Before there was brunch, there was all-day breakfast slid unceremoniously across a scratched formica countertop and eaten, usually solo, from a well-worn vinyl stool.
In simpler days, eggs didn’t come whites-only or tweezed with micro greens. They were slapped onto indestructible plates over easy, scrambled or fried, generously fringed with bacon strips. Choice of toast was restricted to white or brown, and the coffee was forever refilled. There was no champagne in the orange juice and no one cared.
But times and tastes have changed. While it’s not likely that platters of eggs and pork fat will ever slip out of fashion, Toronto’s old school greasy spoons – which have dished out quick, substantial, no-frills meals for decades – are steadily vanishing from the city’s condo-stacked landscape.
“It’s almost become a de-evolution,” says Terry Papas, who runs the Patrician Grill on King East. “There aren’t many of us left.”
His parents bought the Patrician in 1967, and he started pulling summer shifts there when he was 11, over 30 years ago. He remembers at least six other diners in the area, including the fabled Canary Restaurant, which are now gone.
The Patrician, which serves homemade burgers and apple pie baked by Papas’ mother, Helen, prevails partly because the family purchased the building in the 1980s, a move he refers to as “a lifesaver.”
Besides some minor renovations, the Patrician is more or less the same room it was when it first opened in the early 1950s. Just like the George Street Diner two blocks north, it’s a frequent setting for television shows, movies and music videos.
It’s become a de-evolution. There aren’t many of us left
Mid-century eateries and their charming retro aesthetic – chrome fixtures, paper hats and deep-set vinyl booths – have become a commodity, emulated by corporate chains and mom-and-pop chip wagons alike.
Diners are steeped in nostalgia, but they are a grind to operate, and fewer people are willing to tackle them. Increasingly, golden-era grill workers are seeking retirement after decades of flipping eggs.
“The problem with places like my own, and the reason why they go down, is because the kids don’t want to take it over,” Papas says. “It’s too much work, it’s a life sentence.”
Recently, too, the city’s old diners are becoming subject to reinterpretation, sometimes ending up as trendier, pricier restaurants, which Papas calls “foofy or yuppie diners.”
Kailee Mandel
It’s not an inaccurate assessment. As Toronto’s legacy establishments shutter, gussied up new diners of varied quality and authenticity are multiplying.
Brad Moore’s short-lived Recess Diner, sprawled across the ground floor of a condo building on Sudbury Street, applied the term loosely to a plush restaurant that served craft cocktails and a signature eggs Benedict for $19. While Moore has said that Recess will reopen soon under new financial backers, there are no signs of resurrection yet.
The 24-hour Lakeview Restaurant, which dates back to the 1930s, is not a place at which most people would willingly eat while sober, despite its hipster-oriented branding and $3 all-day drink specials.
Even well-loved chef Anthony Rose – who charmed restaurant-goers with playful homestyle cuisine at Rose & Sons on Dupont – faltered when he took over Queen West’s longstanding Swan Restaurant. His sixth restaurant in three years, it was met with criticism for its pricey and inconsistent cuisine. Half a year later, Swan rebranded as a second location of Rose & Sons.
Still, Toronto’s culinary trump card is variety, so there’s room for everyone – the new, the old and the reimagined – to coexist. Besides, a legacy doesn’t equate to good food any more than a reimagined menu strips a restaurant of diner status.
The essence of a diner may be too ethereal to peg, but the best versions – contemporary or otherwise – radiate an authentic sense of welcome. Call it soul.
Grant van Gameren, one of Toronto’s most successful chefs, reopened Parkdale staple Harry’s Char Broil & Dining Lounge in October. A former resident of the neighbourhood, he’s been eating at Harry’s on and off for 15 years and still does almost every day. It makes him feel comfortable.
Moodier lighting, a louder soundtrack and a smattering of beer signs aside, Harry’s hasn’t changed much.
The menu, overseen by partner and chef Nathan Young, dishes a full breakfast for $7.50 and a selection of burgers for $10, fries and taxes included. It reads like a classic diner menu circa 2016.
The times have changed. This is the new wave of diners, and that's it
“I like the way they fixed it up, they didn’t change too much,” says Tommy Petropoulos, who first opened Harry’s in 1968 with his brothers George and Sam. “The menu hasn’t changed that much either. There might be more to it, but it’s almost the same.”
As a result, he and George still pop by weekly, as do a handful of original regulars from the neighbourhood.
But even if van Gameren has succeeded in retaining Harry’s charm, sustaining it will be another matter. He took over Harry’s because he loved the space and wanted to keep it alive – so much so that he and his partners purchased the business in spite of a looming demolition clause that could shut down the restaurant within six months.
It’s easy to feel spasms of resentment at the closure of a cherished greasy spoon. People develop enduring relationships with diners – perhaps more so than with any other type of restaurant. And dependability is a huge part of the allure.
Say you’ve been going to the same place every Saturday for half of your life to order a western sandwich no cheese, hot sauce on the side, two cups of black coffee.
Then one day your serene indulgence is obliterated by a harsh new reality that includes raw fish, quinoa salad and craft beer. Even if you happen to love crudo and ancient grains, there’s no denying that an upheaval of ritual is deeply unnerving. To be sure, nostalgia is one hell of a drug.
The impact diners can have on individuals extends to communities. Affordable, efficient and welcoming to everyone, they’re especially important in mixed-income neighbourhoods like Parkdale.
Kailee Mandel
Around the corner from Harry’s is the 1940s-era Skyline Restaurant, another local legend. Since Maggie Ruhl took it over with her brother Jud last summer, they’ve also been conscious about catering to everyone.
“The diner just feels like home to people,” says Ruhl, a former partner at the Ace, a new wave diner on Roncesvalles. “We’re trying to be a place of comfort for people. I think that’s the true meaning of community.”
Longtime residents of the neighbourhood, the Ruhl siblings strive to keep a few of Skyline’s specials well under $10. On Thanksgiving Monday, they hosted a pay-what-you-can turkey dinner. The response was so positive that they’re considering another round for the holidays.
Despite their efforts, the new Skyline and Harry’s 2.0 have been accused of gentrifying a neighbourhood in which many residents straddle the poverty line.
“It’s not necessarily gentrification, it’s just that times have changed. This is the new wave of diners and that’s it,” says van Gameren. “Would you rather have Harry’s under new management or no Harry’s at all?”
The primary struggle of any restaurant, classic or contemporary, is overhead.
Ash Farrelly, who has owned and operated the beloved George Street Diner for almost a decade, admits that it’s getting harder for her to balance the books.
“You might make a living at a diner but you’re not going to get rich,” she says. “It’s a nice place to work, but there’s no way you’re going to be staying at the Four Seasons while you’re on vacation.”
Farrelly says that food costs have ballooned in the past year especially. Everything at George Street is made from scratch, including the famous soda bread. She visits the Ontario Food Terminal twice a week for wholesale produce, but because she serves items like organic free-range eggs and fresh-squeezed juices, her costs are climbing.
Instead of upping modest prices – a full Irish breakfast will cost you $9.95 – a handwritten sign on the register explains the diner’s “sticky situation,” politely requesting that patrons pay with cash or debit to help skirt credit card fees.
Small costs add up, even for a restaurant that’s almost always busy, and there’s an abiding expectation that diners should be cheaper and speedier than other restaurants.
But those that put care into sourcing and preparation face a tough dilemma: how to turn a profit without demolishing a diner’s sacred economical code?
“Rent is expensive. Ingredients, especially dairy products, don’t cost what they used to,” Ruhl says. “We always want to make sure we offer several items for people on a budget, but it’s a constant battle.”
Accommodating contemporary tastes requires capital, especially in a city full of hifalutin foodies and #cleaneating freaks.
Papas harbours a tone of disbelief when he admits that the Patrician now serves veggie burgers and green tea.
“A stiff branch breaks in the wind,” he says. “So once in a while you have to bend.”
Diners are a grind, and fewer people are tackling them
When Greg Boggs first took over the Ace diner, he envisioned it as a bar with food. But when the neighbourhood embraced it as a go-to for dinner and brunch, he rolled with it.
“To be a relevant and viable restaurant, you have to change a little bit,” he says. “You have to listen to what people want and adapt … or else who knows what happens?”
Both a diner and a Chinese restaurant in another life, the Ace was empty for almost 20 years before Boggs and then-partner Ruhl resurrected the intimate space, which retains many of its beautiful vintage fixtures.
So there’s some consolation in the fact that old diners could be given a second chance to charm you afresh with an artisanal milkshake. Modification is, after all, better than extinction – especially in a cityscape bullied by inflated real estate.
If Toronto’s diners have a tenuous future, it might have less to do with business owners initiating the big bad G-word than it does with absurd property values and a deplorable obsession with condos.
But as patrons, we’re also part of the problem. Despite our nostalgic rants about crinkle fries and packaged gravy, we’re checking in online at fancy poutine shops. We’ll pass up humble pie á la mode to post a shot of overpriced soft-serve.
Food has become a fetish and a pastime; less about feeding ourselves and more about curating our feeds. Instagram, it seems, dictates what we have for breakfast (that’d be gourmet toast and a rainbow matcha smoothie for a maelstrom of likes).
If we ever needed the simplicity and soul of a proper classic diner, with its unphotogenic but unspeakably satisfying burger and fries, it’s now – just as they’re becoming more difficult to find.
