Inside the clandestine, not exactly legal places that keep the party going long after last call.
Almost every night in most downtown neighbourhoods, there’s a place to go after last call where you can drink past 2 a.m., chain-smoke all you want, listen to an obscure DJ or band and—to be blunt—get messed up on your substance of choice. Some of these places are walk-ups and dilapidated vacancies in Chinatown. There are a few on Dundas West and one on Dufferin. A handful have come and gone in Kensington Market and, at any given time, there are at least four different spots on Queen, west of Spadina. They’re down alleys, up ladders, through back doors and down winding corridors, under established businesses and beside world-famous gallery spaces. Over the past half a decade, I’ve gone to my share of places I shouldn’t have, but the transient nature of the after-hours bar ensures you’ll never find them all. Secrecy and discretion are the only governing rules, so I will respect them in this column, too.
To a large extent, this scene caters to service-industry staffers. When shifts end at 3 a.m., bartenders and servers want somewhere they can unwind, without the patrons they’ve been serving for the past six hours. “A lot of us will get together after our shifts and head for some pool, foosball or whatever,” explains a 10-year hospitality veteran who, in the spirit of this subject, will remain nameless. “A spot will become the watering hole for a group of restaurants or bars for a while, and you end up knowing everyone. Sometimes, you’ll bring [an outsider] and that’s how the word spreads, but you need to make sure they won’t spaz out or be stupid about it.”
If you’re a newbie, usually you’ll head over with someone who can show you an entrance or get you past the bouncer, but it’s not always necessary—if you’re willing to pay. Cover charges are sporadic and unregulated (usually around $20). And the drinks? Bottom shelf, but less expensive than those you’d get at, say, the Black Hoof Cocktail Bar. If you want establishments to take the risks so you don’t have to sit at home watching reruns of Saturday Night Live, it’ll cost you.
While the origins of after-hours are obviously indeterminate, these scenes are a vital part of any urban underbelly. In Toronto, people are fond of remembering The Matador, the legendary all-night country music venue that opened on Dovercourt in 1964—the fact that booze was available there all night remained an open secret for years, until it closed in 2007. Many associate after-hours with places like Comfort Zone at College and Spadina or Footwork at Adelaide and Brant—which stay open even after the alcohol stops flowing at 2 a.m.—but those who do are just playing in the wading pool.
The latest after-hours incarnations don’t have websites, phone numbers, posters or even proper names. They’re often reduced to a street number—the street name is up to you to figure out. Hours and nights of operation are capricious to match. Places become exposed through sheer word of mouth: friends of friends, morning-after stories or late-night tagalongs with total strangers you meet in line for the bathroom. That is, if you can remember where you went.
It’s because of this elaborate game of hide-and-seek that the reputation of the after-hours scene is exaggerated. The reality is not that exotic. I’ve been to “quaint” ones, and then real dumps. Inside, I’ve found a variety of clientele of all ages—from the skeezy to the pseudo-subversive, careless-because-they-can-be upper-crusters. There’s always some lawyer who will listen to your grievances, or a suit (tie loosened) who “isn’t gay” even though his hands are all over you, and the usual collection of beauty queens, hipsters and club kids. But in the deep dark world of the post–3 a.m. crowd, rarely is anyone here to hate. As one self-described “recovering party bro” puts it, “It’s dark, anonymous, and a place where no one cares what your name is or whether you got a little something extra.”
So why haven’t the cops shut down these places? It’s a question I don’t really have an answer to, probably because the question is better left alone. The after-hours environment remains a strong, largely undocumented social experience, not only for those on the fringe, but also for those who feel last call is archaic or who are just not ready to go home crushingly alone, again. Some say the scene is low priority for cops, some argue there’s a don’t ask/don’t tell reciprocity, others tell me these places hide under the veil of a “private party.” Regardless, trust that someone is always watching. Just last month, a popular spot on Queen was shut down three weekends in a row before its owners dismantled it entirely because, according to an insider, “They were stupid and operating like a nightclub.”
A common complaint among after-hours regulars is that the scene is getting too “mainstream,” and that’s killing it. To wit: A former favourite is now a popular restaurant on Dundas West, another rests in peace across from the Thompson Hotel. But as soon as one dies, another pops up to take its place. The newest bar, adjacent to a pair of glossy new condo developments, opened in January. It’s cycles like this that keep me amused. Enter at your own risk, and don’t take candy from strangers, okay?
