Get back to where you once belonged
The first thing you need to know, Gentle Reader, is that I love Andrew. In the same way, but even more than The Viking. But I don't think I'll be going back to Aquadisiac.
It's a beautiful club. Lounge. Martini bar. And that's the problem. It's not a pub. It's exactly the sort of place I stay out of. Exactly.
AC and I went to the opening on Monday night. Though it's just down the road from us on Queen's Quay, a ten or fifteen minute walk at the most, we drove — well, AC drove — because it was cold. And also because it's a school night, and AC has a regular job, so he drives to make sure I won't stay until closing.
So the first thing we hated about the place was the lack of parking. You can't park on Queen's Quay boulevard. The only option is the underground parking at the Radison Hotel across the street. We put $5 into the machine and got one hour. And because we stayed for an hour and a half ("Come on, one more beer? If you get a parking ticket I'll pay for it, OK?") we got a parking ticket. A $25 parking ticket.
Two of the other regulars from The Banknote, Justin and Chantal, were sitting at the bar. As I began my review, Chantal agreed with every point. Apparently she'd said all the same things to Andrew before we got there.
"Where are the taps? Don't tell me there are no taps!"
"No taps. No draft beer."
Grumble, grumble.
"OK, what have you got in bottles?"
Andrew opens the stainless steel fridge door directly behind him. It's full of Molson Canadian.
"Fuck off."
He opens the next door. Labatt Blue.
"I don't think so."
Behind door number three I can see some acceptable beers: Alexander Keith's, Sleeman Cream Ale, and Creemore.
"I'll have a Creemore. But I can't believe I'm drinking it in a bottle. I didn't even realize it came in bottles."
AC orders a Sleeman's.
I run my hand along the underside of the bar, looking for a hook, and find none.
"No coat hooks? Where are we supposed to put our coats?"
The bar stools are sleek moulded steel, with a square padded seat the colour of a Weimaraner. They are oh so beautiful, and oh so uncomfortable. No arm rests, no back, and no place to put your feet. Plus, each one weighs approximately 50 pounds.
We cover the beautiful grey-brown faux suede seats with our coats, drag the stools closer to the bar, and sit down.
"Damn; no bar rail?"
"Can you believe it?" asks Chantal.
The owner of the bar, a handsome Asian man dressed in black, has been leaning agains the wall in the far corner, listening to our complaints. "There's a bar at the bottom of your stool for your feet," he says.
There is, but it's impossible to reach. The stool is moulded in the shape of an upside down U, with two sides made of solid steel. The other two sides are open, and there is a footrest in the middle, but you'd have to have the seat perfectly aligned; perfectly parallel to the bar, with the solid steel sides to your left and right, and the opening dead ahead, to have even the smallest hope of your feet reaching that footrest.
There's no music playing. Our voices echo in the cavernous club. At the far west end of the room is a dance floor, a DJ setup, and a very funky lounge room, with a wrap around sofa running three lengths of the room, its seat a continuous undulating wave of beige faux suede. There's a half wall separating it from the dance floor; the space between the top of the wall and the ceiling is strung with translucent clear glass beads, giving the effect of raindrops.
It's very elegant. Very sleek. Quite beautiful. And the most uncomfortable room you've ever tried to sit in.
The eastern half of the room consists of table and seating arrangements. The tables are set with white linen napkins, wavy silverware, and enormous wine glasses. AC has examined the menu, and wants to return next week to sample the sea bass.
"I don't think you want to sit at those tables," I say.
"Why not?" he asks.
They look so elegant. Small, L-shaped benches, their seats and backs upholstered in the same Weimaraner coloured faux suede as the bar stools. Across the table from each bench are two chairs, one shaped like an L, the other its mirror image, so that no chair arm or back interrupts the space between the two people that might be seated in the chairs. They are made of the same solid, heavy, stainless steel as the bar stools. Their backs are too short. And I can tell, from my seat at the bar, that those chairs also weigh about 50 pounds each.
AC goes to a table, pulls out a chair, and sits down.
"Oh, man, is this ever uncomfortable!" he exclaims from where he is. We can all hear him just fine, so I'm assuming so can the owner.
AC returns to his bar stool, and stands beside it. The floor is a lovely, wide plank oak hardwood. It's much more comfortable to stand on that than it is to sit on any of the furniture.
"Why would anyone design a place that's so uncomforable?" asks AC, truly puzzled. "No one's going to want to sit there for very long, and they'll probably never come back once they've done it one time."
"Uh huh," I agree.
"Aren't designers supposed to know how to design restaurants?"
"You'd think."
Andrew, please, I'm begging you, come back to The Banknote.
It's a beautiful club. Lounge. Martini bar. And that's the problem. It's not a pub. It's exactly the sort of place I stay out of. Exactly.
AC and I went to the opening on Monday night. Though it's just down the road from us on Queen's Quay, a ten or fifteen minute walk at the most, we drove — well, AC drove — because it was cold. And also because it's a school night, and AC has a regular job, so he drives to make sure I won't stay until closing.
So the first thing we hated about the place was the lack of parking. You can't park on Queen's Quay boulevard. The only option is the underground parking at the Radison Hotel across the street. We put $5 into the machine and got one hour. And because we stayed for an hour and a half ("Come on, one more beer? If you get a parking ticket I'll pay for it, OK?") we got a parking ticket. A $25 parking ticket.
Two of the other regulars from The Banknote, Justin and Chantal, were sitting at the bar. As I began my review, Chantal agreed with every point. Apparently she'd said all the same things to Andrew before we got there.
"Where are the taps? Don't tell me there are no taps!"
"No taps. No draft beer."
Grumble, grumble.
"OK, what have you got in bottles?"
Andrew opens the stainless steel fridge door directly behind him. It's full of Molson Canadian.
"Fuck off."
He opens the next door. Labatt Blue.
"I don't think so."
Behind door number three I can see some acceptable beers: Alexander Keith's, Sleeman Cream Ale, and Creemore.
"I'll have a Creemore. But I can't believe I'm drinking it in a bottle. I didn't even realize it came in bottles."
AC orders a Sleeman's.
I run my hand along the underside of the bar, looking for a hook, and find none.
"No coat hooks? Where are we supposed to put our coats?"
The bar stools are sleek moulded steel, with a square padded seat the colour of a Weimaraner. They are oh so beautiful, and oh so uncomfortable. No arm rests, no back, and no place to put your feet. Plus, each one weighs approximately 50 pounds.
We cover the beautiful grey-brown faux suede seats with our coats, drag the stools closer to the bar, and sit down.
"Damn; no bar rail?"
"Can you believe it?" asks Chantal.
The owner of the bar, a handsome Asian man dressed in black, has been leaning agains the wall in the far corner, listening to our complaints. "There's a bar at the bottom of your stool for your feet," he says.
There is, but it's impossible to reach. The stool is moulded in the shape of an upside down U, with two sides made of solid steel. The other two sides are open, and there is a footrest in the middle, but you'd have to have the seat perfectly aligned; perfectly parallel to the bar, with the solid steel sides to your left and right, and the opening dead ahead, to have even the smallest hope of your feet reaching that footrest.
There's no music playing. Our voices echo in the cavernous club. At the far west end of the room is a dance floor, a DJ setup, and a very funky lounge room, with a wrap around sofa running three lengths of the room, its seat a continuous undulating wave of beige faux suede. There's a half wall separating it from the dance floor; the space between the top of the wall and the ceiling is strung with translucent clear glass beads, giving the effect of raindrops.
It's very elegant. Very sleek. Quite beautiful. And the most uncomfortable room you've ever tried to sit in.
The eastern half of the room consists of table and seating arrangements. The tables are set with white linen napkins, wavy silverware, and enormous wine glasses. AC has examined the menu, and wants to return next week to sample the sea bass.
"I don't think you want to sit at those tables," I say.
"Why not?" he asks.
They look so elegant. Small, L-shaped benches, their seats and backs upholstered in the same Weimaraner coloured faux suede as the bar stools. Across the table from each bench are two chairs, one shaped like an L, the other its mirror image, so that no chair arm or back interrupts the space between the two people that might be seated in the chairs. They are made of the same solid, heavy, stainless steel as the bar stools. Their backs are too short. And I can tell, from my seat at the bar, that those chairs also weigh about 50 pounds each.
AC goes to a table, pulls out a chair, and sits down.
"Oh, man, is this ever uncomfortable!" he exclaims from where he is. We can all hear him just fine, so I'm assuming so can the owner.
AC returns to his bar stool, and stands beside it. The floor is a lovely, wide plank oak hardwood. It's much more comfortable to stand on that than it is to sit on any of the furniture.
"Why would anyone design a place that's so uncomforable?" asks AC, truly puzzled. "No one's going to want to sit there for very long, and they'll probably never come back once they've done it one time."
"Uh huh," I agree.
"Aren't designers supposed to know how to design restaurants?"
"You'd think."
Andrew, please, I'm begging you, come back to The Banknote.
1 Comments:
Yeah, that sounds like a place to avoid. Pity, because by your description it obviously wasn't cheap to build & equip.
Too much design and not enough experience of sitting around in bars, I would say.
The deformation professionel of architects and interior designers is the Napoleon Complex: I can do everything myself, and I already know all that is worth knowing.
Pity.
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