Slovenia... Slovenia... you border on the Adriatic

Slovenia 1-0 Algeria

Culinary tip: If you like a) Slovenia and b) donuts, don't bother stopping at Claudia's Donuts--right across from Slovenia Hall in south Etobicoke--for donuts. Inside the church/cultural centre hall you'll find the game blasting with big-screen projector, a pumped up crowd decked out in green-and-yellow jerseys, plus all the Slovenian donuts you can handle and more.

After a scoreless half, the TV feed in the hall cuts away from soccer-jock commentary to some advertisements promoting Slovenian culture in Toronto. Fun facts:

• The Toronto Slovenian Youth Organization is 49 years youthful.
• Slovenian folk dancing requires much dedication, but dancers get to wear rose-covered hats!
• My wife, who's awake early to travel and watch with me, takes exception to my idea that we raise our future children to be Slovenian.

Another intermission highlight: a TV public service announcement featuring dangerously incapacitated drunks  getting severely injured as they fall down, keel over or bang their heads against very hard surfaces, with the voiceover cheering "I like drinking beer!'

Anyhow, the game: Algeria substitute Ghezzal (who along with several Slovenia players named 'Z'latko indulges my love of 'Z') rushes on field and immediately draws two yellow cards and so is sent off with a red, handicapping his side who had been playing elegantly. Slovenia capitalizes as Robert Koren deposits a tally following a series of slick passes. Slovenia Hall erupts into cheers that last a good ten minutes; it's thrilling to watch a match among the winning side finally!

Ghana 1-0 Serbia
After Slovenia we head to Fox and Fiddle on Dundas West in Etobicoke's Islington Village to meet friends for breakfast and Ghana-Serbia. F&F is neither Ghanaian nor Serbian territory, so not much to report blogwise, although the number of widescreens make this a good viewing spot for casual fans. As an aside, I'm glad Croatia's not in this tournament as I can't keep all the Balkan nations and their blue-white-and-red flags straight.

The game: Ghana beats Serbia 1-0. The hero is Asamoah Gyan, whose penalty  after an inexplicably moronic hand-ball by defender Zdravko Kuzmanovic in the goal zone qualifies the poor Serbian as Cup Goat thus far--more goatlike even than that English goalkeeper. I hope to cheer with the West Africans at Mamma Pee's for Ghana's next match.

Get him to the Greektown

Greece 0-2 South Korea

A trip to the Danforth requires I wear the sandals of a Spartan and eat the breakfast that made those warriors strong: goat's milk yogurt. Don't believe me? We... are... PROBIOTIC!

Between Logan and Pape are umpteen pubs, open-air cafes and patios: Fox and Fiddle has the most screens, but there's also Bar 521, Caffe Frappe (arguably the nerve centre) the Iliadic Kaffeteria and even a Mr. Greek--which is ironically the only patio with empty seats. It's already 1-0 for South Korea when I arrive at Cafe Frappe, which means the indigenous tribe is despondent. Overcast morning skies and spitting rain don't help.

Korean confederates are widely interspersed throughout Greek Nation, with the nucleus of Asian teenage hipsters chattering at the Euro Crepe Cafe, oblivious to the icy sentiments along this stretch of Danforth. A pair of Korean women jogging by Cafe Frappe stop to check the score, laugh cockily and quickly run away. There's another run-by Korean gloating after the half at Mr Greek, where, still 1-0, I park to enjoy spanakopita and shore up flagging Hellas. But Greece keeps being cut off at each attacking angle. Don't these guys know about trigonometry? They invented it! Disappointing, considering the Samian obsession with triangles.

S.K. makes it 2-0 on a beautiful charge by Park Ji-Sung after an Argive giveaway and that's my cue to exit. I hear rumours of a Nigerian picnic in the North York wilderness of Jane and Sheppard.

Nigeria 0-1 Argentina
The rumours are true! Unfortunately, the weather is foul. By the time I find Northwood park--off a driveway north of Sheppard between Jane and Keele--things are even soggier than Greektown. The Nigerian-Canadian Association has gone to admirable lengths for this party, including open-air tents, a roasted corn station, and mock trophies for the kids. CBC  quizzes the crowd and spirits are high. I'm certainly the sole spectator with an Italy cap, yet I manage to avoid a heckling, as it's the Argentinians who are the target of wrath after a diving header goal by Gabriel Heinze in the sixth minute.

I leave at the half, as non-Cup errands put the blog out of commission for the rest of the day (including England-USA), so don't get a chance to try the corn. I hope the next Nigerian festa is a bit closer to downtown.

Bafanatics

South Africa 1, Mexico 1
I had contacted the South African consulate for a good spot  to watch the game; their dignitaries e-recommended the Samovar Room on Winchester St, north of Carlton off Parliament, ie Cabbagetown. Samovar is a Russian bar, but the owner's wife will be rooting for all the African teams. This second-floor pad glittering beneath gaudy chandeliers is sufficiently decked out in Bafana-colours to satisfy my hipster cravings for 'authenticity'. Did the old Soviet Union ever prop up the apartheid regime? I won't even bother to Wikipedia that; I'll just pretend that they did.

I sit at the bar beside two eight-year-old schoolchildren who are clearly not in school. To appear un-creepy I order a diet cola. There's a real ethnic mosaic in the room, which is pleasantly uncrowded. The Jamaican girl beside me wears a South Africa jersey, and the Mexican boy beside her tells me he's cheering for England. My bartender is from Malawi and I get her to pose for me in her RSA jersey.

As the gun sounds an Asian newswoman for some Suburban-Smiley-FunTime TV channel arrives and interviews fans re who they support. Self-consciously sporting my Italy cap, I suddenly feel I'm disrepecting Mandiba's legacy of unity, peace and pride and-what-a-great-moment-for-the-nation blah blah blah so I put my hat away and cheer for South Africa.

To its credit, Samovar serves the only free roasted corn nuts I've ever tasted that were somewhat edible, but their diet coke is flat as soccer pitch. I cave ten minutes later and order gin and tonic. Hey, it's already 10:15am!

I watch for only 40 minutes before biking back to work, and so miss both teams' goals. The 1-1 FT is a definite victory for RSA. Befana means 'witch' in Italian but I can only guess Bafana means 'genie' in South Africa as those men pulled a small miracle out of the bottle.

Juche 99 belongs to glorious DPRK!

Who is @DPRKSoccerTeam and will he allow UN inspectors to look at his team's balls?

North Korea is, no surprise, out for revenge in this tourney:

"The Juche 95 World Cup result was not legitimate, because FIFA excluded us on the basis of our world dominance of the armored train industry."

World Cup Hyper-Logic Omni-Cognate Super-Schedulizer

Interact with this awesome beast on marca.com (Thanks to John in Montreal for the tip)

Well I found my Ghanaian restaurant

Mama Pee's at Jane and Wilson - thanks to Daniel for the tip!

Also tracked down this 2006 list from toronto.com - some good choices there (albeit skewed toward downtown). Much better list from this 2006 National Post article. UPDATE: See this BlogTO post for 2010 selections.

Waving Flags Photo Exhibit

K'naan, step aside - you're not alone in capturing the spirit of a flag-waving world.

During the June 2006 Cup, my high-school friend and now-photographer Joe Howarth traversed the GTA with his camera, much like I did with my pen. Unlike me, Joe did not stop until he got footage of fans from all 32 nations, snapping them as they celebrated their teams and countries. Four years later he is displaying his photos in an art exhibit titled Waving Flags, on at the Rivoli, with opening reception this Thursday, June 10.

Excellent work, Joe - you've set the bar high for this blog. Can't wait to visit; best wishes in 2010.

Caveat Spectator

Take my advice, and think twice about the advice of http://www.wheretowatchtheworldcup.com/ - which for every single match in Toronto (click top right to toggle city) seems to list a bunch of British/North American sports pubs, not national hotspots. The site claims that French fans like to hang out at the Duke of Gloucester? C'mon.

This could be an excellent resource, but certainly needs more submissions. Perhaps their 'intel' will improve as the matches begin, but so far WTWTWC seems more like a transparent advertising ploy for selected venues.

South Africa v. Mexico - suggestions?

Twitter and Facebook have revealed the genius of laziness, ie asking more knowledgeable friends and strangers to do all the research. And even though this is a World Cup blog, I am the first to confess my football ignorance.

I'd like to cheer with the host nation for the first match. For South Africa venues in Toronto, chowhound.com says http://www.nandoscanada.com may be South African.

Also, Toronto Life has recommendations for African restaurants but these may be wide of the mark.

So far, I've only seen NOW magazine provide a T.O. Cup-viewing primer and I can't even find it online.

A thread on tripadvisor.com has asked similar questions for the 'not-so-famous' teams.

The next few days will require some research!

World Cup Sked

Click to enlarge. Or see fifa.com

Reporting every single game will be impossible, as I have a day job. The plan is to attend every 7:30am match and take appropriate lunch breaks for one of the mid-morning or afternoon games. I'll make up for it on weekends; by pacing myself I hope to avoid last Cup's blog burnout.

It's been a while

Coming in June. We resume!

The Hunt for the Golden Lion; plus Zanta comes to town, AND the only Tunisian restaurant in the city!

I bike all through the west end looking for the Ukraine game. I pass young men on the sidewalk looking for the same "We don't want any old bar - we want something Ukrainian."

It takes directions from the Ukrainian Social Service Agency at Jane and Bloor to point me toward the Golden Lion, a banquet hall in south Etobicoke. I'm riding all along the Queensway hoping for a sign; police officers, construction workers can't tell me where to find the game (they do happily recommend the Lancaster strip club however).

Finally I hit paydirt at Canmotor road just past Royal York: it's the Golden Lion, and yellowy blue is waving.

Ukraine is destroyed 4-0 by an incredible Spanish attack. The perogies (only $5 for about 15) make up for it.

It takes 24 subway stops to get from Royal York to Coxwell, for Tunisia v Saudi Arabia. Every station on the Bloor Line looks identical. Not much fun. Until Zanta hops on at Runnymede and tells me how famous he is. I nod in agreement and delightedly take photos. But he's off again at Keele and leaves me chuckling and the rest of the staid T-dot commuters barely stifling their smiles.

Djerba la Douce is owned by Abdul, who has been on CBC a lot recently - first he opened the only Tunisian restaurant in the city (although he proudly points out that Djerba is an island off the coast, so he's not a mainlander), and now his countrymen take on the football world. At first I'm the only one watching, but curious reporters begin trickling in, followed by a half-dozen actual fans. The CBC capture me pouring a mint tea as though I were dyed in the wool Djerbescu.

Tunisia plays well before the half, but the Saudis turn it on in the final 45 and take a 2-1 lead. It looks bleak, but with minutes left Abdul rejoices as his boys tie it up and the match ends 2-2. Abdul shakes his head - Tunisia got lucky.

I finally make it inside the Goethe Institute, where 'The Wall' has crumbled and the match shows to all on the beautiful big screen. I only watch 10 minutes before the half ends, and then I'm off to SportChek to buy my brother an Italy jersey for his birthday (Happy 30th, CJT!). Germany wins 1-0 over Poland but I don't care - I've already been alienated.

France don't dance like Brazil

Korea 2, Togo 1
I miss Korea-Togo because I'm too busy writing on this blog. Dangit. I gotta keep these summaries brief. Don't worry Koreatown, I'll catch up.

France 0, Switzerland 0
Next I'm at Zazou bar on King W at halftime of the noon game, where France-Switzerland is on the big screen. I love the France jerseys but don't care for this year's team. Zinedine Zidane is the man but that smarmy keeper Barthez turns me off.

Zazou is surrounded by touristy French restaurants, and I'm hungry, but pommes frites won't cut it for an anglo dog like me. I can imagine Charles de Gaulle yelling "vive le Quebec libre!" as I opt for Timmy Horton's.

France can't score; they haven't scored since 1998. The game ends a draw. I meet a pissed-off Algerian in the bathroom whose friend lost a chance at $10,000 because France didn't win ("He was gonna be 16 out of 16! The coach is an idiot - why did he leave out Trezeguet?"). I hold off telling him that gambling is for suckers, but I feel bad nonetheless.


Brazil 1, Croatia 0
Portugal fans are scary - but Brazil fans are fun. The matches take place in the same Portuguese telecasts in the exact same bars along College, so the fan behaviour's an interesting contrast. Expect street craziness and traffic snarls for both.

I try El Bola (College west of Dufferin) before halftime, but it's steam and sweat inside as they're stuffed beyond capacity, so head east past Ossington to one of my reliable 'old-man bars' - Carlo'S nack Bar (that's what's written on the sign).

Brazil wins but don't play their best game. The fans don't care - they won. It's drumming and dancing in the streets - right as rush hour hits College. 100 police officers on bikes attempt to control the mess. Hotshots cruise down Dufferin to add to the chaos. Brazil is so fun.

Forza Italia (+ Australia + Czech)!

Australia 3, Japan 1
I never knew Hemingway's in Yorkville was an Aussie bar. But sure enough the owner has an accent. For once I arrive on time for the 9am start (credit 7:30am Pilates for getting me out of bed). First thing I notice about this matchup: the Australian players have some pretty ugly yellow jerseys.

At the bar I sit and order an Aussie croissant, an Aussie fruit cup, then down an Aussie coffee (just kidding - none of these things are Australian). Helen, the newly minted bartender, is serving her first ever shift in Canada. She's from Sydney or Melbourne or Perth, one of those round-the-world-live-in-Toronto-for six-months-then-Vancouver-for-six kind o' Sheilas. And much like a beleaguered Australian goalie, Helen has to fend off offensive forays from the Japan fan beside me, a drunken Japanese-Canadian (drunk at 9am, yes) who once lived in Australia himself and who since it's Japan v. Australia considers himself The Most Interesting Man In The Bar.

Anyway, the game: the Japanese team fell victim to heat stroke under the afternoon sun, because after scoring first and defending well for 80 minutes, their discipline dissolves completely, and Australia hammers hard with three explosive goals in the final 10 minutes. A comeback in stunning fashion. Helen has the last laugh over Tokyo-Jack Daniels, and the Socceroos carry the morning, vile jerseys and all.

Czech Republic 3, USA 0
I drive out to Etobicoke, the undervisited Kiping-Lakeshore area, for Czech Republic v. USA. There's a whole other Toronto tucked away past Mimico, past Alderwood into 'New Toronto', an area long populated by Eastern-European immigrants. Downtowners can discover this waterfront area by taking the 501 Queen Streetcar right to the end of the line.

Google research tell me the Woodhouse Pub is Czech soccer headquarters. But when I get there it's actually closed! The internet has lied to me again; now the game's almost over, and I don't even get to sample any pork + dumplings.

Miffed about my poor intelligence, I head to Di + Gabby's, the nearest hole in the wall with tv screen. It's already 3-0 for the Czechs. There's three other Czech fans, nonagenarian-alcoholic types, borderline comatose. Nothing to do but drink at this time of day, in this part of the city. I think about ordering a massive Slovakia-sized can of beer, but then I think about the drive home, and order a Coke instead. I'm a party animal.

Forza Italia! (2-0 over Ghana)

"I bet a lot of people called in sick today, with a case of Ghanarrhea." ~bad pun by bad football punster, made over the telephone

As I may have indicated, I'm Italian in origin (cupcake in inclination). I cheer for Italy when the opportunity arises (once every four years). In '94 and '98 I lived and died with Roberto Baggio's exploits and embarrassments, when he had short hair, when he had long hair, when he missed that goddamn penalty kick against Brazil. What's more, I actually live in the vicinity of Little Italy. What's super-more - I actually got Paolo Rossi's autograph back in January of this year.

Does that make me a knowledgeable, hardcore fan of gli Azzurri?

Not in the least.

I can name the following Italian players off the top of my head: Totti, Del Piero, Nesta, Zambrotta, Cannavaro, Buffon, Toni ... that's about it.
.
I am joined by my friend the lovely Tricia who also boasts il sangue italiano and more importantly, had the day off to watch ragazzi nostri take on the newbie Ghanaians (and I'll keep using parole italiane - Italian words - until it gets really annoying). Little Italy runs along College from Shaw to Euclid; all the Italian-themed bars are packed with Italian-themed fans (I say 'themed' b/c as we all know the real Italian bars are up in North York and the 905) . Tricia and I take refuge in Southside Louie's, opposite Bar Italia and the Big Dip (with its mammoth patio and dozens of outdoor flat-screens, the Diplomatico crowd gathered round prohibits civilized viewing) - but if anybody asks I was at Gatto Nero from start to finish.

Southside offers no Peroni, Moretti or Mennabrea so I drink Moosehead instead and order deep-fried onion rings. Somewhere Garibaldi is spinning violently in his grave. Anyhow we watch the game: Ghana hustles, but talented Italy is too much. Iaquinta scores on a Ghana giveaway to make it 2-0 ("he's Ghana pay for that") and set off the tricolour celebration.

Garibaldi rejoices. As do the fans along College, with their horns honking and drapeau bravado. It's no Portuguese beer-bottle brawl - but it's good loud fun. I can only imagine what things were like on the St. Clair Corso or at Nino D'Aversa's at Keele and Finch. Bravo!

Dutch Betty's, La Mexicana, Portuguese madness

Holland 1, Serbia 0

Sunday morning is gorgeous, the streets empty. I'm riding my bike Mario with anticipation.

What Dutch presence there will be at Betty's (240 King East @ Sherbourne); what kind of Dutch name is Betty? Three blocks north still reeks of crack-whore but King E is gentrifying, loft-ifying and renovating: a lovely neighbourhood.

I get there late as usual, 10:30 am and Holland-Serbia is almost over.
Order a coffee and scope out the fans, whose garb burns a hole in my retina. The colour of Netherlands is bright orange - it's oh so citrus and I pine for a smoothie.

Holland wins 1-0, their fans are polite but glowing (orange) with pride. I think about my Dutch friend Claire and wonder if she's happy (in fact if I ever open a Dutch bar it will be called Claire's).

I wander for 30 minutes on Mario, accidentally running into Woofstock, a massive outdoor fair for dogs and another sign our civilization has lost its marbles. Most dog owners scare me; treating animals better than humans is a perverse fetish (yes yes, bring on the hatemail - I'm ready for you people).

Mexico 3, Iran 1

La Mexicana's north of Bloor on Yonge, boutique ethnic in South Rosedale - not exactly Latino central, but blessed with multiple screens. If Mexico makes it out of round-robin I'll hit the bars in Kensington that should have me hopping till manana.

I enter a fiesta of 80 Mexicans; the room is built for 20. I'm practically the only Gringo in the place; they tell me "There's space for you in the back room." A most welcome segregation - it's stuffy inside but sunny and cool on the patio.

The owner of La Mexicana, a not very Mexican looking Mr. Wong, is arranging umbrellas above his tv to minimize glare from the sun. Suddenly everyone on the patio is a professional set decorator; I even start suggesting ways to cut down the glare. "The sun's coming from the east!" I keep shouting. This is oh so important.

I order Corona from a slow-witted waitress who won't bring anyone their beer and wants to feed me an entire platter of tacos. "I can't eat that much," I explain, and she's annoyed at me. She's not actually a waitress, just somebody's sister. I successfully negotiate a burrito and sit facing the tiny glare-ridden screen.

The game is ok. The Mexican football announcers - to their credit - scream 'goooolllll!' just as loudly and lustily when Iran scores as when does Mexico (they each tally a goal before the half). I hadn't expected such impartiality.

After 45 minutes I'm fed up with glare and done with my beer; I don't speak Spanish so I sheepishly hit the exit. Next time I'll take the mountain to Mohammed and do Iran at Yonge and Steeles.

Portuguese madness!

I bike home to prepare for Portugal-Angola. Life in Portugal Village ain't easy during football (or during Portugal Week, during Portugal Month or during any number of religious processions). Portugual followers in Toronto are notoriously proud. They love being Portuguese more than any other country loves being itself. They love their flag more than any other nation loves their colours. They love putting those plastic mini-drapeaus on the windows of their cars. I'm an Italy fan myself (and we're supposedly a patriotic lot) and I'm in awe: it is scary to witness the full flower of Portuguese nationalism. World Cup action in the College -Dufferin-Dundas-Ossington rectangle is a kind of dream-nightmare hybrid. Just don't try driving for groceries anytime after a match (that includes Brazil).

I watch from one of the nondescript old-man bars on the north side of College near Ossington, where Little Italy ends its yuppy charade and becomes 'Little Azores' for real. The crowd is loud and cranky. I'm drinking Heineken (is there Portuguese beer?). Pauleta scores an early marker, and the chaos by now is predictable. The drapeaued cars begin barrelling east-west with the horns shrieking staccato; funnelling down from St. Clair and up from Dovercourt. Portugal wins 1-0 over their former colony Angola (who btw have the best jerseys of the tournament - deadly black and red) and the streets are soaked with green red gold - and traffic-jam exhaust fumes - for the next 3-4 hours. Good thing for Mario.

Sidebar - there is a 40-man brawl at Dundas and Ossington long after the match is ended - front-page of The Sun kind of stuff. It was an argument between Portugal fans, probably over who loves Portugal the most. Apparently it necessitated several mouthfuls of broken glass to decide the matter, but in the end nobody wins.... Go Portugallll!