Restaurant Review: Bar Clams – Can It Stand on More Than Matty Matheson’s Name?

Bar Clams, Matty Matheson’s latest offering, swaggers into Toronto’s dining scene with all the force of a salt-laced wind off the Atlantic. It’s loud, unapologetic, and draped in the kind of blue-collar charm that feels both deliberate and deeply personal—a love letter to Newfoundland, scrawled in butter, beef fat, and nostalgia.

The room itself hums with rough-hewn coolness, a space that evokes a weather-beaten harbour pub given a polished, urban edge. There’s a studied effortlessness to it all—raw wood, stormy blue and white tiles, shiny stainless steel countertops and stools, low amber light that casts a flattering glow, as though softening the blow of the prices that follow. Servers move with friendly efficiency, easygoing but sharp, delivering plates with genuine enthusiasm, as if every dish is a revelation. The hospitality is, in many ways, the best thing about Bar Clams: warm, unfussy, and refreshingly human.

It’s a shame, then, that what lands on the table so often feels like it’s fighting through a fog of deep-fryer grease. The meal begins innocently enough with molasses bread rolls and butter ($10), which arrive warm and sticky with nostalgia, the deep sweetness of molasses clinging to every dense, tender bite. The butter, slick with that same dark richness, spreads like silk across the bread—a small, comforting gesture that sets you up for what feels like it could be something special. But that first note of warmth and homey charm soon gives way to a relentless march of fried excess.

Take the cod and chips fried in beef fat ($35)—a plate that arrives with all the golden confidence of something sure of its own greatness. And in a way, it deserves the swagger: the crust is shatteringly crisp, the cod inside tender and delicate. But the beef fat, though rich and undeniably decadent, clings to every pore of the batter like a reminder of its indulgence. It’s heavy, in both spirit and stomach, and without much else on the plate to counteract that weight, the joy of it starts to dull with each successive bite.

If the cod feels heavy, the scallops with bacon and butter ($35) are downright oppressive in their richness. The scallops are perfectly seared, their caramelized edges giving way to sweet, silky interiors, but they’re practically drowning in butter, with smoky bacon only deepening the sense of overindulgence.

Even the steamed mussels with cheesy toast ($26), which promise briny relief, lean too hard into decadence. The broth is a garlicky, wine-soaked affair that could have been light and bright, but instead, it comes off as murky—drenched in richness that begs for balance. The cheesy toast, meant to soak up the broth, ends up feeling like another brick in an already overbuilt wall.

Amid all the heaviness, the iceberg salad ($16) emerges like a lifeline—a simple, crisp wedge draped in creamy dressing, with every bite snapping through the fat-induced fog like a clear breath of air. It’s the lone green reprieve on the menu, and by the time it arrives, it feels less like a side dish and more like a public service announcement for your arteries. At Bar Clams, where nearly everything seems to come cloaked in grease and indulgence, ordering the only vegetable on offer becomes not just advisable but essential.

Still, the nostalgia machine rolls on with the Jigg’s dinner ($36), a Newfoundland staple of beef brisket, mashed potatoes, and rutabaga that could have been the warm, comforting heart of the meal. Instead, it lands as another weighty reminder of the kitchen’s heavy hand. The brisket, while tender and undeniably flavourful, overshadows every other element on the plate. The rutabaga offers a glimmer of earthiness, but it’s a faint note against the relentless backdrop of richness.

There are brief flashes of charm—crab dip with Saltines ($26) offers a moment of gooey, decadent satisfaction, though even that feels more like a guilty indulgence than a revelation. And dessert, a playful Hello Dolly served in a skillet with fresh cream poured tableside, comes closest to capturing the warmth and whimsy that Matheson’s cooking often promises. It’s rich, yes, but comforting in a way that feels deserved—a sticky, coconut-laced confection that brings the meal full circle.

The beverage menu focuses on bubbles and whites might suggest a refreshing counterbalance to the richness of the food, but what’s delivered feels more like an overpriced checklist. The Sunrise, a tequila-based cocktail priced at a steep $19, arrives with all the excitement of a shrug—serviceable, but far from memorable. And when the final bill arrives, the sense of imbalance sharpens: for food that’s been battered, buttered, and fried into submission, the price tags hover uncomfortably close to absurdity.

Bar Clams is, at its heart, a deeply personal project—an homage to the dishes and traditions that shaped Matheson’s culinary identity. There’s heart here, no doubt, and moments of genuine charm buried beneath the grease and bravado. But between the exorbitant prices and the unrelenting heaviness of the menu, it’s hard to escape the feeling that you’re paying not just for the food, but for the Matheson brand itself.

And while there are sparks of brilliance—tender scallops, that nostalgic molasses bread and the decadent Hello Dolly—by the end of the meal, you’re left searching for relief, grateful for the humble wedge of iceberg lettuce that dared to lift your body out of its grease-induced haze.

Bisous,

Mme M. xoxo

2.5/5 étoiles

La rubrique de Madame Marie

1 étoile – Run. Before you get the runs.
2 étoiles – Mediocre, but nothing you couldn’t make at home.
3 étoiles – C’est bon, with some standout qualities.
4 étoiles – Many memorable qualities and excellent execution. Compliments to the chef.
5 étoiles – Formidable! Michelin Star quality. Book a reservation immediately.