierge etiquette at the same time. It turned out that they were looking for some pointers on where to eat and drink that night, a conversation I decided wouldn't have too much direct relevance to us, as it looked like they were on a much bigger budget.
This whole episode started tamely enough--they asked some questions about restauraunts and bars, the concierge ran through a list of expensive-sounding options, detailing the merits of each place as he went, occasionally calling up websites and turning his monitor so they could see. It then transpired that they intended to plan their menu choices at the concierge desk too, so they needed to see menus. Lots of menus. And drinks - where should we go for drinks? What do they serve there? Is there any way we can see a selection of their cocktails? The queue behind me, needless to say, was growing, and some of my fellow queuers might have had questions requiring as similarly a brief response as my own, but Paris and Nicky appeared oblivious or indifferent to our growing prescence. I concluded that this chapter in all our lives was unlikely to be resolved any time soon when one of them disappeared to the toilet, leaving the other to browse websites with the poor concierge. After a few minutes she returned, and the inane questions recommenced with increasing ferocity (inane questions are measured on a scale of ferocity).
By this time, they were more or less trying to determine whether the bartender in a particular bar would be left-handed. Throughout this, I noted the exemplary manners, courtesy, and dignified demeanor of the concierge. He was indeed "wonderful". I concluded that what I was watching could only be down to one of three possibilities:
1. These girls were professionals hired to make this fellow's life hell by a spiteful ex-lover.
2. These girls were tourist industry "mystery shoppers", and the Westin, the concierge, or both was on its way to earning some magnificent award.
3. These girls had the combined intellect of a pebble.
At that point, I was struck by the thought that at 38, it is increasingly likely that I have more years behind me than in front of me, so, like most of my fellow queuers by this time, I wandered off. Later that night, as we returned to the hotel after our meal, I noticed the concierge was free. "I need to pick up a car at Pearson Airport the day after tomorrow, and I don't know at which terminal Thrifty have their desk. Could you find that out for me, please?" I asked. "They have a desk at all three terminals, sir. Have a good night," he replied. Wonderful.
That was it. I'd used the services of a concierge, I had knowledge of it, and I could not now go back. I felt dirty and ashamed.