Call it a meat-lovers wet dream, call it a vegetarians worst nightmare — I call it a glut feeling.
Gluttony is Rio's thing anyway.
So, why wouldn't we go to a Churrascaria for thanksgiving?
There is no better place to let it all hang out than at an all-you-can-eat meatery, on the day where you eat-all-you-can.
En-route to meet the other meatheads (Americans) at the meathouse, I had to turned down a weed offering from my bus driver.
Yeah — dude was working too. Stopped the bus once he was shielded by one of the many thickets of vines, trees and swinging monkeys that line the lonely Almirante Alexandrino road that leads to our above-favela-wood-face crib.
He stopped the bus. Went outside, got high as balls and re-assumed his position behind his red/yellow/green decorated wheel, whining Bob Marley tunes all the way down the windy, dangerous road to Rio's Centro.
Needless to say, more than a few potential passengers were ignored by the now-in-the-zone driver. Santa Teresans' attempts to hail the bus served only as my enterainment, as I watched them 1. run 2. yell and 3. huff/puff while cursing after the smoked-out vessel.
Now, I don't smoke but honestly, the stuff seemed powerful enough, to have really given me the edge against the blades at the Churrascaria.
I starved myself. But you gotta take all the help you can get at these joints. Even joints.
It ain't a sprint. It's a marathon. And I didn't train.Nonsense like rice, fried bananans, farofa (dust for meat), french fries, cheese bread, pico-de-gallo-ish stuff and absolutely everything at the absurdly equipped salad bar will only slow you down (a collection of average sushi slabs in particular, got the much-better of me).
I learned this the hard, not-in-time, way.
Unlike most thanksgivings where there are some clear endpoints in sight for a number of tasty items — there is no bottom, no empty containers. You don't even have to move, you're serviced. Your only limits are time and stomach space.
Little militant-meat-spike-yielding servants are constantly swirling about with different shades of brown/red/tan carnivour feed, eager to slice slices until you say when. At first these troops are welcome in the battle to make the 32 Reais meal (15 U.s. dollaz) count, but they quickly become enemies.
When you have spent weeks starving yourself, eating beans, rice, lentils, acai, and the occasional salgado (another post) — your not ready to keep up. Your not ready to taste the threads of the meat, tickling your throat all the way down to your shrunken stomach. You pile everything you see in your gizzard as soon as possible. And you know what? You fail.
Next time, we might have to pre-meat with the bus driver, among other precautions.
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