From the puke-inducing poutine to the tabletop tales of multiple adoptions, Mel’s was always the perfect place to take your drunk, confused self after a sweaty night of dancing on Bloor St. The mozzarella sticks were never a good idea, and you always ended up sitting there for at least an hour watching pickle-garnished plates drift by, hoping one might be yours. It was the diner where time stopped-a weird parallel universe where crunchy hashbrowns at 3 am seemed like a viable concept, everything smelled like burnt coffee and cigarettes, and the postcard machine in the basement occasionally delivered a frameworthy gem. Tables always opened up right when you needed them, and the occasional brawl would break out to keep things interesting. The bright lights and cranky staff were enough to remind you that yeah, going home eventually was a good idea. It was, like so many seminal Toronto institutions, a place most of us only saw past the hours of midnight. While it’s doors were open all day, too, walking in on the right side of dawn would be downright weird. And so, we say farewell to you, midnight cowboy. You will be missed.