Wednesday, July 07, 2004


Brazilian steakhouses are popping up in Atlanta like mushrooms after our interminable late spring / early summer rains. Never mind that “churrascaria” sounds like some kind of intestinal disease - the attraction of these places is based on the ability to dive into a bottomless pit of meat.

Sure, there’s a salad bar. What’s the point? I mean, you don’t go to Fogo de Chão, Fogão Gaucho, Sal Grosso, Fogo on the Gogogo, Boi na Braza, Meati Hungri Boi, or any of the six hundred other permutations of “Fogo,” “Carne,” “Gaucho,” “Brasil,” or what-not, to eat a stupid-ass salad.

The hearts of palm are an exception. It ain’t Brazilian if they ain’t no hearts of palm. OK, so we go to the salad bar.

But it’s the meat you came here for, innit? Mmmmmm, meaty meat. Lots of meat. And they keep it coming until you cry “uncle” by turning the little indicator wheel on your table to the red “If you bring one more chunk of dripping flesh to this table, I will ralph up everything I have eaten so far” position.

Hey, I can rationalize this. It’s protein - not a lot of carbs - the tariff at lunchtime is not as steep as it is at dinner - I’ll eat yogurt tonight. Whatever... it beats the ass off of that stinking lump of chicken salad that Jason’s Deli delivered the other day.


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