El Toro what now?

We walk through the heavy saloon doors into a long room that is thick with smoke. A see of faces look up, glowing white in the dim light, their dark thick eyebrows bisecting them harshly. And something feels wrong. We take a few paces, and the hostess greets us. She is a slim woman, her long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail- she's wearing a classic black halter dress. 'What would you like?', she asks in a thick accent, and the three men answer simultaneously, 'Beer'. Beer. That's why we're here. We've had a nice dinner on Abdoun circle, where the hip young Jordanian crowd go to socialise, smoke water pipe and drink 'cocktails' (which invariably are just a mixture of sweet juices, and contain no alcohol). Licensed venues are hard to come by here, the main watering holes being located in the major hotels and frequented mostly by tourists and the ex-pat community. So, we took a look around the circle, and down an alley way found “Toro Negro: Pub and Restaurant”.

As we wait for drinks it becomes clear. These three white guys are the only men in the place, save the barman, and a suited Arab gentleman in the back corner. The women are clustered in twos and threes, with a large group seated directly behind us. There are no empty wine glasses or half drunk beers, only the occasional soft drink can and lots of tea cups. The women are all smoking. And have their eyes fixated on the group of men by the bar. Our drinks arrive, and so too does a plastic party plate with crisps, a few sad looking cucumber and carrot sticks and a couple of olives. I'm hoping this is the only unsolicited acquisition the night will provide.

The atmosphere continues to be odd, but it isn't until a group of Arab men arrive that it becomes clear exactly what service this venue is providing. The neatly dressed guys sit down, order a whole bottle of scotch, and the party begins. One by one, coats come off, an the previously unremarkably dressed women begin to reveal midriffs and shoulders, bare legs and fishnet stockings. They drape themselves over the men, who paw at them, and take photos with their mobile phones.

'So, we're definitely in a brothel, then,' I remark and we watch with curiosity as the scene changes, more men appear, the 'bros before hos' policy kicks in, as the women are forced into the corners, unless invited to sit on laps or knees.

I need to go to the bathroom, but am reluctant to leave the men alone, afraid of what I might come back to find. But, nature is calling insistently, so I excuse myself. The women watch me as I make my way to the back of the joint. I try the handle, but the Ladies is locked, so I wait. Suddenly the door is opened by a woman in knee-high boots and hot pants, who is perfecting her make up in the mirror. She gestures for me to come in, then locks the door behind us.

There is only one toilet stall, and it's missing it's door. I wait for the hooker to leave, but she gestures again, toward the open toilet, smiling, and saying, 'Please'. I figure there's only one thing for it, and abandon all modesty. I'm sure she's seen it all before.

When we decide to leave, our eyes smarting from the thick smoke, but they're not the only thing that stings The bill arrives, coming to more than double our dinner bill, for just a couple of drinks. The biggest slap in the face is the 'Mezze' platter, itemised on the bill at JD10. The most expensive crisps I ever ate!

As we leave we cast our eyes over the place, and suddenly, the awkwardness is gone. There is no longer a gender imbalance, and the scene looks much like any pub that we've been to back home. Most of the girls don't even look slutty- they wouldn't look out of place on a beach in Australia, or heading off to a music festival somewhere in the Western World. In fact, the scene here is much more familiar to us than that of our dinner location, where conservatively dressed teens sip tea and juice and pass the water pipe around the table.

A few text messages and short cab ride later and we're right back in our comfort zone, surrounded by ex pats, women in tank tops and pints of beer that don't cost the equivalent of a three course meal. A middle ground between conservative and crass. Or at least that's what it looks like to us. Perhaps to the locals here in Amman, brothel and bar look exactly the same.

But this is no time for cultural comparison, it's Shooter Special night at Amigos, and there are four bemused Aussies still dazed from the Toro Negro experience who could use a drink!