Led by an insatiable appetite for flavour and pleasure, Sharyfah Bhageloe journeys through the streets of Rotterdam via one of our favourite tools: the mouth. Some hidden, some infamous and some just a memory, each local food spot is a site of sumptuous connection with the senses, with another, with oneself.
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Eating Out No:
1
Lobi BBQ, Claes de Vrieselaan 96B
When he arrived to collect the last of his belongings, we both knew the relationship was over. Our conversation was stiff like his facial expression. He was trying to be blunt, but compared with the long period of recent fighting, his bluntness was soothing. After I gave him the bag he wanted to head back south of the river, and I decided to walk him to the metro one last time. We said nothing during our stroll. On our way we passed Lobi BBQ, occupying a corner of Claes de Vrieselaan. I’d be lying if I said it looked appealing from the outside, but this Surinamese spot was one of our favourites. The LED screen flashed a garish red: OPEN.
The walls inside are painfully bright green, but it serves comforting soul food and some of the best meat in town. The nasi and bami are delicious, salty. Upon entering, the smell of charcoal-grilled meat brings me to the streets of Paramaribo, where barbecued chicken is a signature dish. With every bite, juicy thigh meat slides tenderly off the bone. He devoured the sticky chicken legs, his fingers and mouth covered in spicy-sweet sauce. My tongue yearned to taste it, to clean it, to feel the Madame Jeanette peppers tingle, but I knew I shouldn’t. It would spice things up too much.
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Eating Out No:
2
Eaux Posse, Schiemond 40b
Entering Eaux Posse, a French–Basque restaurant sur le port at Schiemond, the waiter took my soaking wet coat. It was cosy inside, a welcome change from the wind I’d cycled through along the Westzeedijk to get here. She was already there, tucked in a booth and drinking a glass of grenache blanco. ‘It tastes so good. You should try it!’ she said. That’s when the sharing started. I took a sip from her glass, then she took another. It was a little too sour for my palate. We ordered small dishes so we could share the evening’s pleasures. It was in the smoked pumpkin that I glimpsed her vulnerability; her eyes betrayed a hint of shyness despite her elegant self-assurance. Seeing her full, pink mouth touching the wine glass softened the sourness of the wine. My eyes couldn’t stop following her cupid-bow lips as she talked. The pumpkin, bathed in velvety soft sauce spiked with creamy, tangy feta, melted immediately on my tongue. She licked her spoon. The razor clams in soy and coriander released their salty moisture on the plate, and we dipped our bread in it, our flavours mingling, our desires intertwining.
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Eating Out No:
3
Sharp Sharp, Hillelaan 28
For moments of self-pleasure I go to the south side of the city. This time, my eyes lingered on the choco soil – seductive for a square, and a tease for the senses. Each bite offered a symphony of flavour, starting with the vanilla cookies on the bottom, their sweetness merging with the rich indulgence of dates. Next, the green pistachio paste added a luxurious touch, enveloping my taste buds. And atop it all, the glossy sheen of the tempered chocolate invited me into a world of pure delight. Decadence engulfed me as I bit into the crunchy top layer, its texture a pang of contrast with the smoothness below that brushed my lips, the silky paste that filled my mouth. But it was the yellow bliss ball that enchanted me the most, crafted from dried fruit and infused with the heady aroma of cinnamon. I savoured this finale, the softness of the ball yielding beneath my teeth. A gentle bite released the fiery kick of turmeric, lighting a spark upon my tongue. Each mouthful was a crescendo of sensation, an interplay of tastes sending waves of ecstasy through me. The sweetest pleasures can be found in the smallest treats.
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Eating Out No:
4
Café Marseille, 1e Middellandstraat 16B
The air inside was heavy with the tempting scent of French pastries. ‘You can have anything you want and you order lettuce?’ I purred, gazing deep into his eyes. The head of lettuce, cut into four, was soon served on our table. ‘Are we rabbits?’ I asked, my voice laced with mischief, daring to explore the boundaries of our connection. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. He’s a vegetarian. ‘My father could’ve said that,’ he replied. He drizzled vinaigrette over the leaves, his hand moving with purpose. He took a quarter, his grip firm and possessive, before bringing it to his mouth. The sound of his teeth meeting the leaf’s crispness reverberated in the air, sharp and decisive. ‘Try it, I think you’ll like it,’ he encouraged. I felt its roughness, the solid ribs teasingly arousing beneath my fingertips. Its freshness echoed the electrifying energy between us. But as much as I enjoyed the taste, I craved more. Succumbing to my carnal instincts, I ordered pulpo: even the sight of its pink muscularity takes me to a state of untamed passion. As I savoured its fleshy softness, warm in my mouth, I was struck by a hunger in his eyes. It mirrored my own yearning, for the forbidden pleasures presented before us. Without hesitation, he put a piece in his mouth, a bold, arousing act of surprise. The momentary abandonment of his principles to satisfy his primal cravings ignited a fire in me. His surrender to desire danced at the edge of taboo, fuelling the flames of our lust.
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Eating Out No:
5
Urumqi, Diergaardesingel 93B
As I poured the green tea from the heavy pot, I poured my desires for her into each cup. We sat in Urumqi, a Uyghur restaurant in Chinatown, tucked out of sight in a side street. Our table was surrounded by artificial flowers, and a large rug hung on the wall. With an alluring motion, she twirled the thick handmade noodles around her fork, releasing their aroma of star anise, cloves and cumin. Her mesmerisingly dark, almond-shaped eyes gazed at the noodles with a hunger that I wish was directed at me. They were juicy and thick, their slippery texture offering a playful caress against our lips. It was hard not to make a mess; as we indulged together, sauce splashed from our mouths up white walls. With each bite she took, her strong, defined jawline pulsed, while her lips were soft and shiny in contrast, slick with juices. She’d wetted my lips once before, and now, all I wanted was another taste.
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Eating Out No:
6
FG Okonomiyaki Bar, Katshoek 19
His head throbbed with echoes of last night’s intoxication as they walked along the old railway arches, now a district of fashion, design and gastronomy called de Hofbogen. He stashed his sunglasses away as they approached the restaurant. Despite her repeated rejections, his gaze remained locked on her. He was attracted by her vivacity, sharp tongue, voluptuousness. He used to be successful, a golden boy, but the weight of achievement and pull of drugs grew burdensome. Scandal consumed him. She was heading for a future far brighter than his and felt no affection for him, but couldn’t resist the seductive power of his eloquence. He’d seized the opportunity last night in his penthouse, his lips pressing against hers, smearing red lipstick all over. Their bodies moved with irrepressible, surging passion. The kitchen table, a platform for sustenance, became a sanctuary of pleasure as he licked her voraciously before claiming her from behind. He yearned to possess her entirely, but she defied his attempts at control: she was a wild force of nature, dancing beyond his reach.
It was her choice to eat late breakfast at FG Okonomiyaki Bar, and on his command – ‘Surprise me’ – she ordered for both. The tuna was complemented by delicate wakame, sheltered in kewpie mayonnaise and dappled with sesame. As the meal arrived, her desire for sustenance eclipsed the brief passions that had brought them together. ‘We could be a power couple,’ he said, his words tinged with longing and desperation. She ignored him; her focus held instead on the feast, reflecting her unwavering appetite – both for culinary delights and the life awaiting her beyond him.
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Eating Out No:
7
Kampong Express, Gouvernestraat 2B
Hidden in a side street of the Kruiskade is a small Malaysian restaurant. Reservations are a must at Kampong Express, as the line is long and tables are scarce. Umami flavours infuse every dish, robust and dominant. The nasi lemak is served on a bed of delicate banana leaves, their edges teased with salty anchovies and dark brown peanuts. Its fragrant flavours, rivalling those found in Kuala Lumpur, fill your mouth, your nose, your mind. The spicy vegan dumplings are light green and plump. They may look soft but are adorned with sweet and sour sliced cucumber, fiery chillis and hard carrot, all drowning in soy sauce – the same way I was drowning in his power play. I crave them, anxiously. Together we embraced a hedonistic lifestyle, revelling in quick, exhilarating pleasures, intoxicated by love’s euphoria. Yet his narcissistic, dominant behaviour and talent for gaslighting suffocated me, destroying my self-worth.
His eyes fixated on the succulent dumplings, desire gleaming through them. He always obtained what he wished for, hastily seizing his wants. Without patience, he devoured the entire dumpling, unaware of its warmth. His face flushed, a rare moment of silence enveloping him. I’ve never seen him this quiet for this long. The reckless impulsiveness mirrored his fiery temperament, driven by unchecked urges and oblivious to consequences. Beware the allure of swift gratification, for it can be treacherous. Quick pleasures may burn more than just the mouth.