“If you drop anything in the toilet, do not reach in to get it. Not even your tips,” a co-worker told me on my first day waitressing at the Black Bull in 1992. Advice like that about discarded needles was essential for surviving the big city, where I was enjoying my second waitressing gig after moving to Toronto from tiny Millbrook, Ont., at age 19.
One of Toronto’s longest-serving pubs, the Black Bull — with its landmark street-corner patio — opened in 1833 and remained a hub of Queen Street West life until it closed two years ago this month. The space is now a sports bar called Score on Queen. When I worked there in the ’90s, the neighbourhood was a microcosm of cool. Vendors sold silver jewelry from carts and buskers banged on overturned buckets on the sidewalk in front of indie designer and vintage fashion stores. Back then, the whole city wanted to be like Queen West. It was a far cry from today’s bland stretch of cannabis shops, fast-food joints and retail clothing chains.
When I worked at the Bull, it was known as a fine establishment where a gentleman could get into a good old-fashioned fist fight on a Saturday night. It was also known as a place regularly patronized by bikers. Toronto then was a town of speakeasies, often called booze cans or after-hours bars, many biker-run. When Para-Dice riders would roll in, we’d hope that no Satan’s Choice would visit on the same night. Other riders were referred to as “fashion bikers” — those who could afford all the accessories but didn’t ride much and had day jobs like architect.
Though it officially closed at around 1 a.m., or midnight on weeknights, “after hours” was a thing at the Bull, too. Locked in one night making rum and Cokes at about 3 a.m., in the dark behind the bar, I heard something rumbling underfoot. It wasn’t more Harleys arriving. It was the biggest rat I’d ever seen. Two feet long, it didn’t seem to mind me as it slinked up the side of the garbage can and disappeared inside. A squeak and a slightly smaller rodent followed it like quicksilver into the big tin bin that now rattled loudly with both rats rummaging inside. I jumped back and screamed, startling the biker patrons. I turned to the sound of wooden chairs scraping the linoleum and falling over behind me and choked on the word “rats.” The shock of the scene rendered me speechless: Men on their feet, a gun drawn pointing at the back door, just beyond my head. I was then relieved of my drink-making duties and sat down by the pool table with a drink — a double — when one of the bikers approached me.
“Can I show you my tattoo?” He pulled his bottom lip out and down hard. It said “Psycho” in block letters.
Bikers weren’t the only subculture to frequent the Bull. It also drew the local punk crowd and those other two-wheeled creatures, bicycle couriers. With their nonconformist ethos, toned and tatted legs and fast gearless bicycles, they’d congregate with the usual mix of locals and tourists, soaking up good rays and bad beer side by side.
“I see you got the bunch of f — king goofs out there,” the bartender said one sunny afternoon when such a crowd appeared.
“They aren’t that bad, pretty nice actually,” I replied. He shook his head.
“No, that’s what they call themselves. It’s a punk band,” he said about the local icons the Bunchofuckingoofs.
Other regulars included art students who’d earn street cred drinking inside in winter with the cockroaches and crusty regulars like Rudy the war vet who lived upstairs and drank glasses of cheap lager at the end of the bar. He could be cantankerous, but was always sweet to me, and I was the only person he’d play pool with.
Playing the Bull’s tiny, lumpy pool table, wedged between the kitchen and the women’s washroom, you couldn’t take a proper shot on three of the four sides. For those, Rudy would use “the twig,” a shorter, crooked cue — and beat me every time.
When Hot Girl Summer would roll around, pretty waitresses returned to work the popular patio, which sat well over 100 and was always full on nice days. One summer night, I had the most lucrative shift of my waitressing career — $300 in tips.
Though the Bull had its share of shady customers and nerve-wracking moments, customer aggression was never tolerated. “Out!” a bouncer or bartender yelled at offending patrons on more than one occasion, such as to the tourist furious and swearing at me after I bumped my leg on his table and spilled a bit of beer on his white pants.
“You’re out. Finish up your beers and leave. We don’t tolerate any yelling at staff,” said Moose.
After the fancy-pants incident, I was more wary of the well-dressed. When two guys came in on their way to see a hockey game, one with a unique leather Leafs collegiate jacket, I told them I, too, was a long-suffering Leafs fan and suggested moving the nice jacket to a safe place, out of range of possible beer spills.
“You two look a lot alike; are you brothers?”
“Why, yes we are!” they replied in unison with matching wide smiles.
When they left, a regular winked at me and said, “Party on!”
“That was Mike Myers … from ‘Saturday Night Live.’”
That day with the Myers brothers on the Black Bull patio was so innocent and so Toronto. They were taking in the scene on their way to a Leafs game, watching the world go by, just like so many did for almost 200 years on one of the most epic people-watching patios in the city’s history.
