I was on Coney Island Avenue this week, and, forgetting its name, I asked for the "mango sauce" with my schwarma. While the Israeli waitress was quite nice, she had no idea what I was talking about; neither did the other young women. I settled for a mango juice instead.
Now that I have the name implanted in my brain, I'm going to go back and ask for amba by name. But for now, I am still an amba virgin.