People take wonders for granted. Growing up on the east coast, I took the ocean for granted. Visitors would gush about its awesome power each summer I worked the tourist bureau in Halifax, but for locals it was just the ocean and was always going to be there. When I moved to Calgary, the mountains took my breath away. Calgarians appreciated them, but seemed ambivalent. While I would catch myself stopping to stare from my perch on the 20th floor of the NOVA Gas Tower, the long-term residents of Cowtown went on with their lives. We become ambivalent to the sublime the longer we’re exposed to it.
Wonders come in all shapes and sizes. The big ones are breathtaking and inspiring, but the little ones are the building blocks of our lives. The tragic difference is the little ones have a bad habit of disappearing.
The Patrician Grill’s been around since the 1950s. In downtown Toronto, that’s an eternity. This city loves tearing down the old to throw up the new. Along the way, it’s developed the bad habit of gutting heritage buildings, booting out the original inhabitants and tacking the facade onto 50 stories of condo, like some kind of awkward exercise in architectural taxidermy. Real estate is expensive in this place, no matter what kind of downturn we might be in, so the sacrifice of older buildings and businesses to feed the condo beast isn’t stopping anytime soon.
The Patrician defies that destiny: it’s a single-story diner slowly getting crowded out by condo after condo. It’s like a bantam fighter that resolutely wakes up every morning to duke it out with the heavyweights, and somehow, incredibly, keeps coming up with a draw. It’s nothing short of a minor miracle that anything that small can endure in the heart of a city determined to become Manhattan North.
I’ve lived in the neighbourhood for 12 years and seen a slew of businesses rise and fall. Some of them are headscratchers. Did the owners of that coffee shop not do their research? There’s nowhere near enough foot traffic to sustain them. How is that restaurant going to survive on that corner with those kind of prices? A florist on that street — really? I’m slightly ashamed to admit it, but I run a dead pool in my head each time a new place opens, knowing the neighbourhood far better than so many unfortunate owners with big dreams and inadequate business plans.
That’s why a diner that’s only open for breakfast and lunch six days a week is flabbergasting. But somehow I took it for granted as it faded into the background each day I walked by. The place had changed hands from the original owner to a new one, to the new one’s kids and would (I assumed) be handed down to their kids.
Until one day it wasn’t.
After seventy-some years, the Patrician was closing. Locals were legitimately shocked: it had survived till 2026 and gave every impression of surviving further. I realized having a place like that show up on the street every day and inject a little colour, a little anachronism, a little originality into a city whose unofficial colour is medium grey, lifted my soul just a touch. A tinge of guilt followed: I had never been in, not even for a coffee. I made sure to remedy the situation.
A sign outside proudly proclaims, “In this neighbourhood you can pay $5 for an Italian coffee or $2.25 for a coffee served by a guy who kinda looks Italian.” The inside isn’t overloaded with mementos the way I had imagined. There’s art on the walls, actual paintings, not prefab neon kitsch and dogs playing poker. A jazz station plays over the speakers. Locals start to drift in, mostly older folk, and the staff reliably recite their orders before they’ve even uttered a word. The people behind the counter are busy but relaxed, and seem to genuinely enjoy themselves, with the kind of banter I’d expect from a Hollywood version of a corner diner: the Leafs, the weather and everything in between.
It’s easy to wax nostalgic about places like this and hold onto them for dear life. I find myself falling into this habit the older I get. That’s why it’s important to recognize the small wonders life has to offer and embrace them while you can: they’re the difference between an indifferent, anonymous world and one with sparks of life and originality that make it worth enjoying.
I demolish an omelette and cup of coffee in short order, get to the cash register and feel my heart sink: cash only. Part of me scolds myself for not realizing a place like this operates on tight margins and wouldn’t accept credit cards. Part of me wants to shout “Buddy, did you not get the memo that it’s 2026?!” Luckily, I keep $20 in a pocket on the back of my phone for emergencies and manage to cover the bill, but with next to nothing for a tip. “Don’t worry about it; you’ll be back, right?” the co-owner asks.
I guess so. Like so many of the faithful, I’ll be back to experience a small wonder while I still can.
