It was just 13 days ago that I last had a curry at my favourite Indian restaurant in Birmingham but that seems an age ago as I write. It could many months before I go here again. And I will miss the Chicken Rezala as much as I will miss my own personal stash of Wolf Blass Chardonnay, not on the wine list but kept specially for me and those lucky enough to go there with me. For the service I receive here is second to none.
A restaurant called the Taj Mahal founded in 1962, as the sign proudly proclaims, should have flock wallpaper and have Chicken Tikka Madras as the signature dish. No doubt it did at one time but that was long before I discovered it with a girlfriend some years ago. The decor these days is bright and contemporary and the menu has a range of dishes that were unknown when I first went to curry houses nearly 40 years ago.
I mention it here as it is where I go or a quiet chat with my slave once a month, schedules permitting. We have the Wolf Blass, we have our own discreet table out of sight, and earshot, of anybody else, and we talk kink and the stuff we do together with surprising freedom for a vanilla location. He has a fantasy about drinking my champagne in public, in the restaurant, but we haven’t managed that yet. But there are many different and subtle ways in which I can exercise dominance over him that nobody watching would even notice. And so The Taj Mahal is more than a friendly restaurant for us, it is a safe space.
As I left two weeks ago the manager said to me “you are not just a customer to us, you are a friend.” And I will miss my friends over the coming months. But when my slave and I go there again I think we just may have champagne to celebrate.
A post about food. You can find more bloggers musing on eating out here