“Clock-clock-clock-clock-KUHwhoomp!” That was the
sound of the Biblio-Mat, a one-of-a-kind refrigerator-sized book vending
machine, as it dispensed random titles for $2 Canadian. It was tucked into the
back of Monkey’s Paw, a small rare books shop in Toronto that displayed
a collection including, when I browsed there last May, a 1965 shopping
directory of India, a pictorial history of the carousel, a volume of “gesture
poems” and a 1955 booklet of cake recipes made with the “new Kraft Oil Method”.
The vending machine was merely a clever way to
sell bargain bin titles, but I’ve never been more thrilled to receive a book I
didn’t particularly want. I lugged my heavy, spine-ripped volume of the Romance
of Medicine all the way back home and gifted it to my brother-in-law, a doctor.
“Cool,” he said after opening it. I told him
where and how it was purchased. “Cool,” he said again.
I had to agree. As far as Toronto’s coolness
goes, that’s just the start. After all, the definitive, if circular logic of
coolness is that cool things don’t need to convince anyone. They don’t even
care. Because they’re cool.
That’s why Toronto is cool: it has been for a
long time, and since it doesn’t feel the need to advertise the fact, most of
the world doesn’t even know. Canada in general is understated in this way; it’s
not very Canadian to point out one’s own awesomeness. Toronto is so cool, it
might not even know it is.
“That’s a good one!” laughed Monkey’s Paw
owner, Stephen Fowler, when I asked him about the city’s transition to urban
hipness. “I first came here [on vacation] from San Francisco, known as a cool
city, in 1998,” he
said. “I was expecting to find the most boring city in North America.” Instead,
he found it was indeed “cool”. Surprised to be proven wrong, he moved to
Toronto four years later.
Compared to the architecture and French culture
of Montreal or the beauty found surrounding Vancouver, Toronto has never been particularly alluring. Tucked into the northwest corner of Lake
Ontario, one of North
America’s Great Lakes, the charm of Toronto is found in
microcosms of hipness:
in relaxing coffee houses, arty hotels, eclectic shops and quiet bars. None are
obvious. All must be sought out.
After checking into the Drake Hotel, a warren of 19 “dens”, “salons”, “crash
pads” and a single suite, each with a Wes Anderson aesthetic, I found my key
didn’t work. Back at the front desk – which loans hotel guests indie-rock -loaded
iPods and hotel themed DVDs such as Four Rooms, Faulty Towers and Psycho – the
front desk clerk gave me a new key, plus a free drink token at the bar. The hotel’s
which staged the Canadian debut of many 1980s punk bands, has a wall piled
with old hi-fi stereo equipment and an ambitious drinks menu. I sipped the
candy-sweet Deliverance, made with cedar-infused bourbon, apple brandy, Fernet
Branco, apple liqueur and (the reason I picked it) Canadian maple syrup. Back
in my home of Brooklyn, New York, this combination of highly inventive
cocktails and meticulously arranged décor would be fly paper for moustachioed hipsters sporting diminutive hats
and tartan vests. Instead, as I sipped my Deliverance, an all-ages, hockey
apparel-clad crowd cheered as a game played on a big screen above the fireplace.
My room, decorated with clunky metal chairs and a 1960s-era desk, also came with a “pleasure
menu” of erotic toys and films – plus a copy of The World’s Coolest Hotel Rooms, which, in a
surprising bit of braggadocio, featured the Drake. Less cool about the Drake: walls
are thin enough to hear other guests enjoying their orders from the “menu”.
Earlier that day, I took a light rail street
car across downtown to the Rooster Coffee House, a small space with a communal
table serving fresh, filling baked goods – including a drool-worthy blueberry scone
– and high-end Intelligentsia
coffee in charmingly mismatched mugs. On my commute I passed the TIFF Bell Lightbox, host of the Toronto International Film
Festival, famed for picking movies that win Oscars.
Canada’s largest city has surprisingly few
global chains. The exception is Starbucks, which has an outpost on nearly every
downtown block, but why
anyone would go to one is a mystery when the city has so many exceptional local franchises. At the bright and airy Dark Horse Espresso Bars
you’re as likely to find small groups playing cards as typing
on laptops. Then
there is Balzac’s, a small chain located in unique, at times
historic, locations around town. The one I visited was housed inside a 1800s pump house in the
Distillery District, where I sipped a bowl-sized café
au lait from a balcony
overlooking an enormous chandelier.
My favourite coffeehouse was Kensington Market’s Café Panemar,
with its retro-meets-industrial steampunk style, including track lighting of copper
plumbing tubes. While devouring an indulgent chocolate cream cheese cookie under
a large vintage “Viewing Booths 25¢” sign, I had my only hipster
sighting in a three-day
visit. There he was in a suit jacket, short tweed pants, 1940s-thin tie and leather satchel bag, with hair and glasses that seemed lifted from This American Life
radio show host – and hipster demi-god – Ira Glass. He looked completely, ridiculously out of
place and apparently
word is spreading.
Nonetheless I promised myself to come back during warmer weather, when the café opens its garage door walls to outdoor
Panemar’s pipe lighting system could have been
purchased at Metropolis Living, a large collection of refurbished
and new furniture, functional art and you-name-it, located in a west Toronto
area called The Junction, just north of the nearly 400-acre High Park. The
first thing that caught my eye was a massive lamp – if you could call it that – made from an actual street lamp
post. Then I was distracted by the vintage top hats, antique shaving chairs,
glass hospital grade syringes, old prosthetics, phrenology busts, group
portraits of 1920s mining camps and a plastic frog dissection kit. A nearby
warehouse, Metropolis Factory, housed the bigger items, such as café signs and old
timey stage lights.
As a fan of Monocle, the magazine publishing
and broadcasting upstart that is a darling of the global literati, I couldn’t
resist visiting the Monocle shop of overpriced sweaters, stationery and
framed infographics. By choosing Toronto over Montreal or Vancouver as its only
Canadian store location, Monocle has given the city its rarefied seal of approval.
I browsed through my Biblio-Mat purchase at barVolo, a bar of wooden communal tables
below ornate brass lamps. It had two dozen beers on tap, many Canadian, including an outstanding
cask-pulled Lone Pine IPA by an Ontario brewer called Sawdust City. I paired it with a
warm, buttery pretzel, cheese board and various pickled bits and bobs, including zucchini and an
egg. The night before, I drank my dinner with co-workers
at Weslodge Saloon, which describes itself as a “modern air-cooled saloon” but reminded me
of a Victorian hunting lodge with tiny lamps, gilded frames and laughable
leather gun holsters worn by the staff. The beer options were decent, including
some quality microbrews; and the jalapeño poppers, in which only one of every sixth
pepper was fiery, made for a
fun edible Russian roulette.
It was over dinner at Weslodge that I explained
the origin of my theory that Toronto was anonymously cool. My wife and I had
recently seen the 2011 film Take This Waltz by indie sweetheart and Toronto native Sarah
Polley. Despite starring Michelle Williams and Seth Rogan, and having a deeply
engrossing plot, no one seems to have heard of the movie. And as we watched it,
pulled in by the melancholy ebb and flow of the characters’ complicated love
lives, we kept asking ourselves, “What city is that? It looks so cool. I want
to go there!”
We waited through the credits to be surprised
by the answer.
While staying at the artist-designed, 37-room
boutique Gladstone Hotel in the lively West Queen West neighbourhood, I
used the iPad supplied in my motorcycle-themed room to look up exactly where
Take This Waltz was filmed.
The characters’ block of charming porch-fronted houses looked like where I’d
want to live if I was lucky enough to spend more than two nights in Toronto. After a little digging I found the
house; it was only a
few blocks away. As I walked there, I played the song’s bittersweet anthem, The Buggles’ Video Killed the Radio Star, and standing outside the currently
lived-in home from the film, I could only think of one word to describe the