Inside the Real Sports BarKevin Van Paassen/The Globe and Mail
Perhaps our city's two main influences - British (beer, sports) and American (fried food, sports) - are the reason Toronto is filled with so many sports bars. You can't swing a signed jersey without hitting some memorabilia-chocked Champs or Scores or Firkin, lit up by dozens of flickering plasma screens. The formula's well established: decent draft beer, edible chicken wings, clear views of the game, a general atmosphere of mediocrity. Everything else is superfluous.
Or so we thought, until Maple Leafs Sports and Entertainment (who own the Leafs, Raptors, and the ACC) finally won themselves a title, as voters in an ESPN mobile poll bestowed the status of North America's best sports bar on their latest enterprise, the Real Sports Bar and Grill, which opened in June.
Monday night was the season opener of Monday Night Football (Jets v. Ravens), and the US Open final (Nadal v. Djokovic), so I claimed a table with three friends, two diehard sports fans, and a waiter at another sports bar. If anyone was going to help judge greatness in a sports bar, it was this crew.
"Can I just say I'm really happy to be here right now?" said the Jets fan, as we entered the door through a wooden archway. "It's like SkyDome for the 21st century"- a reference to the awe he felt two decades back at a stadium filled with McDonald's concessions and what was then the world's largest TV. In many ways, Real Sports is chasing SkyDome-sized ambitions, trying to jump into the game as the sports bar to beat all sports bars. They've upped the ante on the food (the chef is a veteran of Four Seasons hotels), drinks (Châteauneuf-du-Pape is on the extensive, expensive wine list, there are over a hundred beers on tap), and viewing experience, to redefine sports bars the way that the Dome redefined stadiums.
What you get is the ultimate man cave. A giant HD projection screen dominates the dark main room, two stories high (said to be the largest indoors on the continent), with over a dozen flat screens arrayed beside it and below it, as if they're bowing in devotion (there are 199 screens in all, including a few thoughtfully mounted above the urinals). The behemoth is visible from the leather club chairs on the balcony, in the plush banquettes along the wall, from tables down on the floor (where we sat) and in the VIP section, which was occupied on Monday by high-rolling 10-year-olds celebrating a birthday party. I locked eyes with one of the kids, clad in a Raptors jersey, and we nodded in acknowledgment at the sheer awesomeness of the place. To hell with Chuck E. Cheese, this is some Charles Edward Cheddar.
It looks like the NORAD command centre, if NORAD served gigantic steins of beer, and the missile commanders were young women with long legs, straightened hair, and tight, short, black skirts. That suits the crowd just fine, a mix of Bay Street, drywall-dusted condo builders, and the occasional Carlton Street throwback, complete with faded jeans, Wendel Clark moustache, and leather Leafs jacket. Once every ten minutes, a woman who isn't a server may walk into view.
MSLE is hoping fans will be drawn to the food as much as the action, and Chef Tony Glitz promises a menu of fresh, high-end bar food. Arriving on a hockey-stick shaped cutting board, a rectangle of just-baked flatbread topped with ripe, diced tomatoes, sharp fresh basil, and shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano is the perfect example of this, bringing bruschetta to the majors without sacrificing its messy essence. A trio of quesadilla sliders are more like bite-sized nachos, but "don't really taste like anything," according to the Ravens fan, desperately searching for some heat in the dollop of bottled salsa.
Chicken wings arrive in less time than it takes the Ravens to fumble (two downs), in two varieties, hot and Thai sweet chili (there are nine more). The sweet chili sauce is like a candy-coating on the meaty wings and drums, with a subtle kick that builds with each bite. The hot have the right slow burn (a touch of vinegar and jalapeno) and colour (Agent Orange), but the sauce is thicker than "butter chicken at an Indian restaurant," to quote the bar-food maven, who polishes them off anyway. Also, the wings appear to be battered, which we all agree is sinful. Chicken wings already have a natural crispy exterior, called skin. Why anyone would coat it in breading is beyond me. With impeccable timing, the waitress appears with hot towels just as the last wing is stripped of its flesh.
After looking up at the big screen for two quarters of lacklustre football, we're already rubbing our sore necks. With so many screens, it's hard to focus on a single game, and when a commercial break happens, the audio drowns out any conversation. "What they need here is better TV management," says the Ravens fan, shortly after Nadal clinched the US Open, a moment they didn't put on the big screen, opting for a Budweiser commercial instead.
The menu continues to build up our hopes. A foot-long "poutine dog" promises debaucherous glory, but while the sausage itself is plump and juicy and the bun toasty, the cheese curds and gravy are practically non-existent. This should be something that's oozing melted fats, dripping onto the table, floor, and our clothing. We're in a man cave, damn it! Instead, it's cleaned up. Sanitized. Given the Platinum level treatment.
Real Sports isn't a better sports bar, it's just a bigger sports bar, an arms race of beautiful servers, LG hardware, and oversized beer steins fit for Oktoberfest. It's spectacle, not soul; the ACC, not the Gardens. But damned if there isn't something about walking into this palace of plasma, where men come to drink, eat, and shout at flickering lights.
It's a hell of a place to watch a game, which is exactly why it's there.
Real Sports Bar & Grill, 15 York St.
Special to The Globe and Mail