Low-intervention, low-sulfur, farmed-not-manufactured wine, poured by people who'd rather hand you the bottle than the tasting notes. Pét-nats that fizz, skin-contact whites that bite, reds we chill on purpose. No leather metaphors. No bottle marked over what it's worth. Twelve seats, a turntable, and forty things open by the glass tonight.
What's behind the bar tonight
Everything we open is farmed organically or biodynamically, fermented with wild yeast, and bottled with as close to nothing added as the grower can manage. Here's what that actually means once it's in your glass.
Pétillant naturel — bottled mid-ferment, capped like a beer, cloudy and alive. We keep six fizzing at any time, from feral and funky to clean and citrus-bright.
White grapes left on their skins for days or months. Tannic, savory, a little wild. The most-ordered, most-argued-about category on the board.
Light, juicy, gulpable — Gamay, Cinsault, Trousseau. Served cellar-cool, the way they actually taste best. Yes, on purpose.
No commercial yeast, no acid adjustment, no mega-purple, no fining with fish bladder. Just grapes, time, and a steady hand on the cellar door.
Want to taste four things instead of drink one? Ask for half-pours. We'd rather you find the one you love than finish the one you settled for.
The list turns over constantly — growers are small, lots are tiny, and when a bottle's done it's done. Here's a snapshot of what's been on rotation this week.
The house pour. Crushed raspberry, white pepper, a squeeze of lime. Carbonic, low-sulfur, and gone the second the fridge door opens. $14 a glass.
Eight days on the skins turns it copper. Dried apricot, orange peel, a grippy bitter finish. The bottle we hand-sell the hardest. $16 a glass.
Cloudy, dry, bottled on the lees the old way. Green apple, sourdough, sea spray. Shake it or don't — we don't judge. $15 a glass.
Pale as grapefruit, bone dry, faintly fizzy. Wild strawberry and crushed stone. Our patio bottle while there's still light out. $13 a glass.
Three weeks on the skins, zero sulfur, unfiltered and proud of it. Quince, beeswax, a salty grip. Polarizing in the best way. $17 a glass.
Translucent ruby, all cranberry and woodsmoke. Twelve degrees in the glass and it sings. The pour that converts the skeptics. $18 a glass.
Pouring growers you can't get down the street, from cellars we've actually stood in
Small, salty, acidic, unbothered. The kitchen is the size of a closet and the menu changes with whatever the bottles want next to them. Everything's meant to share.
Conservas straight from the tin — sardines, mussels in escabeche, smoked mackerel — with cultured butter and a sourdough heel. The platonic pét-nat snack.
Three rotating cheeses from a shop two doors down, raw honey, pickles, and a fistful of marcona almonds. Built to fight tannin and win.
Castelvetrano olives, lupini beans, chili and citrus zest, more garlic than is strictly polite. Two bucks, bottomless, order them twice.
One hot thing a night, decided at 4pm — could be jammy peppers, could be a fried sandwich. Ask the bartender. It's always the right call.
“I came in scared of orange wine and left buying two bottles of it. Four half-glasses, zero pretentious nonsense, and they just let the wine make the argument.”
“It's the only bar in the city where I can say 'surprise me, something funky and cold' and trust the answer completely. The chilled Trousseau ruined every other red for me.”
“Twelve stools, a turntable, and a fridge full of bottles you can't get anywhere else. We had our anniversary on two barstools and a tin of sardines. Perfect night.”
Three ways to drink with us. Walk in for free, join the club for bottles you'd never find alone, or hand the cellar the keys. Seasonal, no auto-renew, pause anytime.
For the curious. No card, just a stool.
For the regular who's here every week.
For the one who wants the weird stuff first.
Every bottle on the wall is for sale — drink it at the bar with a small corkage, or carry it out for the same price you'd pay to import it yourself. No restaurant markup theater.
Pull any bottle off the shelf, pay shop price plus a flat $15 to drink it at the bar. Found one you love by the glass? Take the rest home unfinished.
Tell us a wine you already love and a budget. We'll put exactly the right weird bottle in your hands. It's the most fun part of the job.
Growlers and 375s filled from the night's open bottles for the walk home. Toronto-legal, sealed at the counter, gone by Sunday.
Tell us who it's for and we'll wrap something they've never heard of with a card explaining why. Better than a gift card, cheaper than being boring.
Pétillant naturel — wine bottled before it's done fermenting, so it finishes the job in the bottle and traps its own bubbles. No added sugar, no second fermentation, usually capped like a beer. Cloudy, dry, alive, and the whole reason we exist.
Yes. Everything we pour is farmed organically or biodynamically, fermented with native yeast, made with little to no added sulfur and nothing else. If a grower can't tell us exactly what's in the bottle, it doesn't go on the list.
We hold a few counter seats until 9pm — book those online. After 9 it's walk-ins only, first come first served. The list moves fast, so coming early means more of it is still open.
Because it's unfiltered, unfined, and alive. A little sediment, a funky first whiff that blows off, a faint spritz — those are features of low-intervention wine, not flaws. Give it five minutes and a swirl.
Always. We keep a rotating low-and-no list — a fermented soda or two, alcohol-removed bottles from growers we trust, and a house shrub on tap. Same snacks, same stools, same good night.
Every bottle on the wall is for sale at shop price. Drink it here for a flat corkage or carry it out. On Friday and Saturday we also fill growlers and half-bottles to go from whatever's open.
Reserve a counter seat for early, or just walk in late and point at the chalkboard. We'll have something cold, cloudy, and a little wild poured before your coat's off.