To get here, we walked past a succession of gentrified and boring-looking Leslieville joints on Queen Street, most likely all sporting the identical patch of stick-on fake brick, pretending to peer out from beneath the plaster. Stratengers provided an amusing constrast to all the bobo bling on display. Perhaps it was the pool hall / pizza kiln in the foyer that won me over.
The butter chicken I ate to the soundtrack of forgotten 80s hits was tasty and quite spicy. I also had a pint of local brew (a Leslieville Lager, appropriately enough). Horray for me.