New in town and looking for the hottest nightspots? Ask the people who work in them. This is our strategy as we arrive in Vancouver, B.C. on a Saturday night on a quest for the perfect Cosmopolitan, a cranberry-tinged martini . We don't care how far we have to go to find it as we seek the advice of experts.

We start with the historic Fairmont (formerly Canadian Pacific) Hotel Vancouver. First we ask if this is the only lounge at the hotel, worried that the really cool kids are hanging out in a back room somewhere. Nope, this is it. The 900 West Lounge has a drop-in paneled English clubby look, with a lot of women seated in wing and club chairs, and a bunch of men at the bar looking at the women. The men finally leave for greener pastures. A server comes by with a silver bowl of spicy pretzel cracker things and asks us what we'd like. Two cosmopolitans, we say.

The drinks arrive - large, strong, barely pink with cranberry juice, a few wee cranberries sitting at the bottom. Perfect, we agree. (No surprise they are award winner of the Specialty Martini in the first Seattle vs Vancouver Martini Contest.) Here's a place where we don't have to remind them that a martini is NOT a mixed drink. An excellent singer and her piano accompanist play jazz classics.

• The ambience: B
• The martini: A
• The service: B
• Bang for the Buck: B

We ask our server for a recommendation for the next lounge in our crawl. She tells us tells us the Diva Lounge at the Metropolitan Hotel is fun and film industry people hang out there sometimes. Three tiers of the stylish nearly-deco lounge start with a small bar, some lounge seating, and a restaurant area with a dozen white-hatted chefs in a glass kitchen. We sit at the empty bar. The wonderful bartender, Courtney, makes our Cosmos - not the best we've had, and no frills, but not bad. He, on the other hand, is terrific company, with tips on places to go in town, and a lively discussion on potato recipes and pasties.

We decide to try the three-cheese platter, where I ask for something hard, something soft and something blue. This amuses our bartender greatly. The bistro manager personally brings the selection of cheeses (a Roquefort, a chevre, and something Swissy), figgy things, grapes and walnuts, describing with pride what's on the plate. It's excellent. The bill is reasonable for the overall experience - I could afford to make it a habit if I so chose. Courtney brings us a map of downtown and marks not only our next drink stop but a place to end our evening. We love this guy and we love this place You will, too.

• The ambience: A
• The martini: B
• The food: A
• The service: A
• Bang for the Buck: A

On our way out, we encounter a woman pushing something down the street. "What are you doing," Marcia asks her, "pushing a duck around in shopping cart?" The duck is dressed in a sweater, part of the woman's Duck Soup campaign to find homes for the homeless. He's a movie star, she tells us. He loves people. Pet him if you'd like, he's quite pettable. "Did you say pettable or edible?" I ask. She laughs. The duck ruffles its feathers. We take her flyer, make a modest donation and move along.

We find ourselves in the Gerard Lounge at the Sutton Place Hotel. "Voted 'Best Bar' by Vancouver's food critics for three consecutive years, Gerard continues to win accolades for its renowned classic martinis," according to a bit of hotel promo. Though they are right about the drinks being pretty good, we find it a bit pretentious ourselves. "Foo-foo," whispers Marcia as there-to-be-seen clients flutter around the less-convincing wood-paneled lounge. I notice that their piano player is sort of shoved into an alcove like an afterthought.

Service is pleasant enough, we are served complimentary nuts which we always appreciate, and we have two Cosmopolitans each. Marcia declares these to be a close tie with the ones at the Hotel Vancouver, and I agree, but my objection is that they are too small. A couple men hover over our table like vultures, waiting for us to vacate it. We linger to annoy them, taking our sweet time getting our next lounge destination from our server.

• The ambience: C
• The martini: B
• The service: B
• Bang for the Buck: C

A group of earnest young street performers is on the corner of Robson and Burrard. We catch the tail end of a Passion Play where a mime Jesus is taken off the cross by four women, laid on his face on the pavement like a log, then springs up reborn without the traditional three day wait. On the museum stairs a member of the troup is showing another girl a few of the mime gestures. "The Christian Mimes are multiplying," I say to Marcia. "What can we do?" Quick... another lounge.

We find the glossy Wedgewood Hotel easily enough but have to ask for guidance through the empty restaurant to the slick Bacchus Restaurant and Lounge. We make our way in and sit near the piano. On the wall is a decidedly creepy painting of Bacchus, who looks less like a dissipated Greek god and more like a naked snowmobile salesman from Flin Flon, Manitoba. I am unfortunate to be facing it.

Service is formal and chilly, the food we order is a throwback to the dreaded Nouvelle Cuisine of the 1970's which means you pay dearly and walk out hungry. Our salmon comes with capers and a sort of creamed cheese lurking under bread triangles. After a couple pretty good Cosmos (a near tie with the ones at Hotel Vancouver) on what remains an empty stomach, Marcia catches the eye of the piano player and asks him to play Elton John's "Rocket Man." I cringe. The guy doesn't bat an eye and gives us a poignant, lovely version. It's a pleasant moment before our bill arrives.

It's a quarter past Cosmo number 6 and I blindly sign the credit card slip. I tell Marcia that when I sober up I'm going to be very annoyed that this brief stop cost $87 Canadian, and I'm still so damned hungry I could eat the fine linens and chase the waiter with a silver lox fork. The waiter brings us a small platter of complimentary desserts, knowing the price of our consolation. Petit fours immediately take the edge off our sticker shock.

• The ambience: B
• The martini: B
• The food: C
• The service: C
• Bang for the Buck: D

Marcia pulls out the map our bartender from Diva gave us. "It's time," she informs me though my haze,"for some REAL food. It's time for POUTINE."

Poutine, a Canadian specialty, is French fries covered with gravy and curds. Sounds dreadful, tastes pretty damned good, especially when drunk, cold, broke and hungry. Fritz European Fryhouse, open late, is legendary with locals. Fries come with sauces such as feta-onion, garlic and Parmesan- peppercorn. There are a couple sizes and variations of Poutine, and an odd clientele. Some well-dressed clubbing people, some younger 20-somethings discussing oral sex as one would discuss a television show, a ravenous skateboarding teenager with a white hot focus on his food. And us.

The fries are unremarkable, well-coated in beef gravy and cheese curds that melt pleasantly with each fork-full. Marcia decides this is some of the best food of any kind she's ever had. I mention something about the timing, but have to agree that this unassuming dish fills all kinds of voids. She repeats to me something the bartender at Diva had told her about this unassuming little dish: Poutine is addictive.

• The ambience: A
• The Poutine: A
• The service: B
• The clientele: B
• Bang for the Buck: A

When we get up the next morning, I notice two things: first, that our highest marks have little to do with the quality of the drinks and more to do with the people who bring them to us, and second, that our hotel room smells clean. We have spent the whole evening in four lounges and none of them have put us in the company of smokers. Only in Canada...

Get Lost Magazine editor Leslie Strom also learned not to take multi-vitamins the next morning on an empty stomach.