Yep, as a dutiful daugher, I took my parents, my sister and fiancee and my cousin out to the Brasilian Churrascaria. It is a very nice place, owned by a Japaneze, with an Argentinian hostess, Caucasian waiters, Mexican busboys and live blues music. I could not find one Brasilian thing. But man, it was good.
I still can not move from all that meat. At the restaurant, all I could think of was, “Man, I wish I had a couple more Albos here. We’d bankrupt this place in a week!” Because, we Albos love meat. I mean, we really, really loove meat.
We love meat so much, we invented a superstition to foretell its coming. If you bite your tongue, you guessed it, a hot plate of meat slabs is coming your way.
In a wedding, there has to be meat. The guests probably fast all day and come ready to dig in and carry away. Reminds me of those wonderful socialist times when meat was rationed for once a month, and wedding steaks were scurried away in purses, under toupees, and even inside underwear, although the last might be an urban legend Albo style. But it might have been given the meat that extra pinch of flavor the connaiseurs craved. (if this nuveau cuisine idea takes off, I want my share)
As that cute waiter brought over rabbit, duck, steak, beef tenderloin, turkey wrapped in bacon, pork, veal, lamb racks, sushi, sea food, and some unfamiliar steaky thingy, I was thinking about how many hungry African kidsi could feed, and my dad was thinking about how many steaks he could fit in his mouth all at once. We got drunk on meat and even my mom had to unbutton her pants.
All in all, a good mommy day! Ahh living la vida loca!