If you grew up in Montreal – or Canada for that matter, did you ever have that uncle who had a dry-bar in the basement? You know what I’m talking about, that bar in the corner of the basement, tiled with black tinted frosted mirrored glass, lined with decorative Niagara Falls collector plates and on the shelves were the graveyard where commemorative 1970s’ Presidential spoons went to die? It was facing a floor mounted television with the wickedest set of rabbit ears, buttressed by the most badass four feet speakers with a turntable behind a glass cabinet? This my friends, is the forefather of the revolution in home renovation and committed men sanctuaries; what society regards as the grand-daddy of what we would now call a “man-cave.” The sentiment of the gatherings of testosterone are found as glyphs of a prehistoric man-cave images, etched on the walls of caves… or covered up gyp-rock. If you any idea what I’m talking about, I have news for you… that basement opened a restaurant.