Step into Amandala’s and you’ll feel, immediately, that this is not a place for the casual diner. No, this is where Peterborough comes when it wishes to pretend, however briefly, that it’s Vienna, Paris, or perhaps some discreet corner of Madrid where the lighting flatters and the wine list conspires in your favour.
The room is small—intimate, if we’re being generous—though one could also argue it feels like dining in someone’s jewel box. Exposed brick, white linens, flickering flames: the whole setting practically begs you to lower your voice and raise your expectations.
The menu reads like a novella of indulgence. Starters tease with escargot buried under garlic and cheeses so rich they could probably buy their own table. Salads arrive as living sculptures—microgreens carefully strewn, drizzles arranged with the precision of an oil painter. The charcuterie board, of course, is less an appetizer than a heraldic crest announcing your arrival into polite society.
The mains are unapologetically theatrical. Paella served in a pan large enough to be mistaken for a cymbal, duck breast that glistens under the dim light as if aware of its own importance, risotto that puffs steam like a curtain rising. Even the vegetarian pasta feels like it should come with a standing ovation.
Cocktails parade past the tables in tall glasses, each one a flirtatious nod to indulgence. Amandala’s doesn’t serve drinks; it stages them. The martinis, the house inventions—each practically demands to be photographed before tasted. Desserts arrive with their own drama: cheesecakes and flaming finales that silence the room for a moment, as if all diners have become extras in a scene choreographed for effect.
The service, meanwhile, is a performance of its own. Attentive but never hurried, polished yet personal, as though each server has been cast in a role specifically tailored to your evening. You are not merely being served—you are being managed, indulged, indulged again, and then, with a smile, sent home wondering if Peterborough has any right to harbour such elegance.
Is it perfect? No. A paella might occasionally fall short of its Iberian promise, a lobster tail might arrive with a touch too much chew—but these are minor blemishes in a production otherwise designed to seduce.
Final verdict: Amandala’s is not dinner, it is theatre. One does not simply eat here; one participates. And if you’re not inclined toward such ceremony, perhaps you’d be more comfortable at the nearest chain restaurant. For the rest of us, Amandala’s offers precisely the sort of elevated indulgence that reminds Peterborough it is capable of sophistication—at least for an evening.
Amandala’s is open Thursday – Sunday 5:00pm – 9:00pm