Dazed and confused? Not me. I’m just Lost in the Cheese Aisle.

Friday, February 15, 2013


Years ago - it was only my second blogpost, back at the Old Place - I wrote about the fine institution known as the churrascaria - the Brazilian steakhouse.

Most of these places have the same basic kind of deal: You pay a fixed price that includes a salad bar and all the meat you can possibly cram down your gullet.  When you are ready for a meat delivery you simply display a green card, whereupon a small army of eager gaucho-clad waiters descends upon your table like flies on shit a duck on a junebug. The waiters bear heavily laden skewers from which portions are either slid or sliced off.  When you’ve had enough (or simply want a chance to catch your breath), you flip the card over and show the red side, and the waiters then keep their distance.

I am a carnivore of the first water, and yet we have not done the churrascaria thing for years.  It’s just too damn much meaty goodness (if such a thing is possible).  But last night the Missus and I went to Sal Grosso with our friend Gary and JoAnn and stuffed ourselves to a fare-thee-well.

There were all kinds of viands circulating around the room.  Top round.  Bottom round.  Middle round.  Top sirloin.  Rump roast.  Double lamb chops.  Leg of lamb.  Chicken legs.  Filet mignon.  Garlic beef.  Pork ribs.  Bacon-wrapped filet.  Bacon-wrapped chicken.  Chicken-wrapped bacon.  Hot dogs. (No, not really.)

With respect to the meaty stuff, I did not try every single item - selectivity is critical to a proper Pig-Out Dining Experience - but most of the beef choices were excellent, especially when accompanied by a nice bottle of Argentine malbec.  The salad bar was somewhat disappointing, at least compared to the last time we had been there - but then again, we really didn’t go there to eat a frickin’ salad, did we?

The downside: The meat, seasoned expertly as it was, must have had a metric buttload of salt in it.  Signs of advanced dehydration began to set in sometime in the deep of the night.  Usually when I get up at two in the a.m., it’s to drain the lizard, not refill it. Yeef.

My Meat Jones was satisfied, anyway.  I can go back in another ten years or so.  Until then, no hurry. 

Here’s an idea for a Hallowe’en costume: Wear an Argentine cowboy outfit with one of those fake nose-glasses-moustache things on your face, and carry a chunk of meat on a skewer.  When someone asks you - and they will - who or what the fuck it is you’re supposed to be, just tell ’em:

Gaucho Marx.

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