Meatapalooza at Texas de Brazil

This past weekend, four of us went to Texas de Brazil because we had a coupon.  It may have been the first coupon I've used since I turned in my seven-hole-punched frequency card at Midtown Carwash for a free fluff and fold.  I feel weird using coupons because I imagine inward eye rolls plaguing the server, who also entertains dark thoughts about less than generous tips and tightwads who take up space in a busy restaurant on a Saturday night at discounted prices, for crying out loud. Sometimes I have a coupon in my wallet but I end up not using it because apparently, I have some very specific self-esteem issues involving not wanting to be judged by people who just fed and beveraged me.

Our server, who we think might possibly have been an actual Brazilian because of her exotic looks and heavy accent, and who coincidentally also said she was from Rio, sold us Caipirinhas all around, explaining they were like Brazilian mojitos made with sugar cane alcohol and limes.  They arrived, sans umbrellas, and tasted like limeade with a shot of lighter fluid.

Just a Little to Start

We made our way to the extravagant salad bar, and I cautioned everyone from filling up on starters and not leaving room for meat as I loaded my plate with smoked salmon, sushi, asparagus, egg salad, prosciutto, couscous, cheeses and a giant bowl of lobster bisque. We had just reseated ourselves when young men in gaucho pants and knee high boots started running toward us with spears.  Initially frightened, I quickly realized the sabers had meat skewered on the ends of them so there was no immediate cause for alarm.

They seemed desperate to carve off some meat right then and there but our plates were so full we gestured helplessly, wondering how to say "no room on the plate" in Portuguese. Evidently, my finely honed pantomime skills were spot on because at once they understood, reached down, and flipped a little round card on the table from its green side to its red side. The aggressive meat purveyors screeched to a stop.

Once the salad course was done and clean plates arrived, the gauchos reappeared with dizzying speed and offered a relentless array of grilled meats.  We had filet, shank steak, pork shoulder, lamb, filet wrapped in bacon, pork wrapped in bacon, bacon wrapped in bacon and emu.  Then we had parmesan crusted pork chops, parmesan crusted filets, sausages, and a cut of meat called a picanha, which was described as a special Brazilian cut we might call a Top Sirloin Cap in the USA. It was fun using the tiny tongs they provided to nip off pieces of freshly sliced meat.  Both temperatures of the meat were great (hot) as well as (medium rare.)  Our only suggestion to the kitchen would be to cut way back on the salt. (My doctor made me write that.)

Meatapalooza

Finally, I flipped my card from green to red, indicating that I had eaten my bodyweight in protein and I was dangerously close to putting someone's eye out with a projectile formerly known as the top button of my jeans.  Succumbing to a food coma, I laid myself down under the table, thankful for floor length tablecloths, but only for ten minutes or so.

The bill came and seemed a little staggering.  The salad bar and meat parade was one set price but everything else was extra. Caipirinhas, the national drink of Brazil?  $14 each. Sparkling water? $5.75. After dinner mints? $20 each. Air Conditioning?  $12 per person per hour.

I whipped that coupon out so fast it would have made your head spin.