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Once upon a time, annual shareholder meetings were dignified and righteous affairs. Shareholders would congregate at grand hotels across the country and get chummy over free food and drink. They would share tips on mahogany boat storage, dabbing the corners of their mouths with silk hand­kerchiefs before swinging round to the bar for another rye and ginger. (The raspberry mojito, after all, hadn't been in­vented yet.)

Unfortunately, those days are mostly long gone, a tragic victim of the '90s culture of accountability. But look hard and you can find a few companies, relics of a more civilized era, still willing to lay out a first-class spread. And if you clock in some serious overtime, you can find the few companies that still worship the holy grail of corporate extravagance: the open bar. Those meetings not only make for a good time, they're the foundation of what may be the most lucrative investment strategy I've ever invented: the Free Drinks Investment Strategy (FDIS).

Getting started is simple. Buy shares in the right companies, go to their meetings and—here's where it gets good—eat and drink as much as you can. No investment strategy is foolproof, of course. Successful investing requires diligent research and—more importantly—a willingness to take risks. But if you follow the cases I have presented here, and learn how to carefully analyze what's hot and what's not, you too can stuff and pickle yourself on someone else's balance sheet.

Rogers Communications
It isn't easy being independently wealthy. That's the first thing I learned at the Rogers meeting. I intentionally wore jeans and a leather jacket to project the following image: I don't work for money; I just enjoy it. Perhaps my get-up was too convincing, because as soon as I sat down, a chest-waxing MBA-type in a dark suit gave me the kind of sneering look that said he wanted to demolish me on the squash court. His jealousy was vulgar.

I'll be honest and admit that I didn't much like Ted Rogers before the meeting started. The problem with Ted is that he's rich and successful, and like any good Canadian, I long ago placed him high on my list of personal enemies. So you'll know I'm being level when I tell you that Ted stole the show. For one thing, the man can dress. He sat onstage resplendent in a powder-blue suit, exuding the air of an eccentric Texan oil baron—rich, but with a hefty pinch of who-gives-a-damn.

His speech was even more electric than his suit, which I didn't think was possible. Ted talked about how great Rogers Com­mu­­ni­cations was last year, but how much better it is this year, and how it's going to be even better next year. The highlight was Ted's scornful tirade about the company I assume is his mortal enemy: Bell Canada. He talked about "monopolistic behaviour" and "selective pricing," and then announced to the hushed audience: "That's just damn wrong!" It was a shining moment. As Ted stood there on the prow of his mighty corporate ship, weathering the storm of unfair competition, he reminded me of Ronald Reagan—avuncular, spunky and dedicated to the eradication of evil. And at that moment, it hit me: This wunder-executive was working for me. Keep up the good work, Ted.

At the reception, I went straight to the bar, where I had an experience all too un­common in this country. I asked for a rye and Coke, and the bartender shot back, "Want to make it a double? A single shot would be an insult to the Seagram name." He was right. As I gulped down that sweet, soul-healing liquid, I considered the future of this great company. There's been a lot of talk about who's going to take the helm at Rogers once Ted retires. I think the right man for the job is obvious: the bartender.

I set up camp at a table near the back of the room, where it was easy to inter­cept platters of seared tuna (delicious) and dim sum (gloriously salty) as they floated by, washing it all down with a frosty Heineken. I was a few sips into Heineken number two when I met Owen. Like me, Owen was an investor, only he announced his elevated status by wearing an Ascot. Unlike me, Owen was a Second World War veteran. Owen was in the midst of a thrill­ing tale about hunting U-boats on this country's East Coast when Ted Rogers strolled over. He stopped to shake Owen's hand, then mine, and muttered a standard but sincere greeting. I could see pieces of partly chewed prosciutto-wrapped chicken on his tongue (easily the worst canapé served). What's impor­tant here is that Ted Rogers—a man worth $3.65 billion—was speaking to me as a valued owner of his company, a company that only minutes ago he had described as "solidly the largest wireless provider in Canada." For one long, slow-motion moment, I stepped inside Ted's aura of corporate supremacy. I liked it in there. Something about it felt damn right.

Brookfield Asset Management
Before I became an owner of this company, I knew almost nothing about it. And yet, according to this magazine's list of Canada's Top 1000 companies, Brookfield sits comfortably at 11, behind Shell Canada and ahead of Husky Energy. So how's this for a coincidence: The day I bought my Brookfield share, I paid a visit to my financial planner, whose office happens to be located in BCE Place, deep in the throbbing heart of Toronto's Bay Street. As I got on the elevator, there was a maintenance guy standing next to me wearing a Brookfield shirt. "Does your company fix the elevators?" I asked. "It owns the build­ing," he replied. (Had he known I had just become a shareholder, he undoubtedly would have treated me with more respect.) I later found out that until last year, Brookfield went by the much snappier handle of Brascan. Any name with "brass" in it is, in my opinion, a great name: Brass Monkey, brass balls, the Canadian Brass. It was a mistake, I think, to change Brascan to Brookfield, which sounds weak and unthreatening.

The meeting itself was on the drier side

Magna International

Frank Stronach has such deeply tanned skin and hair so white that if you saw him walking down the street, you'd figure he was either a golf pro or a ski instructor. In truth, he is chairman of one of the world's largest auto-parts companies.

He's also corporate Canada's greatest comedian. During ques­tion period, a fresh-faced dweeb in an ugly suit challenged Frank on Magna's dual-class share structure. Stronach's response: "You remind me of people who move close to the airport and then complain about the noise." Hilarity ensued.

The shindig that followed was the height of sophistication. There was an ice sculpture of a concept hot rod, brand-new auto­mobiles plunked hither and thither, and a buffet by Daniel et Daniel, one of the country's higher-end caterers. (Some of the servers even had French accents.) The menu was the kind I imagine the Queen would choose for a weekend croquet tournament: grilled chicken breast with mustard mayonnaise and mango chutney; Atlantic smoked salmon with shaved onion; bow-tie pasta with grilled vegetable salad, dill potato salad and baby greens. I had a lot of each. Then I swooped back for round two.

The only thing missing was alcohol, and its absence was pain­ful. Frank, if you're reading, please take note: Your native Austria is reputed for its delicious apricot brandy. Don't you think shareholders might appreciate a drop or two? You proudly claim that your company has $1.5 billion in cash. How about spending a bit of that on the people who moved to the airport and didn't complain about the noise? of boring. Like all companies, they held a kind of sham election vote, and there was a lot of snore-inducing stuff about "strategic priorities." As for the "reception," if you can even call it that, there were a few tables at the back, and on one or two of these tables was a tray of cookies next to a sign that read "may contain nuts." There was some coffee and water, and even fruit juice. Apparently a company with $26 billion in assets couldn't spring for more than a nursery school snack. It was 11:30 in the morning—a flute of mimosa would have been appreciated.

Agnico-Eagle Mines
The Sovereign Room at Le Royal Meridien King Edward hotel in Toronto was Crackling with ebullient rock talk on the morning of Friday, May 12. Life for the gold miners at Agnico-Eagle was good. The company shares had surpassed the $45 mark for the first time since 1987, and Agnico was the newest member of the S&P/TSX 60 Index. The financial picture was rosy: $155 million in cash and no long-term debt. (My own financial picture is the complete opposite: $63 in cash and $232,489 in long-term debt.) Unfortunately, I found myself seated next to an actual gold miner, one who had flower-wilting body odour. (He must have worked the night shift and hadn't had time for a shower.)

I got up and moved to another table. This time, I found myself seated next to Agnico's head of investor relations, a nice guy named Dave. Next to him was Matt, the president and CEO of Contact Diamond, a company that's partly owned by Agnico. They asked me what I did. "Mainly, I invest," I said, which was technically true because I hadn't done much else that week besides attend shareholder meetings.

We ate stuffed chicken, new potatoes and steamed vegetables. Dave, who had arranged the luncheon, explained he had planned to serve prime rib, but someone in his office persuaded him to get stuffed chicken instead, because it's "lighter." We all agreed this was terrible advice, and Dave vowed to serve prime rib at next year's meeting. For dessert, Dave had arranged for tiramisu, but wondered if he should have ordered cheesecake. I pointed out that bad cheesecake is worse than bad tiramisu, so from a risk-assessment point of view, he made the right choice.

The three of us lingered over coffee and talked about mining matters, like the "LaRonde ore body." We talked zinc. We talked diamonds. I asked the president and CEO of Contact Diamond if it's true that all large diamonds are cursed, like the famous Hope Diamond. (According to legend, death follows all who possess this dazzling gem.) He said, "We tend to focus on diamonds in the two- to four-carat range." I took that as a yes.

Sleeman Breweries
If you're of the opinion that it's time to join an elite members' club in downtown Toronto, might I suggest the Ontario Club, where Sleeman Breweries held its annual meeting. The place reeks of money: dark walls, modern art, luxuriant tropical plants. The down­town Toronto club has not one but two disco balls hanging from its ceiling. In short, it's not nearly as uptight as you might expect.

The news for Sleeman, unfortunately, wasn't great. The company makes delicious if high-priced beer, but it's been getting killed by buck-a-beer brands. Despite morose talk of a buyout, John Sleeman was upbeat. He screened the latest round of Slee­man ads, which were terrible, but nev­ertheless whet my thirst.

When it came to question time, an intense guy at the back, wearing sunglasses, got up and said, "Every year you're putting out a new brand. It's nuts." John Sleeman explained that the market is fickle, and that some of those brands have made a lot of money, but the sunglasses guy began heckling. Another shareholder piped up: "Why don't you sell your shares?" What everyone needed was a drink.

What everyone got was five tickets for drinks and a commemorative pint glass enfrosted with the Sleeman logo. We were directed to the Ontario Club's reception room, where a self-serve buffet was heaped high with, appropriately enough, bar snacks: popcorn shrimp, spring rolls, meatballs and festive pyramids of miniature sandwiches. There's a sound business lesson here: Not only does everyone love bar food, it's hard to screw up.

The bar offered a chilled selection of Sleeman brands, and I spent the next hour cruising the room, popping shrimp into my mouth and slugging back beer after delicious beer. I passed by the intense guy in the sunglasses—he was still wearing them—and heard him say the following: "The Molson meeting is terrible. They don't serve any product." The man may be insane, but he sure knows how to invest.

Results

If there's a downside to the FDIS, it's that it won't make you rich. But ask yourself this: If you're being wined and dined by the country's most powerful, fascinating and charismatic CEOs, aren't you already rich?

Perhaps FDIS's greatest attribute is that annual meetings happen every year. In other words, owning a single share gives you a lifetime of free lunches. As I write this, Sleeman has accepted a buyout offer from Sapporo Breweries, and the board has recommended that shareholders accept. I, for one, am looking forward to some sashimi and tempura with my five ice-cold honey lagers at next year's meeting.

Perhaps I'll see you there.

 

4 Simple Steps

1. Find the right kind of company
Banks and oil companies hold the worst annual meetings, most of which start at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. Mining companies, on the other hand, have a reputation for letting the sauce flow, especially in bull markets. Alcohol companies are a no-brainer.

2. Check what time the meeting starts
Early-morning meetings are bad for the simple reason they're held early in the morning. Mid-morning meetings are generally tepid affairs, but in rare cases they can be followed by a catered lunch. A meeting with a start time of later than 2 p.m., however, is code for "Let's get hammered."

3. Find out what's being served
Once you've put together a list of promising companies, phone each one and ask to speak with investor relations. Tell them you're a shareholder, then ask what's on the menu. It's that easy.

4. Buy a share
Why waste your money on hundreds of shares when all you need to get into the annual meeting is one? If you're friendly enough with your financial planner, he can cut you a deal on the transaction fees.