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I’ll always have a bit of Toto’s with me. That is as long as Sheetal, my sweet and mischievous cleaning lady, doesn’t throw out the old brick laying on my bedroom floor. Each time I imploringly tell her the significance the brick holds to me, I can see her brow furrow, as she ponders why the manchild in front of her, who has burnt holes into four different bed sheets without batting an eyelash, is obsessed with the wellbeing of a dirty, broken brick. I cannot blame her for her confusion. That kind of pathetic homage is only paid by poets and drunks, and I fancy myself rather poetic when I’m drunk.
I pulled that brick out of a pile of rubble that was supposed to be my gateway to a neon-lit smorgasbord of booze and hanging vehicles, soundtracked by the most random and beautiful amalgamation of music genres to ever exist.
Stuffing a brick into my laptop bag was, admittedly a pretty futile gesture, but while sitting on a heap of debris, passing a quart of Old Monk back and forth with the watchman, it seemed like the only thing I could do to express my affection for the broken down booze hole I had come to spend far too much time in. Well, it was either take the brick or throw a flaming bag of faeces at the Bandra West BMC Ward.
On the correct assumption that none of my friends would bail me out, I went with the brick.
A month or so later I was back on the sweet saddle of a Toto’s bar stool. I had ‘accidently’ arrived early so I could ‘accidently’ finish a pitcher before the rest of my friends got off work and could join me. Just as a Katy Perry tune was replaced by a Van Halen track I saw the thin figure of Mr Bhatia, the proprietor, passing through the Old West-style kitchen doors.
I was overjoyed to see him, first of all, because the man looks like an Indian Ray Charles. Blacked-out specs, button up shirts, and a slow, easy shuffle – that’s how he rolls, and I hope to mature into an old geezer with a similar strain of sedate swag. I also wanted to congratulate him on getting the place back up and running as well as engage in a bit of trash talking about the BMC.
He was too polite to bandy about any harsh words and shrugged off the unprecedented move by local officials with a kind of grace I will never have. Yet, when I asked him if he managed to save the iconic Toto’s Garage sign, his composure melted into an expression of true sadness. “They smashed it. That is what really hurt me, none of this,” he said, gesturing to the empty smoking area that used to be the front half of the bar. “Destroying the icon. That is what really hurt me.”’
When the local government is more concerned about knocking down venerated neighbourhood joints, than solving our lack of a proper drainage system, it is a rough predicament indeed.
Even though I had troubled the man enough, I had to ask him about the future of Toto’s. If I was going to have my heart broken again, I deserved to know now. Upon questioning him, Mr Bhatia flashed me one of those smiles old men save for naive youngsters.
“You see, this is not about money... This is about passion. Even if I’m just putting in money, that’s what I will do for my passion.” He continued, “My employees have been with me for so long. I just can’t abandon them.”
Assured by Mr Bhatia’s sound resolution to keep his classic Bandra watering hole up and running, I reentered the dimly lit premises with a jaunt in my step. I was greeted by three uncles belting away an out of tune rendition of The Eagles’ Tequila Sunrise at 6:45 in the evening. This is the beauty of Toto’s.
It made me think of the epic tribute to Toto’s published by Arre right after the front half of Toto’s was pulverised. As I greedily filled my pint and listened to the floundering falsetto of beer-bellied regulars, I began to think of my very own ode to Toto’s.
It is the first place I made my girlfriend cry and the first place I told her I loved her. Toto’s is the place two tipsy aunties decided to hit on me by sending masala peanuts over to my table as their husbands glared holes through my skull. The joint where my horde of female coworkers have made many conquests, whether it be an ex-Israeli military man with surprisingly curly hair or my buddy nicknamed ‘the tripod’, for obvious reasons.
Toto’s is the place where I’m not afraid to pick up the tab. Where I can walk in looking like a dapper gent, a homeless wizard, or 1970s pimp, and feel right at home.
Yet, although I’m a regular, I’m not a longtime patron of Toto’s, of which there are many. It wouldn’t feel right solely extolling my love for the beloved bar, so I tracked down a bunch of old booze hounds, who have added far more years and beers under their belt at the establishment, and deserve a chance to share their unbridled love.
These guys remember the joint when the longtime crew of waiters donned black garageman overalls instead of the orange ones us youngsters associate with the libation-filled landmark. They, also, remember the days when Toto’s took song requests, the greatest hits of which now circulate on the bar’s memorable playlists. But most of all, they remember the family they became a part of at this one-of-a-kind, corner bar.
Of course, that last line may seem a bit melodramatic, after all, I’m talking about a bar, not a cult, but it is truer than rain during the months of monsoon. Every regular I spoke to reiterated the same phrase, verbatim – “It’s like family.”
If there ever was a far-out metaphor for Toto’s I’d called it the Bhutan of bars. What does a Himalayan haven have in common with a horseshoe bar in Bandra, you might ask? Happiness! Toto’s, or rather Mr Bhatia, measures the bar’s worth through the happiness of his customers, just like how Bhutan assesses its people’s GNH (Gross National Happiness).
These happy memories have translated into an unparalleled loyalty and love for the tap house. For example, many of these old timers are now transplants, living in places like Goa, Bangalore, and Delhi – nevertheless, many of them still make a concerted effort to stop by their old haunt as frequently as they can. As soon as their planes hit the tarmac, only a thirty-minute cab ride separates them from their license plate smattered home away from home.
To someone who has never had the pleasure of sipping down a pint at Toto’s, this kind of deep seeded appreciation for the bar may seem a bit extreme. But to someone who has seen the silver dollar smile of a regular ditch his suitcase out front, and march into a den of hugs, handshakes, and ‘how are yous’, accompanied by the sweet clinking of glass beer mugs, this kind of love makes more sense than most other things in this strange world.
Take it easy Toto’s.
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