Bar reviewer Kristen Haney seeks to separate hipster wannabes from real-life dives in this weekly column. Check out her last installment here.
I know Toronado’s not a dive bar. I knew before I went, based on hazy recollections of a trip there last spring. But God help me, I wanted a lot of good beer with minimal bullshit. It’s been a rough week, and sometimes a girl needs a fiendishly good I.P.A in a place where everyone leaves her to her own devices.
But let’s give credit where credit is due for the more divey aspects of Toronado. Let’s start with general atmosphere. I’ve been searching high and low for a gnome, and I was seriously envious of the little pointy hatted friend shooting me a mocking smile from high above the bar. The wall is littered with photos, some aged and from what appears to be like decades ago. “Behind Blue Eyes” played, and my severely mopey countenance and increasingly inebriated ass identified with the selection, in a way that made me think these were my people.
My musings were briskly interrupted by the questioning yell of “Steve?!? Nick?!?” The half door by the entryway makes the ideal platform for Rosamunde, the hot dog joint next door, to try and pinpoint its wandering customers. The “no dogs allowed” sign is entertaining in an ironic way, given not only the frequency with which patrons eat their sausage at the bar, but also that there were two furry critters inside taking turns emitting piercing howls.