On wisdom, Facebook, friendship, and the joy of the internet...

....I've said a few times in this blog that this is like a diary.  I've treated it differently of late, but once this whole steakhouse thing is over, I'm going to go back to more personal stuff.

Today is a glimpse into that future.

No links today, no photos, just a gut spillage.  Personal in nature, hopefully not offensive.  I need to say what I'm going to say because life is short.  I may not get a chance again.

EDIT:  I was going to forward the following to the person alluded to in it prior to publishing - to take the high road.  I've since become aware that this would be a futile gesture.  So.  This is my blog.  It's my rules.  I'm turning off comments on this, because I ain't getting into it.  If anyone would like to respond, you may contact me through this blog or email if you know it.  I'm not going to respond on Facebook either.  For reals.  That's the highest road I'll take.

My dad also used to tell me the old saying "Better to be thought a fool than open one's mouth and remove all doubt."  Dad.  I'm opening my mouth.  This will make you cringe.  Don't read it if you don't want to, but assume that what I've said here is going to violate your axiom.

Over the weekend Amy Winehouse died.  I found out the news through the magic of Facebook.  My first public comment on her death was this:  "There, but for the Grace of God, go I."  It was my only comment, until someone else said something that I started to respond to in a tongue in cheek manner, then later addressed A DIFFERENT POINT in a more direct, offensive manner.  Because I was being given information that, frankly, I didn't need.  From someone who should know better, if they ever considered me a friend.   Maybe.  I don't know.  Since I never got the opportunity to speak further about it, but feel a lot of this must be said, I'll go longform here. 

1.  Let's start here. 

For those who don't know...I haven't touched alcohol or drugs for 23 years.  Why?  I'm an addict.  Those who did know me before that period started would tell you there weren't many days I didn't touch drugs or alcohol.  In fact...none.  How I recognized my addiction, treated it, etc. is nobody's business, and I'm not publishing many details.  But, I feel I must say a little about it.  I spent 3 weeks in an inpatient treatment facility (hospital), followed by 10 months in a halfway house.  During this year of my life, I attended educational sessions several times a week.  I learned the ups, downs, throughs, sideways and upside-downs of the disease of addiction.  The following 5 years were spent gathering - in the neighborhood of 3-5 times a week - with other people afflicted like me.  After this 5 year period, I went a different direction with my life, choosing different challenges, different uses of my time, etc.  This was my path.  I sobered up 2 months after my 20th birthday, and I'm 43 now.  I was 7 years younger than Amy Winehoue was.  I've had some time with this. 

Further background:  Statistics for the chances of recovery in drunks/junkies are depressingly bleak.  When I was very active in my education/gatherings the number that was bandied about was about 3% of drunks/junkies recover once and stay recovered; which, as of today, is where I fall.  The actual number of people who live long term in sobriety was in the neighborhood of 10%.  I could be wrong on these figures, and they are probably inaccurate anyway, but this is where it was.  So.  I'm in a pretty elite category.  

The path to long term recovery is simple.  Not easy, but simple.  Those two words mean different things.  The path is this:

1.  Don't drink/use.
2.  Don't die.
3.  Change your whole fucking life.

That's all there is to it.  How you accomplish these things determines the life you live. 

I know, I know, there's more to it.  It's a horrible, controlling disease.  It wrecks everything in its path.  People don't understand how devastating it can be.  People don't understand the grip it has on the drunk/junkie.

Not to be too arrogant, but I'm part of 3% that got out of the grip.  The steps above are a summation of what I did.  I'll take the results as evidence that I might know what I'm talking about.  More importantly, and less self congratulatory, those were the three things taught to me by the people who came before me, who had achieved the results themselves, then helped me achieve these things. 

As further evidence of "simple" being the right word - I quote from the book that is the foundation for the most effective form of treatment for addiction there is.  This statement is read as part of a longer statement at the beginning of every gathering.  "Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves over to this simple (EDIT:  emphasis is mine) program....."   One of the catch phrases uttered is "Keep it simple, stupid."  It's part of the basic language of recovery.  Simple.

2.  Next portion of this.

I have always thought that rich people who talk about "making their own luck" are completely obnoxious.  Yes, there is something to be said for industry, but mostly you need the right circumstances to fall your way in order to make it big.  I feel the "making my own luck" statement is a self congratulatory pat on the back that really doesn't need to be uttered.  Be humble.  Say that you could be the mail room guy if a few things hadn't gone your way.  The rich are an elite group.  (see a pattern here yet?)

3.  Facebook.

I was a relatively late comer to Facebook, starting in Feb. of '09.  I instantly gravitated to it.  It's perfect for a critic like myself.  I can make sarcastic comments, funny comments, profound comments, obscure comments, vague comments, etc.  It's a party where I know every single person in the room.  Some I know well, some I hardly know at all.  Some want to interact with me, some don't, but are still at the party anyway.  Occasionally even those that don't have much to "talk" about with me will stop by and give a friendly nod or wave.  It's also good for me in another sense.  I am a lousy friend.  I am self absorbed, and oft times arrogant or obnoxious in my dealings with people.  Part of that is a bit of a shield, but most of it is that I generally don't find a lot of things interesting that other people find interesting.  So Facebook is social for me.  This is good.  I'm introspective.  I puke my guts here, for God's sakes.  I've just told you one of my myriad character flaws.  I'm not afraid of them, not offended if you happen to let me know what I already know about myself, and certainly not shy about them.

By the way, wanna have some fun?  I mean this.  Admit to a group of people a flaw about yourself.  I'm not talking about your eyes being asymmetrical or anything like that.  Admit to a group of people a "shortcoming."  Watch how they let you know that they know it.  Then, ask yourself how many times you've heard them admit to a "shortcoming."  You'll be amazed.  Most people just don't talk about their own weaknesses/flaws.  I'm not one of those.  P'raps it has to do with one of my favorite things I ever heard someone say about me, p'raps it's something deeper.  I don't know.

Oh.  The thing someone said?  I said, "My life is an open book."  To which the person replied, "And you make us read every chapter." 

So, I'm an egomaniac.  Ask anyone. 

They're also not afraid to tell me. 

Think about that.  Think about laying yourself open and having people remind you what bothers them about you often.

That aside aside, back to Facebook.  Now, let's say you're at a party, and someone says something offensive.  You have the opportunity to ignore them the rest of the night, or you can confront them.  The same is true on Facebook, and since it's an ongoing party, it's called "unfriending."  It's actually fairly offensive to me in its own right, because I don't believe in ignoring any confrontation, but it's part of the deal.  So, a conversation that may have required more time/knowledge/wisdom/explanation can end abruptly simply by someone ignoring you.

I think I've gotten through the prelims.  Now for why I'm actually writing this.

On Saturday, shortly after the announcement about Winehouse's death started making the rounds, a friend of mine posted the following:

 "Borrowed from my very wise friend (redacted):  "Disturbed by all the people who seem to dancing on the grave of Amy Winehouse.  Whatever one might have thought of her public persona, she was a human being.  A life has been lost.  People seem to speak as if they knew her personally or what it was like to walk a mile in her shoes.  Stop being so flip about the death of another." "


Let's start here.  This started rubbing me wrong immediately.  On the surface, it certainly does appear wise.  Then we look a little deeper.  I don't know what my friend thinks of wisdom, but I have always thought that a wise person was one who didn't worry about what others thought, and used moments where things bother them to discover a new truth about themselves.  "This person's death seems to motivate others to say some horrible things.  Why does that bother me?  I mean, I live on this planet with a bunch of people that I don't like, a bunch of people that don't like me, and a bunch of people who I could not give two shits about or vice versa.  Why do I feel the need to tell them how to behave?  What could I do to affect change in myself to perhaps show others the better way to act, if such a goal is even possible?" 

There is nothing profoundly wise about:  1.  Directly saying that people seem to be "dancing on the grave" - which implies glee.  For myself, I didn't see one person that was happy about it.  I saw a bunch of people who were not surprised, a bunch of people who were saddened because they were fans, but mostly I saw a bunch of people describing it as a tragedy, which I disagree with and will address further.  EDIT:  As I think about this further, this was probably just a poor choice of words on the person's part.  It's unfair of me to jump on that.  I'll yield on this.   2.  Telling all those people to stop it.  This is the real crux of the whole thing.  My feelings are my feelings.  Don't tell me to have them or not to have them.  I I choose to be flip, I choose to be flip.  You ain't the emotions police.  It's a great big world.  Lots of people have lots of opinions on subjects.  I've learned the hard way that I can twist myself into knots worrying about the fate of us all when disappointed in people's reactions.  Please, please do not tell us how to feel.  That is not what a wise person does. 

Also, it should be noted that I actually asked someone else how they should feel about something shortly after.  That was wrong.  I should have used the word "I" - but I used the word "you."  I know better, but in my anger at being told how to feel, I slipped.   The text was something along the lines of asking if they'd feel sympathy if they watched a diabetic (a person with a disease) eat themselves to death.  I should have said, "Should I feel sympathy if I watch a diabetic eat themselves to death?"  I was wrong to use "you." 

For the record:  The wisest thing I saw posted about the death was from a 20 year old kid.  He said (slightly paraphrased), "I'll save my RIP status for the victims in Norway." 

And that's the most profound truth about this woman dying. 

In the grand scope of things, she means nothing to most of us.  She was a junkie.  A famous one, to be sure, but a junkie.  None of us knew her personally, and she was as much a reality to us as Dan Rather, or John Lennon (whose influence on me I've described ad nauseum - but believe me, I know he is only as real to me as his music), or any other celebrity.  They aren't people to me.  They're images of people.  But, she was just like the thousands and thousands of other junkies who die every year that we can't be bothered about.  The difference between her and a lot of them?  We knew her name.  She had people who supported her.  She had opportunities to get well.  She had resources available to her that most don't.  She had fans, for chrissakes.  But, ultimately, she was just a junkie. 

Just like Rudy. 

Rudy was a guy I lived with in the halfway house.  He'd been through the rigors of treatment several times, and wound up back in treatment several times.  He left the halfway house because he got upset that a bunch of us (me especially) thought his new relationship with a woman was a bad idea.  I'd watched dozens of guys come in and out of the house, some of whom got mixed up with women, none of whom ended up in a good situation.  Rudy was acting like all of them before, and I got into him pretty hard about it.  He finally got frustrated (and self righteous) and left.  He went out on his own, staying sober for a short while, but ultimately, like the others before him, found his way back to drink.  He died from an exploded esophagus two weeks later, about 6 weeks after he left the house.  He had one shot to live.  He missed it. 

It wounded me deeply.  I felt personally responsible.  I was the thorn in his side.  In attempting to sort out my own feelings about it, and through the copious help of others, I came to the realization that Rudy had no intentions of changing his life.  If it hadn't been the girl, he would have found a different reason.  And Rudy would have ended up dead.  It may have taken more time, but he was going to die.  Just like Amy Winehouse.  It hardened me.  It also told me that the ones who were going to make it were the ones who did the work they needed to do, and because I desperately wanted to be one of those, I listened to those who knew better, and still try to accomplish the things they told me I needed to accomplish.  The people who made it, and the ones whom I respected, were unflinchingly confrontational.  They didn't coddle you.  They didn't tell you about how awful the disease was.  They said, "You have a disease.  Quit whining about how hard it is to get better and take your fucking medicine."   They were arrogant.  They were also right.  I learned from them. 

So.  Back to the story. 

Now I've got a little irksome thing about what's wise and what isn't going through my head.  Here's what I said in response:

 "But what if I had her in the dead pool?  Seriously though, I'm one that made it, and while I certainly appreciate how devastating addiction is, it's pretty damned hard to feel bad about a person who was given every opportunity to do something about it.  Multiple times.  I've walked a mile in her shoes." 

Then I followed it up with:  "Dance?  No.  Weep?  No."

Note that I take no glee.  My tone is one of resolution and indifference, which is different than happy.  I did not poke fun.  I made an off color joke tangentially, but I did not poke fun.  My feelings, upon hearing about her death, and what I wanted to communicate (but evidently failed miserably at) was this:  this is the reality of reaping what one sows, and I rarely feel pity for that.  I made it, but I would have been her if I had chosen that path.  I feel no pity for her, as I would expect no pity from others if it was me.  She had her chances, yet chose to ignore them.  The opportunity for her to recover was there, several times, and she turned her back on it.  I can't allow time for that in my sympathies, because in reality, there are hundreds of thousands of Amy Winehouses on this planet.  I'm as connected to them as I am to her.  Call me an asshole.  Fine.  Empathy?  Sure.  Sympathy?  No.   Does it make me a bad sober person?  No.  Does it mean I don't understand addiction?  No.  I'd also like to point out in a little bit of defensiveness that my feelings are all I have.  I don't have anyone else's, and I'm not about to tell anyone else what theirs should be.  Mine are just as valid, just as right as anyone else's.

I was politely chastised for my feelings (huh?), and then people (including the original poster) started teaching me about the disease.  The disease which I've spent the past 23 years discovering every nuance one can to this point.  Finally, I got a response that pissed the arrogant part of me off: 

"There are levels to the disease, Randy.  Bear in mind that her age (young when compared to us) certainly played a factor, too.  Addicts never recover; they are always "in recovery." "

If there's one sure way to piss me off, it's to tell me something incorrect about something I already know way more about than you could imagine.   1.   Addiction is addiction.  There are depths of consequences, but there are not really "levels."  I was taught that you got it or you don't.  It ain't cancer.  I went to a treatment facility for drunks/junkies.  I was in there with people who were at way different consequence levels than me.  Some were worse, most were quite "better."  Most had jobs, spouses, dependents, etc.  I had none of those.   I wasn't shuffled into a ward with other "stage 2's."  2.  For the record, again, I was 7 years younger than Amy Winehouse was the day she died when my opportunity presented itself.  What the fuck does age have to do with it?  A bunch of the people I know who have stayed sober long term were younger than her when they started recovery.  3.  I was told the "in recovery" thing the first day of treatment.  So.  Telling me that is the equivalent of telling an accomplished piano player that the key of C major has no sharps or flats.  P'raps if my friend had worded it "I don't have to tell you that...." none of this would be necessary.  P'raps the conversation would have remained strained, yet civil. 

He didn't.  And it didn't. 

My response was swift, arrogant, angry and aggressive.

This is what I said: 

"I'm going to put this more politely that I originally intended.  I won't tell you how to play piano.  (my friend is an AMAZING piano player) You don't tell me about addiction.  Deal?"

And I was unfriended.

The word I should have used instead of "tell" was "teach."  Still arrogant, but more accurate. 

And that is where my portion of the conversation ended.  No confrontation back, no nothing.  Just ignored.  I have no doubt that much shit was thrown my way that I wasn't allowed to defend myself about, which is fine.  I have no doubt that lots of things may have been attributed to me that don't actually exist in what I wrote based on how other people inferred meanings, or based on a cut of someone else's opinions, which was then assigned to me.  I have no doubt that people probably opined how I "should" feel, because my friend knows a lot of people, and it was already starting before I was cut from the conversation.  I also have no doubt that lots of people I know and care about saw it, and that I also have no way of defending myself with them without this.  Which is also fine.  I'd like to say I don't give a shit.   But I'm writing this.  I'm putting this public, so if those people want to see what I feel in more than 3 sentences, it's right here. 

But being unfriended pissed me off real good.  Real good.

But, rather than blame my friend for this, (and after a brief cooldown) I did what I usually try to do when I get really pissed about something, which is to ask the following: 

Why am I giving this space in my brain?  Does it belong?  Is he/she/it right, and have I done something wrong?  Am I pissed at he/she/it or am I pissed at me for not communicating effectively? 

Since I can't change anything or anyone else, I spent the next day reflecting on my life, where I've come, etc.  Here are some answers.

1.  I'm arrogant about my recovery because I'm in an elite category.  "I made my own luck."  Yes, I respect and understand how extremely lucky I've been on the way, but..."I've made my own luck."  (You were wondering when that was coming into this, weren't you?)  I've decided, after much contemplation and soul searching, that this attitude is an untenable position.  I must change it.  It's obnoxious as hell.  It's also true, but that doesn't mean I must flaunt it.  There has to be a better way to make it known.  I'm going to figure that out.  Or I won't.  I don't know.  In any case, I'm that obnoxious rich guy that I don't like.  And that is just plain....obnoxious.

2.  I've evidently done a pretty good job of changing my whole fucking life if my friends today don't know that this was that big a part of me, or just how deep in consequences I was.  I don't discuss it generally, because it has very little to do with my life today, because I have worked my ass off to make sure it does not, and because it's nobody's fucking business.  Plus, I don't want anyone taking me at more or less than face value.  I want people to know me for what I am today, and today alone.  A husband.  A father.  An employee of a company.  A sometimes actor.  A sometimes director.  A blogger.  A class clown.  A Cub fan (ugh).  Also, if it was still that big a part of my life after 23 years....what the fuck did I stop for in the first place?  I gave up being a drunk and a junkie to survive.  I eventually learned how to live.  Not to survive, but to live.  I was told early on in my recovery that it takes multiple times more energy to survive than it does to live.  I took that to heart.  I think I'm doing that now.   It took a while, and I had some rough years with bad relationships, good relationships, bad choices, good choices, but I'm really, really living now.   What I do today is my choice.  Can you imagine how freeing that is?  I'm the luckiest boy alive to have been able to do that for a while now.   This is where the "maybe" way up above when describing my friend "knowing better" came from.  I've changed my life.  I can't expect those around me to know where I've been.  And frankly, I don't want them to know. 

3.  The internet puts everything out there forever.  What I said was shitty.  It was angry.  It was an offensive strike from a defensive position.  It was a spur of the moment reaction to being, for lack of a better word, "read the menu" that I've been studying for years.  Was it wrong?  Kinda.  Was it aggressive and "back the fuck off?"  Yup.  But, given a personal face to face encounter, my friend would have "tone" or a facial expression to match it, and maybe my friend would have gotten the hint that this was something I didn't need to be lectured about, and it was possible that maybe, just maybe, I might know what the fuck I was talking about.  He would have also understood that I was willing to discuss, but that his or my words could have been more carefully chosen.  I spoiled that, and that's my burden.  What's missing in the printed word is the humanity.  Ah well.  Whatever was misinterpreted, or not misinterpreted, my only statement on the affair that truly matters is this:

There, but for the Grace of God, go I.

I could have done a better job of communicating that. 

So.  That's it in a coconut shell.  My own anger and reaction at a relatively innocuous comment on Saturday was another chance for me to learn something.  And I have.  My friend's reaction to my comment?  Nothing I can do about that.  I said it, I'll reap what I've sown. 

So.  Am I glad I "lost" my friend?  Nope.  If he's a true friend, we'll get past this, and we'll realize that he just stepped away from me at the party.  Which is no big deal.  If not, well, then I'll be sad, because I have genuine affection for him.  I believe he has genuine affection for me.  If we don't get past it, then I was wrong about that.  It wouldn't be the first time I've been wrong about a friendship, and I'm sure it won't be the last time. 

But mostly, I've learned from it, and that is something invaluable. 

Thanks for reading. 

Randy

P.S.  I've given this even a little more thought.  Maybe I do have a shred of pity for Ms. Winehouse.  It's sad that she died before she hurt enough.  That is a shame.

Fogo de Chao - Miss Chicago Steakhouse for July

I believe this is Portuguese for "Fat guy can chow"

Friends. 

Thank you for sticking with me on this journey through the meat meccas of Chicago.  To sum up (and for cheap page views...) - we have visited Joe's, Keefer's, Gibsons, Morton's, David Burke's Primehouse, Rosebud, N9NE and this month's glutton's special....Fogo de Chao, a Brazilian Steakhouse or "Churrascaria."

I'm still recovering from the trip...so this may be short.  It may be sloppy.  Kinda like my first marriage. 

I digress.  Don't forget to click the links, if you want the jokes.  I can't write 'em, but I can link to 'em. 

When I set out on this quest, I found two lists of great steakhouses in Chicago.  From that list, I culled it down, and I decided I would only attend Chicago-based steakhouses.  I made one exception.  I needed to go to one chain from out of town (technically, Joe's qualifies in this regard as well, but I think Joe's is its own place here in Chi-town).  That place was Fogo de Chao.  Why?

ALL YOU CAN EAT MEAT. 

This idea doesn't have any catches, no hooks, no "gotcha" moments.  It's truly....

ALL YOU CAN EAT MEAT. 

A rack of meat greets you at the front door.  Beckoning you to try
the salad bar...

So.  Now I've been.  I'm going to tell you about it now.  If I can move my fat fingers.  It's Monday, and we went Saturday, and I'm still a little off.  The things I do for you people...

Located in the River North area, right on the corner of Erie and LaSalle (think Ed Debevic's, Hard Rock Cafe, Rock & Roll McDonald's area), the tile tower at the door makes you understand you made no mistake finding it.  Garish, it is a beacon in an area of town full of beacons.  Approaching the front door, you notice a fire, around which are racks of ribs, cooking to perfection.  Or maybe they're fake.  I don't know.  All I know is that there was the representation of meat at the front door.  I was pretty sure I was in the right place.

Cindy and her husband, Karl

Joining us on this particular evening were my youngest sister, Cindy, and her husband, Karl.  They had reserved their place on the tour months in advance.  Karl and I share a particular weak spot for consuming mass quantities.  We both love meat, and we both like it in Flintstonian portions.  The week before our evening out, Karl and Cindy were at my house celebrating our dad's 68th birthday.   (It would be funny if I said that my dad was elsewhere and that we just got together to celebrate, wouldn't it?  Maybe not.)  Anyway.....Karl says, "I see that we have an appointment next Saturday."  We both got a little excited just talking about it. 

Karl had prepped for the meal by not eating anything of substance that day, and by working out right before we picked them up.  I had eaten a hamburger at lunch, but had not eaten a whole lot myself.  We talked about how the place was going to lose money on us on the way over.   (foreshadowing, kiddies, foreshadowing...)  Cindy was a vegetarian until about 6 years ago...she still does not eat red meat, but occasionally consumes chicken and seafood, so she was only doing Salad Bar.  Amy was joining Karl and myself in the meat parade. 

The salad bar is actually quite impressive.  I
tried to be unobtrusive while photographing it.

We arrived right at our reservation time, and were escorted immediately past the enormous Salad Bar to the back room, and a cozy table for 4.  Nice.  The decor of the place is hard to describe.  It's kind of a modern/rustic/foreign/American thing.  There were wood timbers against one wall, the room was stone/cherry wood, there was a wine case separating the front room from the back room, and the ornamental lights were kind of a stained glass thing.  The back wall was a big mural.  It was very classy.  Walking through the place, the smell of cooking beef wafted into my nostrils, exciting the senses, and by the time we sat down I was jumpy.  We were met immediately by a server.   Not "our" server, as we learned that the place is a team effort.  He explained to us that we were going to be trying 16 different cuts of meat if we like, and that he wanted us to have a great time.  The next bit requires a paragraph.  So I'm breaking.....NOW!

Our server explained to us that at Fogo de Chao, you are given a small glossy paper card disk with one side the color Red, and one side Green.  If you want meat, simply flip the green side up.  When you want a break, flip the red side up.  Easy.  I caution you, gentle reader, that you must understand that with great power comes great responsibility.  I'll get to that in a minute. 

Be careful...it looks innocuous enough, but that's a
dangerous piece of cardstock

He took drink orders, and informed us that we were free to start with the Salad Bar.  In the meantime, a basket of small bread rolls showed up at the table.  Called Pao de Queijo, they are super light, cheesy bread puffs that are hot and tasty.  Cindy informed us that she would be eating her body weight in them before the night was through.  I think she came close. 

We talked for a moment, then decided to hit the Salad Bar.  Amy, Karl and I made our way to the bar, figuring this would be our one trip there, and we'd better make it quick.  Cindy decided to hang back, and save her trip until the rest of us were gnawing on meat.  I think she just wanted to eat the bread, without us knowing how much she was eating. 

They're blurry, because after a while, this is
what it really looks like.

The Salad Bar at Fogo could easily be a meal in itself.  In fact, it's advertised thus.  Populated with all kinds of vegetables, etc., plus Salmon, some other meats that I can't identify, one could easily fill up on everything there and be completely satisfied.  PLUS.  It had an iceberg lettuce option with croutons and bacon for those of us whose tastes are simpler.  I also tried a Heart of Palm, which was tasty.  I've never had it before.  Trying new things, I am.  The salad I made was lettuce, croutons and bacon and a Ranch dressing.   Guess what?  It tasted like those things.  That's not why I was there. 

As we finished our salads, our three side items were placed on the table.  Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Fried Polenta and Carmalized Bananas were the dishes.  They were all good.  I confess, I did not try the polenta, but I ate the others, and they were good.  From what I understand, they were unlimited as well.  (That link was tricky....)  I don't think we ate enough to justify a second dish of any of them.  We wanted meat, lots of meat.  That's what she said.

The next couple of minutes were overwhelming.  Feeling it was time, we flipped our cards from Red to Green.  Holy meat explosion Batman!  We were immediately assaulted (and no, there is no better word) by 4 Gauchos with skewers full of meat, ready to serve them to us as fast as we could take them.  Cindy and I both used the word "Annie" ("I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here") simultaneously to describe it.  Never let it be said that Cindy and I are not siblings.  The first to arrive was the Lombo (Parmesan Pork).  I passed on that, as I find parmesan cheese disgusting.  Karl and Amy both tried it, and both gave it low marks.  Next, there was Linguica (Sausage) and Frango (Chicken Legs).  This is where I started.  The sausage was delicious, but a little overdone.  Spicy and snappy with a lot of garlic and a hint of sage (well done Karl), the sausage was something I said I'd eat more of, if presented.  I didn't, but I would have if other things hadn't overwhelmed me.  I was very happy to discover that the chicken was legs.  I despise white meat generally.  So.  Here was a place that gave me DARK MEAT!  That is highly unusual.  The chicken was really good, and really hot.  Smoky, tender, juicy.  Good chicken.  Mind you, it was the only piece of it I ate, but it was good.

Picahna.  Specialty of the house.  Good God.

Also arriving on that round of madness was a skewer of Alcatra (Top Sirloin), and a skewer of Cordeiro (Roast Lamb).  Crusted to perfection on the outside, the meats were placed in front of me.  I was told to use my tongs to remove them as the Gaucho sliced them from the slab.  Oh. My.  Now we're cooking.  Lamb.  Red Meat. 

Every skewer of beef that comes around is a combination of temperatures.  I suspect that each time a slice is removed, the whole thing is put back in the flame to crust the outside again, which results in progressively cooked meats.  You can get rare.  You can get well done.  There's something for every taste.

The lamb.  I generally eat lamb only in Gyros format, which is hardly "lamb."  This was a long strip, about a quarter gyro sandwich in size, crusted, flavored with garlic and inviting looking.  I liked the lamb.  I skipped it the rest of the evening, again, because I found things I liked more, but I liked it.  Amy wished she had cucumber sauce.   

The top sirloin was grainy, which was to be expected.  It's a tough cut of meat.  Seasoned with just a hint of salt, my piece was a delicious medium rare, crusty on the outside.  It tasted great.  I think I'm gonna like it here.  (See?  Told you the Annie thing worked...)  With only 4 pieces of meat on my plate, I flipped my card back to red.  I was taking notes.  I've got readers after all.  I was also overwhelmed by the attention.  I needed a moment to breathe.  And to eat. 

My breather didn't last long.  I spied a rack of Costela de Porco (Pork Baby Back Ribs) approaching, so I flipped to green again.  I'm a meat purist.  I don't like sauces, etc., and the ribs were just cooked ribs.  No barbecue sauce to get in the way.  I just had to try those.  Wish I hadn't.  I used some precious stomach space on overcooked, dry ribs.  This was the only downer that I ate.  To think, that space could have been Picanha!  Bah.  Oh wait.  We haven't gotten there yet.

This was my favorite Gaucho.  The ribeye guy.
He and I became fast friends.  Mostly it was
a one way relationship.  I liked it though.

If you're keeping score, I've now tried 5 different meats, and skipped one.  The table has done 6.  So far, I've consumed about 10 oz. of meat, which is the size of a medium sized Filet Mignon around town.  I've also done it all in the span of about 10 minutes.  We had planned to be at Fogo for about 2 hours.  It was looking like we were going to be there about 45 minutes at that pace.  The disk stayed on red for a while.  Karl and I were chatting about what we liked best, etc. and trying to figure out how we were going to break the place.  (foreshadowing....)

It should also be pointed out that I'm not talking much about anyone else's food....nor will I.  I was being pummeled with meat (that's what she said) and I didn't have time for asking others what they thought.  Especially my wife.  Sorry Amy. 

Next up on the hit parade was Picanha (a different cut of top sirloin - and one the Gaucho called "the house specialty").  Again, it was a grainy medium rare.  Perfectly charred.  I ate a lot of this.  This particular trip I received two slices, and I ate a bunch more as the night went on.  Advertising it as the house specialty was right on.  Other pieces of meat were better quality, but this was cooked just right, and something you don't get elsewhere.  I made sure to flip the disk to green when I saw Picanha coming around. 

And that is the ribeye my new friend brought me.
A lot of times.  A LOT of times.

I also spied the Filet Mignon guy.  It was like a baseball game.  "Yo!  Filet Guy!"  Asking for a piece medium rare, the Gaucho sliced a chunk.  This was the first piece of meat that was a chunk.  He sliced it from the big piece, then put another slice in it, and served it right off the sword that these guys use as knives.  Very impressive.  The filet was delicious.  I told the table that I could eat nothing but Filet if I thought it would fill me.  Perfectly cooked at medium rare, silky, soft....Oh God.  It was DELICIOUS.  And rich.  I consumed at least an entire filet over the course of the evening, getting at least two more portions.  I can't remember.  It's all a haze. 

Also appearing was the Beef Ancho (Ribeye).  This was another chunk meat.  The top sirloins, etc. were shaved from the sides.  The ribeye and filet were sliced in the middle, then presented as chunks.  I love ribeye.  You know that if you've read more than one of these reviews.  Fogo gets ribeye right.  Super tender, super juicy, the steak was cooked to a perfect medium rare.  The Gaucho and I developed a relationship.  Probably because he visited a few times.  Once, when I summoned him, he came over and said he'd be back, as the cuts he had were well done.  He knew what I wanted.  Nice.  I probably consumed 3/4 of a ribeye steak that night.  Ugh.  It's adding up now.   A small break was taken.  Karl and I both got up to walk around.  I took pictures of the meat up front, plus a couple of shots of the restaurant.  Karl put it best....we needed "...to take a walk to shift some room around in the warehouse."

The last piece of meat that we tried was the Fraldinha (Bottom Sirloin).  I suspect this is what we know as Flank Steak.  It is super grainy, super juicy, super flavorful.  It was Karl's favorite cut.  It was high up on my list too, but I'd place it third, after the ribeye and the filet.  And maybe the Picahna.  I don't know.  It was all delicious.  Decide for yourself.  We ate a bunch of the bottom sirloin too. 



Vanity is out the window.  That's a fat guy face.  On a fat guy.



You remember that Simpsons episode where Homer gets in the steak eating contest?  Yeah.  That was referenced.  "What's happening to me?  There's still food, but I don't want to eat it!  I've become everything I've ever hated!"  Karl and I had eaten probably about 2 1/2 pounds of meat apiece.  We were full.  I mean, full.  I'm a fatty guy.  I try not to post pictures on Facebook, etc. that show me too fat, because I still have some vanity.  Not today.  I'm posting this shot, because it sums up my night.

All in all, it was exactly what we expected.  Meat.  And a lot of it.  The bonus was that most of it was really, really good. 

Oh yeah.  Foreshadowing.  Everyone expects that they will go to a casino and play on house money at some point.  That's the goal.  Karl and I expected Fogo to lose money on us.  I can assure you they did not.  We tried, but damn, that's a lot of meat to consume.  I would imagine they cleared a profit, maybe not a huge one, but a profit none the less.  We gave it our all, but we both gave up.  Damn.  Totally full on delicious food.  That's the kind of loss I can take any day.

Nuts and bolts:



Enough.  I've had enough.



We got out of the place for $140 a couple with tip.  That makes Fogo the most economical place we've attended.  We ate quality steak for the cheapest pricing thus far.  And we ate until we couldn't.  Does that appeal to you? 

We did not try 16 kinds of meat.  We got through 11.  I'm not sure they had the beef ribs out that night, and I saw something that looked like turkey floating around, but we ate enough.  More than. 

Seriously, with filet mignon like this, who the fuck needs dessert?

Salad bar is great.  If you want it.

The clientele was the most diverse we've encountered.  Age, race, socio-economic.  It was a blend.

You can dress relatively casually. 

Serving staff is incredible.  Bread arrived as soon as previous bowls were cleared.  At one point, we gave up our meat plates, and before the guy who took them left our table, new ones were placed by someone else.  Wow.

I'm going back.  Period.  Know why?

ALL YOU CAN EAT MEAT.

Oh yeah.  The ribeye.  Don't forget the ribeye.

Didn't try dessert.  No one did.  We were too full.  Woulda been a good choice I think, because that meaty flavor became a bit much by the end of the night.  Maybe next time.  Maybe.

Get to Fogo de Chao if you like to stuff yourself.  You won't regret it.  It was a great night. 

NEXT MONTH:  Benny's Chop House.

Amy is shielding the gut.  Or resting on it.  One more month, one more
fantastic meal.