How many beers does it take to butter chicken?

Mississauga. If any word ever struck fear in the heart of a Maritimer who likes good urban form, this is it. This is an entire city of Clayton Park West. The mall gone mad, the car king forever, and the pedestrian a forgotten afterthought, no more than the sputum of a parked car.

This is what is coursing through my mind as my buddy Richard manoeuveurs through rush hour traffic from one part of Miss..etc to another. He patiently waits through three cycles of a light before getting through to the privilege of yet another similar wait, to exclaim that the traffic isn't that bad!

We get to where he is going. A place called the West 50 Pourhouse and Grille - I thnk it is named after a mall. But I am sure there are children here named after malls.

We manage to find our way in, after dropping $6 on a flat rate parking scheme/ripoff across the street. Turns out we come in the back door. The front door is from the second floor of a mezzanine off an office building lobby. I like our entrance better.

The blonde, stylish bartender greets us as if we are old friends. I find myself looking behind me. (You don't mean, me, do you?)

The line of taps is impressive. And included among the many many Canadian beer-by-label brands, are a number of great brews. OK, I can stand the place.

The menu is presented (we planned to eat here) and we order. Having seen that just about every single person I saw on the street (pedestrians) was of Indo-asian descent, I cleverly order the Butter Chicken. Richard wisely orders what the bartender tells him to.

I am enjoying my beers. Nothing off, great micro selections, prices not bad.

My $12.95 "butter chicken" arrives. Now I am not sure if anyone in that place has ever seen, tasted, or heard of "butter chicken" outside of the label on a can of commercially pre-done sauce. My "butter chicken" (really, it would be criminal to call it butter chicken without the quotes) is a pre-packaged leg/thigh/side of chicken that has obviously spent a lot of time in a brine packet awaiting consumption. The flesh has turned a cured pink. A (very) slight nod to India is accomplished with a dollop, a sparse one at that, of a commercially packed "butter chicken" sauce.

I am staring at this abomination of cuisine while Richard mows down his beef sandwich and fries thingy. When I try it, it is so salty I can hardly eat it - it burns. BLOOD PRESSURE ALERT!! BLOOD PRESSURE ALERT!! BLOOD PRESSURE ALERT!!

There is not enough "butter chicken" sauce to get my rice dirty.

We sat at the bar. There were some comfy looking seats and couches that the bartender told us would soon be full with after work types.

It is a darn good thing the bartender was cute, and friendly.

If you are in Mississauga (Lord help you) and you need a good beer (as we all do from time to time) then go here, if you can find it. But don't have great expectations for food. That way, you won't be so disappointed. Or better yet, don't eat.

But oh God, how I wished we were at the Winking Judge. Bill likes me, for some reason. Maybe it was the kegs of beer I brought him from Propeller and the Pumphouse back in 2001?