We love the rooftop Skybar of The Drake Hotel for summer drinks. We're regulars at our favourite neighbourhood bistro, Batifole. I once found a diamond ring in my oyster at Starfish, so of course I like to go there.
So does the rest of the world. I hear the really fabulous people have forsaken The Drake, because tourists know about it.
If a cafe's listed on a tourism web site or the New York Times' Frugal Traveler tips it, the camera-slingers crowd in, the hipnoscenti roll their eyes and slouch to another less-publicized boite.
But we like these places, and we're sometimes tourists too. Let's practice the Golden Rule of Touring: welcome as you would like to be welcomed.
That goes for bar staff as well as patrons. So what if the young Japanese couple don't know know how to pronounce "Maudit", the potent Quebec craft beer? As Edina said to a snooty gallery greeter in a classic Ab Fab episode, "You only work in a shop, you know. You can drop the attitude."
Visitors make the local more fun.
Sitting in the Skybar, I saw an entourage enter, visitors with their footsore Tourist Trudge and 'where am I?' gaze.
A solid, sunburned young woman with wild black hair, tenuous bustier and vertiginous platforms looked the place over; when she saw the taps at the bar, a reckless blissful smile transformed her face, and she bellowed to her mates, "BEEEE-AH!"
Oz in the house!