I Want to Be a Gaucho

And I don't mean a graduate of UC-Santa Barbara. Yesterday Jessie and I celebrated our one-year anniversary with a trip to Jewel/Osco, a trip to Target, a movie with friends (Jessie only), and 9 hours of studying for the bar (me only). While that may not seem like a festive way to celebrate a first anniversary, the night before is when we actually did something interesting.

Since neither of us had been, we decided to go to Fogo de Chão, a Brazilian churrascaria renowned for its seemingly endless supply of meat. It didn't disappoint. For those who haven't been there, here's how it works: everyone pays a set price ($48.50), which includes a pretty ample salad bar and the previously discussed endless supply of meat. Waiters walk around continuously with big skewers of meat. Each person at a table has a little round disc with one red side and one green side. If the green side is up, the waiters stop at your table to see if you want some of the particular meat that they have. If the red side is up, the waiters pass by you. There are 15 different kinds of meat that are floating around at any one time, mostly different styles of beef, with some pork, lamb, and chicken as well. At one point, I actually became giddy because of the amount and variety of meat I had at my fingertips. I felt like I was on top of the world. One of the dishes was filet mignon wrapped in bacon. Can it get any better than that? At Fogo de Chão, the answer is yes. The pork loin was probably the best I've ever had, the spicy pork sausage was phenomenal, the pork ribs were great, the house specialty (picanha) was delicious, and everything else was excellent too. Those Gauchos sure as shit know how to cook dead animals.

I'd highly recommend Fogo de Chão to any carnivore or omnivore; however, it is not the place to go if you are a vegetarian, both from a value-for-your-money standpoint and a being-bombarded-with-succulent-dead-livestock standpoint. It is also not the place to go if you have any intentions of doing anything non-sitting-related for the four to twelve hours after you eat there. Jessie and I had discussed going out to the bars a couple hours after dinner, but we could barely move, let alone drink. And even if we could drink, assuming there was any room left in my stomach, it would have taken me damn near 20 drinks to get a buzz.

The only time I've ever been more full was when I ate two huge, plate-sized wiener schnitzels in Vienna in 2001. In that particular instance, I actually had to leave the restaurant and walk around outside because I was so full I thought I was going to puke, and puking in a restaurant in Austria is almost as big of a no-no (or nein-nein) as killing the Archduke. Saturday, I was a shade below the vomit point. However, the meat-induced drowsiness after Fogo de Chao was unlike any gluttony-related feeling I've had before. It was the kind of woozy feeling that I assume Henry VIII experienced on a daily basis. Unlike Hank, though, said lethargy didn't invoke any wife-beheading thoughts. Although, so help me God, if Jessie is unable to produce a suitable male heir . . .

Friday night was pretty low-key. After I studied until about 10, I felt the undeniable urge to drink, so I met up with "Pissed Off" Christoff and his co-worker Greg "Gregerson" Peterson at a bar called Red Ivy, a couple blocks south of that fortress of failure known to the world as Wrigley. Aesthetically, Red Ivy was nice. Lots of room (although it was packed to capacity), lots of TVs, and generally agreeable decor. I could have done without the blaring techno music. Worse yet, I could have done without the bathroom attendant. I hate it when seemingly regular bars think they're uppity enough to have a bathroom attendant. All it does is make for an uncomfortable and uncleanly bathroom experience because if you want to dry your hands, you feel compelled to give the guy a dollar. Therefore, fewer guys wash their hands after they pee so as not to have to deal with the bathroom attendant.

What I found particularly appalling about Red Ivy's bathroom attendant is that, among the normal array of colognes, cigarettes, hair products, and condoms, this guy had a platter of Blow Pops. There must have been 50 Blow Pops on the bathroom counter, suggesting that there is actually some sort of men's bar bathroom market for Blow Pops. Guys, no matter how many $10 appletinis you've bought a girl, nothing screams "don't let any part of me touch your vagina" quite like walking out of a crowded men's room with a Blow Pop in your mouth. You might as well say, "I have three kids by three different women, I live with my parents, sometimes I shit myself while sleeping, and just yesterday I noticed a strange cauliflower-like growth on my penis."

In other news, since I'm sure most of you have no idea, the US soccer team has its first World Cup match today. They are ranked in the top 5 in the world, but are currently down two-nil to the Czech Republic just after halftime. Hopefully they can turn it around and do well this World Cup so that fans in the US start to actually pay attention to their games.