| rev:text
| - If i were more of a drinker, and less of an eater, and blessed with greater tolerance for rude, indifferent service, Scallywags would probably be my local.
A three-floored yellow monstrosity of a pub, Scallywags anchors the southwestern corner of Yonge and St. Clair, an area with no shortage of pub options, but a definite dearth of fine pub grub. Fionn MacCools, a Fox and Fiddle, and a few indy pubs round out the immediate competition. I'd rather skip them all and have a tuna melt at the new Kivas a few doors down.
Dinner feels at once rushed and ignored by a server who registers her disappointment when we prefer non-alcoholic drinks to the hard stuff. She spends the meal rushing back and forth between tables, and up and down stairs to the kitchen, sometimes while we're in the middle of ordering. It's an inconvenience to tell us about the specials, and a request for bread service (to go with someone's meds) is met with outright hostility. Plates arrive out of sync. We're left to our own devices until the cheque comes, and thanked for our patronage, in passing as we leave, server's behind planted firmly on a barstool.
Food varies widely from visit to visit. A proper hangover cure of a breakfast may be the best thing on the menu. Properly scrambled eggs, crispy homefries with fluffy interior (they may be pre-made, but they're good, and nicely seasoned), fat pork sausages or crispy bacon and buttered toast ease the regret of lost brain cells from the night before.
It's a shame about the coffee, which aspires to suck.
In case you were wondering, French Onion Soup does not belong in an English pub. A few stray onions lurk beneath huge hunks of bread bathing in canned beef stock. The ichor bubbles away under a blanket of mozzarella. It's a mixture of salt, MSG, and dread. Better to go with a caesar salad. It's also salty, but at least you can see the vegetables.
A chicken quesadilla is off-puttingly sweet, and just tastes off all around. It passes across three plates, and comes to rest largely untouched. Our server is unfazed by the forlorn tortilla.
This evening promises two chicken sandwiches, one crispy with cheddar cheese and promised (though unremarked) avocado mayo, sided with competent onion rings. The other version is simply grilled. They're both dry and stringy.
Burgers are huge and juicy, sided with fries and all the fixins. Fish and chips is crispy and flavorful one visit; pale and limp the next; overcooked to sawdust on a third try. It's good enough to roll the dice.
If you're up for a longer walk and still fancy a bite to eat, better to visit the Rebel House further south, or Cam's Place up near Sporting Life. Both options feature more homemade fare, and friendlier service. Further downtown, I'd take the Queen and Beaver any day.
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