here are men out there, rare breeds of misanthropic men, who have grown tired of being single. They know they want what all those other guys have. They want to hold hands in coffee shops, they want to watch Showcase movies and know what it is like to be romantic with a special lady-friend. What they will not sacrifice to satisfy their inner desire to be a softy is hockey on the big screen, Saturday Night Fights on HBO, and the insatiable need to wear their baseball hat at the dinner table. Tatlow’s Broiler Bar has been erected to give such men (and their female equivalents) a fighting chance.

Let me explain through the story of Mr. Hypothetical.

Mr. H. is an uncomplicated sort who likes to have a burger, but doesn’t like smelling of the grill. He does play a little Nintendo, has a nice shirt or two, and buys cologne, and has a generally good sense about himself. His buddies are weird, and enjoy yelling at the television, but he goes out with them just the same. They all like Tatlow’s because the game is always on, both literally and figuratively. For every cheep-beer swilling cowboy is a Cosmo-sipping princess. Mr. H’s friend’s attentions are always on the waitresses. Each one is a girl-next-door knockout who knows about Bertuzzi, and the Lions, and how the Raptors are better without Carter. Mr. H, however, likes the cooler side of this Broiler Bar.

What he doesn’t tell his buddies is that he thinks the dark stained wood interior, candlelight, and mountain-retreat feel of the stone fireplace are sassy. He likes the close community of the tables. They wouldn’t understand how he enjoys keeping up with the funk’d out local art on display as well.

Tatlow’s is an intervention for regular lads and lasses who hope to step themselves up. The pub grub is done carefully, and very well, and with massive style. Any fool will do a double take on the cheap drink list. Beer and martinis seldom break five bucks, and damn near everything is on special. It is the bar that represents the thin line between throwing peanut shells at the television, and no television at all (heaven forbid). It is a little class for those who are learning to have a little class. And for every Mr. H, the man ready to break out, a groovy little Ms. H is sharing the warmth of the same hearth. - C.L.