The Wyck
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The Wyck Recommendation: South Shore Bar & Grill
Rating: 3.7/5
When Etobicoke Became Belgrade (For One Glorious Night)
Intro Scene
It started like any Saturday should—with low expectations and clean shoes. We wandered into South Shore looking for a beer, maybe a warm barstool and something fried. Instead, we walked straight into the Balkan version of Studio 54: bodies swaying, a saxophone wailing like it just lost custody, and the kind of chaotic joy you can’t schedule. We didn’t speak the language. We didn’t need to.
What Was Ordered
Just a couple of Madri lagers, cold and indifferent. The kind of beer that doesn’t ask questions, just fills the space between you and whatever’s unfolding on stage. Food? Next time, if the music ever lets us sit still long enough to chew.
Service Commentary
One bartender. Forty orders. Zero flinches. She moved like a surgeon at closing time—focused, precise, immune to the fact that someone just started dancing in front of the Guinness tap. No small talk, no shade. Just vibes and volume.
Vibe Check
The front of the room was all Serbian aunties doing slow-motion shoulder rolls like they’d been summoned by Slavic moonlight. Men lingered at the back like Balkan security detail—arms crossed, heads nodding, beers held like relics. The band? Loud, tight, and unapologetically traditional. You didn’t need to understand it to get it—you just had to let it hit your ribs.
The Space Itself
It’s all wood and wires. A long bar for leaning. A stage built for heartbreak. Neon signs glowing like they’ve seen things. And then there's the bathroom—where a sad leather chair lives between two dying plants, and a Sharpied worm in a fedora whispers secrets from the stall door. If that worm wrote a novel, I'd buy it.
About the Neighborhood
This is Brown’s Line—not Belgrade, not Queen West—but for a couple of hours, it became a different country. The kind where nobody’s on their phone, everyone knows the words, and parking is free. A miracle.
Hits & Misses
✓ Live music that restructured my DNA
✓ Madri lager, no frills, no regrets
✓ Dancing that felt like folklore and arthritis
✓ Bathroom art that deserves a gallery
✗ Bathroom plants: one cough away from the grave
✗ Didn't eat (but didn’t need to)
✗ If you're looking for quiet, you're already lost
Final Verdict
South Shore isn’t a bar—it’s a portal. One minute you're in Etobicoke, the next you’re surrounded by tambourines, basslines, and women who dance like the music owes them money. It’s wild. It’s warm. It’s weird in the way only real places are. And if you don’t like it, that’s fine. The worm doesn’t want to talk to you anyway.
Perfect For
Getting Balkan-level day drunk
Thinking you understand Serbian now
