My most memorable meal wasn't at a five-star restaurant. It was a bizarre gastronomic experience that I wouldn't believe myself if I read it online.

My husband and I were vacationing in Montreal. Being vegetarian, we'd researched veg-friendly restaurants. A place called Spirite Lounge caught our eye. The review said "reservations recommended," which we took as a good sign.

We called to book a table our first night in town. It was Wednesday, but we didn't want to take any chances. A young woman answered the phone and took down my name.

That evening was warm, and we decided to walk to the restaurant. Montreal is a charming city with an eclectic mix of old and new and architecture, avant garde stores and crumbling houses all jammed next to one another. We strolled at a leisurely pace to take in the sights.

As we got closer to the address, the neighbourhood got steadily seedier. "Is that a prostitute?" I asked, squinting. "Yep," my husband replied, walking faster. "And I think that's her pimp on the corner." I checked the address again. Still a few hundred numbers to go.

By the time we reached the restaurant, we were sweaty from sprinting. Inside, it was quiet and dark. A book lay open on the front desk, with one name scrawled at the top. Mine. A waitress appeared and ushered us in.

She led us to a cavernous dining area that reminded me of the serial killer's basement in "Silence of the Lambs." I half expected death's head moths to flutter by as we were seated. There were no other diners in sight.

The walls were covered in aluminum foil, a design decision with disturbing consequences in the un-air conditioned space. The seats were upholstered in animal print fabric in red, green, and purple. Outsider art gleaned from the Goodwill completed the crack den effect.

As our eyes adjusted to the room, the waitress explained the menu in halting English.
"'Ave you ever been to Spirite Lounge before?" she asked.
We told her it was our first time.
"OK, den I must tell you Da Rules. First, if you don't eat everyting on your plate, you can't ave dessert." We smiled as she continued. "If you don't eat all your dessert, you are banned from Spirite Lounge forever." She studied our faces to see if we appreciated the gravity of the situation. We nodded.
"May we see the menu?" I asked.
"Oh," she replied, "dair is no menu. Dair is only one dish." She took out a slip of paper and read it. "Tonight's meal is a crepe made wid root vegetables and

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