The land of Oss

by: Chandler Levack

June 16, 2009 2:00 PM

Comments: (6)

“Touch my ass — touch my friend’s ass!” the professional footballer screams. It’s 11:11 on a Saturday at Levack Block, known to many as the “douchiest bar on Ossington” — and my unfortunate namesake. Inside the blue-lit backroom, a bachelorette party poses for a photo, brandishing multi-coloured shooters. As flat-ironed publicists check out the dudes in track jackets, the dudes are, in turn, scoping one giggling blonde, forming a man barricade around her until she hightails it for the bathroom. Dead Prez pronounce “it’s bigger than hip-hop, hip-hop, hip-hop…” over the PA as the room fills in the “hey-oh” chorus. The footballer falls taciturn, so I consent. His ass is round and squishy like a stress ball.

Nestled on a small strip of cigar manufacturers, garages, art galleries, vintage boutiques and the best Vietnamese in the city (Golden Turtle, pho sho), Ossington has been called the wild west of the club and restaurant district. Until this month, it was the new frontier for intrepid restaurateurs and bar owners — a low-risk strip where foot traffic was high, scenic and fun to bike down drunk.

Pizza Liberetto, Ossington’s unquestionable success story, welcomes 45-minute line-ups late into the night, as yuppie couples munch on famed marguerita pie before visiting burlesque club Jezebel, located in the alleyway behind. But as more and more club-goers get hip to the scene (“Let’s go to Sweaty’s, then Delux, then Watusi and maybe The Dakota for bluegrass or whatever,” iPhones one girl waiting in line outside Levack), a recession-era craze for low-maintenance bohemia has warmed nearby Liberty Villagers, Bay Streeters and now 905ers alike.

I spy Todd from Pickering taking $120 out of the ATM in the basement of Baby Huey around midnight. “I’ve never been here before, ’cause I never come downtown, but my friend knows the bartender,” he says. “I think it’s OK, though. It’s interesting. But only for people who like trying new things.”

Ossington’s heyday may be drawing to a close. In a bill passed May 26, city councilor Joe Pantalone announced a one-year moratorium on cafes and restaurants for the strip between Dundas and Queen. (Don’t be fooled by the word “restaurant” — all drinking establishments on Ossington serve food in some form, from the Levack burger to Watusi’s wonton nachos.)

Talking to Ossington’s affable proprietors, it emerges that a mudslinging contest has ensued between the locals. Robin Lacambra, a winsome 23-year-old who turned her father’s mechanics shop into an art space called Rolly’s Garage, seems to bristle at the mention of her neighbour’s noise complaints. Sinking hundreds of dollars of rent each month into the vacant loft (her dad makes her pay rent plus utilities and totally still fixes cars), the sound of bands and DJs sinks noise into the shared walls of the nearby apartments. She’s currently accepting mattress donations to tape up against the back wall.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Due to a miscommunication, a source who believed his remarks were part of a private conversation was originally quoted in this space. In sensitivity to his situation they have been removed. The original version of this story is still available in the June 18, 2009 print edition of EYE WEEKLY]

But who’s calling whom an asshole? By our informal count, the popped-collar-to-ironic-moustache ratio from the Crooked Star near Dundas down to Sweaty Betty’s near Queen was 3:12. Though Owen Pallett was seen coolly sipping a beer on the Sweaty Betty’s patio last Saturday, there’s Roots CEO Michael Budman left tequila bar Reposado arm in arm with a younger woman.

Asks the drunken alt-bro smoking outside: “Yo dude, you were the shit in 1973 — what was that like?”

“I don’t remember,” says the CEO, cocking a furry brow. In the thick of The Ossington crowd, we travel inch by inch to the back room, stalled by human traffic. By the time we unclench ourselves from the dripping masses, we find ourselves alone in a beautiful and dimly lit back room. It seems the human clusterfuck is for clusterfuck’s sake, an apt metaphor for Ossington’s growth.

“It’s like trying to fix your bike with an axe — there’s just too much [restriction] for such a small area that’s actually growing in such a positive way,” says Sweaty Betty’s owner Pol Cristo-Williams of Pantalone's contentious ban. Cristo-Williams arguably started the Ossington scene five years ago when karaoke bars and flophouses were still a mainstay and no one wanted to travel the 50 feet from Queen Street. “When I used to live above Sweaty Betty’s, there would be nights when I wouldn’t be able to go into my apartment because I would be held off by the cops, due to another shooting. At a restaurant I had at 92 Ossington called The Sparrow [now the site of Delux], there are still bullet holes in the front door handle.”

Cristo-Williams thinks what Ossington needs is a good brunch place. “We want more daytime business on Ossington, but the ban even blocks boulevard patios. What they don’t realize is that this is what happens — artists move in to open galleries, then the bars and restaurants come, and then the boutiques and retail. It’s like lego blocks being constructed to make a bigger scene — it’s what you need to create a city. It’s interesting that the New York Times recently pointed out in their travel section ‘go to Ossington,’ The Guardian said, ‘oh, look at Ossington,’ and yet there’s this reverse incentive not to grow.”

It seems tonight, Ossington’s for everyone — douchebags, foodies, tycoons and frat boys. The slick, exposed-brick artifices and ’90s hip-hop blasting from outlet to outlet don’t disappoint, and the more expertly mixed mojitos on charming patios you drink at down the line (we especially like Reposado’s LA-meets-Cabo lantern-lit terrace), the grander and less heinous the clientele appears.

“That guy’s the fucking man,” says our alt-bro as Budman staggers towards Dundas with his young date. “When I’m his age — this is where I want to be, partying on Ossington with a hot chick.” We shall see.

TAGS:

Nightlife

Municipal politics

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The land of Oss

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