Drew Barrymore behind the bar at Sweaty Betty's

Still a wild child, Drew Barrymore ditched her own party for Whip It (see the red carpet photos here) at Tattoo Rock Parlour for Ossington’s Sweaty Betty’s. We knew that she had been before so pre-TIFF, we chatted with owner Pol-Cristo Williams. “If Drew came back, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he told us. “She had a great time.” It was this quote we remembered when we watched Barrymore, Ellen Page and Justin Long shuffle down the graffiti back alley of Tattoo and pile in an SUV. With no verification, we decided to chance it.

Turning the corner onto Ossington, it was obvious we had made the right move, as this drinking hole, across the street from a jail, doesn’t usually have VIP Suburbans parked out front. Sure enough, inside Page’s manager was waiting for the entourage to arrive, and it was a perfect low-key Sunday night for them to come. The bar swelled from eight to 40 patrons in about three minutes—mostly Barrymore’s and Page’s entourage and close proximity neighbours who received quick texts.

The best thing about this exciting drop down of Hollywood into our locale was watching Barrymore flutter from the bar to the patio in an intricate and near-magical Galliano Alexander McQueen dress. In a place usually reserved for greasy haired hipsters wearing shredded up jeans and chucks, this scene was enchanting. Page looked like a dainty and sad Snow White hidden behind the jukebox in a dark corner. Barrymore however, took over the place and swooped behind the bar to grab about 15 cans of Siegel beers to deliver out back. Like a wave pool, when she ran outside, we all suddenly had to smoke. We wanted to engage but weren’t sure how, as despite being at an off the grid hole-in-the-wall, there were still two security guards hovering at all times.

Shots! We’ll buy them a round of shots and just say, “Hey, we think you guys are pretty effiing cool,” but Sweaty’s had passed last call. Even an A-lister doesn’t get special treatment here. The famous people posse was kicked off the patio and asked to move inside to finish their drinks.

“Where’s the after-party?” we asked Drew as she skipped past “I don’t know if there is one” she said with a smile. This is when we started to curse the fact that we had no beer at home. If they’re out for something real, something off the TIFF map, then we figured a dance party in a house around the corner wasn’t so far-fetched. Okay, maybe. On the way out we asked Ellen if she liked Sweaty Betty’s, “I did. I love it here.” Capping off our night with a 7-Eleven hot dog, we realized that in such awe no one had popped a coin in the jukebox; pretty sure that had we cranked up Springsteen’s “Glory Days” things would have kicked up a notch. Next time.