Searching for Cold Beer in a Favela
It probably wasn’t a great sign when the maitre d’ had an AK-47 around his shoulder, but that’s a side note. Let’s start from the beginning.
It was late on a Sunday. Not late as in “I’ve been partying all night” but rather, later than I should be here, on this street, on this road, up this hill.
I’m hungry, and through word of mouth I’ve heard that this place has the good stuff. Lots of meat, lots of pork, lots of cold cold beer, and lots of warmth. The catch? It’s a few paces and a twist in the road into a favela. I’m too tired to care. I’m on day 15 of little to no sleep in Rio de Janeiro and I’ve made my mind up. This is happening. Alone.
The road is dirt, and the streetlights are either lower than needed to serve any real purpose or they’re completely out. Maybe they didn’t even exist in the first place and I was just looking for specs of light to focus on.
I can see the bend in the road ahead. The bend where I have been told this holy grail of pork fats and tenderness via a bowl of beans exists. Just a few more short paces and the dirt road will be behind me and I’ll be in the emotional shelter I’m looking for while undoubtedly doing something stupid.
My walk is only disrupted by the cackle and lights of a walkie talkie I hadn’t noticed in my haze. The cackle again. Looking over the cackle has an owner, this owner is sitting in what during the daytime could pass as a suburban elementary school lemonade stand. The cackle owner can’t be more than 15, and now I realize he’s pointing something at me as he responds to whatever is being shouted at him from the other side. I look for a glimpse of what’s looking back at me and it’s not his gun (that’s securely strapped over his shoulder), it’s his cell phone video camera. Table for 1?
I make it. Two tables inside, four tables outside, four other people at the restaurant. It’s 8pm and they close at 10. There’s a huge TV blaring one of those dancing with famous people shows except it’s a mix of famous rich guy’s and extras from that show where you had to pick a suitcase to win a million dollars. It’s hyper sexualized. It’s a distraction.
I sit inside at the open table next to the foursome paying their tab. Maybe warmth has a synonym that more accurately describes the atmosphere. How about tepid. I’m sticking with tepid.
I order the first thing on the menu because it’s the house specialty and a small beer. Small beer being important because apparently in Brazil it’s mostly big boys or nothing. Doesn’t matter what I order, what comes is a big beer and a “oh that was way too fast” bowl of beans, collard greens, pork belly, sausage and carne seca (dried meat). If you’ve spent any time in a working kitchen before you know how long a dish should take to make. Any longer and the kitchen is busy, maybe a little backed up. Any shorter and, well, you my friend just got served something that definitely was not originally made for you. Scraps.
My scraps in hand the other table leaves, leaving just me, the cook, the owner, the waitress, and the PG-13 twerking on the screen. Oh and the roadside foot traffic, lots and lots of roadside foot traffic. Enough dark alley roadside foot traffic to make you eat a bowl of over-hyped leftover pork scraps in record time. I’ve already planned the “who what when where and how” of stomach issues this meal will cause and mapped out the best places to exorcise personal demons in my hostel.
Close to the end, the mood changes. I’m eating at a record pace, so they’re still far from closed when the owner quickly puts the tables away, then takes down the awning. By take down, I mean he closes the two table restaurant in from the outside world and shuts off a few lights.
Now in what has become a paper mache panic room there’s 4 individuals and we’re all staring at my beans. I give the international “I’m good” and the beans are taken but the beer, oh there’s far too much left for it not to be noticeable. Now I’m not sure if every member of this accidental cruise ship is sweating from the heat, the knowledge that there’s a kid with an AK outside, or if we all ate the same meal and if the answer to the “who what when where and how” stomach issue question is “right the f*ck now”.
The waitress falsely insists I stay and finish my beer. The cook bails. I take one more glimpse at the geriatric half hour dancing viagra commercial on the TV and chug. They’ve ran my card and I’ve signed the tab before the bottle hits back on the table. On the speed walk home I notice my YA book section browsing friend has been replaced by two much older, much more empowered individuals. Their demeanor states they don’t need to videotape me in order to justify their decisions.
I decide the pork and beans weren’t that great.
That night laying in my hostel bed I heard the fireworks that my friend had told me about. The one’s without the pretty lights.