I’ve no proof last Tuesday evening’s incident in a Niagara Falls bar was borne out of malice. The potentially scarring act may well’ve been a misunderstanding; or perhaps an accidental oversight by its perpetrators. I’ll probably never get to know.

I can be certain, though, that this occurrence caused a moment of unnecessary stress to its hapless victim. A visiting northern Englishman whose aspirations for the evening were simply to enjoy a hearty meal, along with a couple of flagons of finest Canadian ale. Uncompounded desires held by a visitor to one of the globes iconic sights which stood, or to be more accurate cascaded, but a few hundred yards from that very watering hole.

The drama unfolded following my request for a second pint of a Canadian beer which is widely available in the UK. A lager light and crisp of taste which ordinarily provides a flavoursome companion either in isolation or as accompaniment to the cuisine of various genre.

When the barmaid returned with my drink I was disenchanted to find it was bereft of a foam head, or indeed any gas bubbles whatsoever. The amber coloured liquid in my American style pint glass was as still and lifeless as a……. errr…… ermm….. well, a still and lifeless pond. Minus the goldfish, coral and algae.

It was clear something had been afoot with this beers preparation; potential within the drinks pipe journey from keg to tap. Or the possibility (as I cynically posited to that evening’s companions) what stood in front of me was from the tap’s slops tray. An underhand trick I’d seen at first hand on a few occasions during my younger days in UK pubs.

Being unprepared to partake in imbibing this sub-standard lager, and unable to attract a waitress to express my disappointment at the product that looked more urine sample than beer, I walked the short distance to the bar where politely, but firmly, I submitted to the inn keeper my drink wasn’t fit for purpose (unless the purpose was to give me gut rot). Mein host proved perfectly accommodating, apologising profusely, prior to swapping the drink without argument.

I’d comedic notions while writing the previous sentence that bar staff, on receipt of my complaint, provided a squirty cream head to the flat drink with a head before returning the pint to me. Along with other visions they gave me a new drink before walking the gas less pint to another unsuspecting customer. That, though, clearly is untrue. Customer service edicts on the North American continent rendering such scenarios as highly unlikely.

The quality of that original beer was appalling, but the situation was rectified satisfactorily by bar staff so I’ll let sleeping dogs lay. A decision firmed up by the fact my other beer, along with chicken pasta meal, were perfectly acceptable for the level of bar/diner refreshments my companions and me had chosen.


On social media this morning, with tongue very much in cheek, I posted a picture of me with the flat beer with a misleading image of sadness on my visage. Accompanying this was the text ‘The melancholic look of a man who’s just been delivered a flat beer!…. You cannot mess with peoples minds in that way Niagara Falls pub!!”

While reflecting on last Tuesday evening’s events, I’m philosophical about the whole scene; after all, it was only one bad pint. Thankfully, I’m not the sort of pedantic whiner who’d be moved to write a 500+ word blog complaining about such a minor incident……… Oh, hold on a minute!!