Bondage curry

So how do I write a review that combines exotic gay sex, curry and fruit.  Welcome to Amsterdam.

In the heart of the S&M district - some say

I was over in Amsterdam on business and love the city, the whole place oozes that wonderful Dutch acceptance that they live in a country no one would have designed from scratch but turned out to be a wonderful place.

My colleagues asked where I was staying and then commented that I was near the most notorious gay street in the city, famous for it’s leather bars.  Note to (some one should know about this)

I decided to have dinner at Shiva (72 Regulierschwarsstraat).  A pleasant and quite well decorated, small curry house near somewhere central.  That’s the problem with business travel, you land, grab a cab and spend the whole journey talking on the mobile or tapping on the BlackBerry.  Next thing you know you’re deposited in some in the middle of some industrial park miles from nowhere. So I know I’m in Amsterdam due to the number of canals and bicycles. But exactly where I am is surely a job for Google Earth.

The meal was almost excellent but slightly tarnished by fruit.  Now every culture views the exotic somewhat differently.  Americans find Europe exotic, Europeans find the Far East exotic and the Welsh find Cardiff exotic.   In some restaurants it’s orchids that say foreign climes, here it was fruit.  It came with the chicken pakora, was dumped in the prawn curry and weirdest of all was the salad.

I have had some atrocious salads in my day, particularly my aunt’s mixed salad with beef consomme and sour cream but this one was special too.  Try this.  Tomato (ok), cucumber (so far so good), orange (a bit strange), cherries (getting madder) and watermelon all with a tangy vinaigrette.  I think 30 minutes in Das Leathern Wippen bar would have been more fun.  And what would you call such a salad? The Karma Harma? The Taj Mental? The Bombay Bowel Mover?

The mind boggles, only slightly less than the stomach.


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