A Shared Meal
Salt. Garlic. Fire. These are the basics. But add in multiple families and friends with their salads, sides, and desserts and you are at a churrasco in Brazil. On its surface it looks like a barbecue. All the components appear similar: meat, fire, drink, and people in free flowing groups that change over the course of the meal. But there is more.
A churrasco is a coming together for community. We eat when everything is ready, when everyone has taken their part, and when the time seems right. Its a chance to invoke what commune means to me: friends gathered together to share a meal and touch each others’ spirits. There is a spiritual and emotional aspect to this common experience. Through the conversations, quiet or otherwise, one can find sparkles of knowledge and wisdom. Advice flows, sometimes accepted. Relationships deepen and souls tended to.
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Friends arrive first, before the striking of the first match, even before the tables and chairs have been wiped off. A horn sounds or the front gate rattles, and a teasing voice calls out “We’re here!” Of course the kids are the first ones to the gate, my five year old climbing the bars and announcing to everyone he can climb to the top. Kisses and hugs all around, and another car arrives. Kitchen counters begin filling with bags: produce and fruit, fresh rolls from a bakery, hunks of meat. and strings of sausages from a butcher. Even more meat is still in the refrigerator.
Everyone finds their places as more people arrive. At the brick churrascqueira the men gather. The older grey-haired men claim seats at the table, the better to rest their elbows and drinks. Younger men pull stacked chairs down into a loose circle. The almost men, teens and college aged, haunt the outskirts under the covered grilling area. Jokes lead into more jokes, the awkwardness men feel at the beginning of social gatherings gently falls away.
As host, I rip open bags of charcoal, pouring their contents into the churrascqueira. Everyone offers their own advice on the best way to start the coals. Every person has his own method, each viewed as superior to any other. Inside their bravado there is wisdom, often passed through families and generations.
“You don’t use a stale roll soaked in rubbing alcohol? Get a roll and pile charcoal over it.”
“No, kindling tented across balled up newspaper is the best. It what my dad did. Son, go get a newspaper.”
“No,
no, no. Pile the charcoal on the bag it came in, drizzle old cooking
oil across the
charcoal and set the bag on fire.”
Our
friend Marcos, when he was working as an agronomist, used a termite
mound removing flame thrower to light his charcoal. My mound of
kindling flares into flame and with care I slip hunks of charcoal
among the burning twigs, building my fire higher and hotter.
The women find their way into the kitchen, calling for their husbands or sons to bring more bags of produce and other things from the car. Here is where the real work gets done, my wife would say. Onions are diced, potatoes are peeled and chopped, and mounds of lettuce get cleaned and left to soak. Desserts need to be made, and someone’s husband is heckled into running back to the store for a “few things.”
Grandmothers and great aunts sit at the counters, peeling garlic cloves by hand and picking through green beans. Someone is rinsing rice while another group of women exchange dessert recipes. A bag of fresh pao de quijo appears and every child who wanders through the kitchen holds out their hands for one. The young women and teens are all subjected to the same inquisition about school, boyfriends, and clothes. Judgments are rendered with a smile and a raised eyebrow. When needed, the atmosphere can be serious, helping cope with illness, divorce or a wandering young adult.
Outside, as the coals take their time changing from jet black to vivid red, one of the young men is sent to the kitchen to get the meat. None of the husbands want this chore lest their wife be reminded of a slight or a joke at his expense. By this time, everyone knows the kitchen has been declared off limits to the men. Thus. a sacrificial lamb is required.
“Meu filho1, go get the meat. Tell your mother it’s going to fall on the grill soon2.”
On a large table the men arrange what they will need. A small bag of Brazilian rock salt is opened, garlic cloves mashed and other seasonings are poked, prodded, and tasted. The old men nod their approval. The two or three knives are picked up and sharpened again. Fleeing the laughter from the kitchen, the lamb returns shaking his head. If the love of his life was in the kitchen, his face is still red from embarrassment at what he heard. Pieces of chicken, sausages, slabs of beef, and a side of bacon are unwrapped and placed on cutting boards. Gristle is trimmed off and chunks of chicken are wrapped in bacon secured with toothpicks. Everything is rubbed with garlic and sprinkled with salt. Skewered on long churrasco forks the meat is placed at various heights over the glowing coals. Garlic bread wrapped in foil is placed high on the grill to slowly warm. With a pop and a hiss, ice cold cans of soft drinks and beers are opened and passed around. Fat begins to drip onto the coals and with the scent of cooking meat in the air, suddenly you are hungry.
“Can I put the rice on?” From the kitchen one of the women has arrived. Finding her husband, she takes a drink from his can of beer and lectures with her hands on her hips. “Don’t burn the meat.”
Things settle down after a while. Smoke from the dripping fat wafts from the grill and young women appear from the kitchen with bowls of various salads they leave on the table. Everyone offers their opinion on the news of the day, who’s soccer team is in trouble and if it is a World Cup year, evaluates the chances of the Brazilian team to win a sixth cup. Politics and religion are not off limits, but there are better things to discuss. Another salad appears. Issues at work, or home repairs that need to be done are bantered around. Promises for help are made and hands are shaken to seal the deal. As host I tend the meat, adjusting cooking heights and adding more charcoal to the fire. It is a dance to have everything come done at the same time, nothing over cooked.
Soon a spit of sausage is pulled from the grill and a few sausages slid onto a cutting board. It is utterly vital to make sure the meat is cooking correctly, and tasting along the way is the best method. The rounds of sausage are stabbed with toothpicks and lifted to lips. It is also time for the second offering of the day. A few more links are placed on the board, cut into rounds and sent into the kitchen. Little children appear as if by magic and with grubby hands grab any sausage still on the table. Someone is always left without and wanders into the kitchen looking for a taste. A few minutes later the youngest college aged woman returns the empty cutting board.
“Tia Florinda said to send beef next. Don’t send chicken, ok?”
“We’ll send what is ready--wait, don’t tell her I said that. We’ll send beef.”
Potato salads and cooked vegetables appear in bowls and the men’s conversations have turned to vacations. Mountains? Beach? Rio? São Paulo? Orlando and Disney? Who is going when? Plans are made for future trips together and then someone mentions fishing. The conversation turns loud. Everyone has a story and everyone is a liar. Everyone laughs.
A procession appears out of the kitchen: stacks of plates, cylinders of utensils, pitchers of juice and mounds of napkins are brought out to the table. Bringing up the end of the parade, the biggest pot in the house appears--the rice. The men make room and the women join them. More drinks are served and the meat comes closer to being done. Slivers of beef and more pieces of sausage are offered for tasting. Still the conversation flows. It only pauses for a second when a friend who died is mentioned in passing. Someone raises their beer in a silent toast.
“Querida3? Is it ready?” I look over to my wife who smiles back. “Let’s pray.”
The meal stretches through dusk into the night, people eat slowly. The high school boys nervously move closer to the teen girls, who roll their eyes but still smile. Younger children pause for just a second with mouths wide open, interrupting their games as they run past their mothers who spoon in rice and a slice of chicken. Late arrivals are teased and hot meat is sliced right from the grill and placed on their plates. With a grin I walk around offering cuts of rib to everyone, saving the best of the night for the end.
But the evening is not over even as the day begins to fade into night. Someone produces a guitar and the soft sounds of samba or bossa nova fill the lulls in conversation. A soft voice sings Sampa by Caetano Veloso. Asleep on his mother’s lap a toddler sucks her thumb. Dirty dishes are gathered and taken to the kitchen where some of the men put on aprons and wash everything up. The desserts appear--cakes, puddings and because we were Americans, chocolate chip cookies. Coffee, the thick sweet Brazilian espresso called cafezinho, is served in little cups. One last slice of beef, smokey, salty and garlicky, is poached from the grill.
As the moon climbs in the sky, families begin to depart. Backs are patted, cheeks are kissed and promises are made about next weekend. Its a Brazilian tradition is to take food home for someone who could not come that day, a daughter who had to work, or a son who went to the movies with a friend. Plastic plates of rice topped with slices of meat and any leftover sausage are collected and covered with a napkin.
“Soon, we’ll do it again soon.”
“It was nice to meet you, I’m glad you came.”
“Definitely, we can gather at our chácara4 in two weeks. Everyone bring something. Call us and we’ll work it out.”
A silence descends, my wife takes her time wiping down the table one last time. Watching the last of the coals smolder, I grab her by the waist and we slow dance to a samba we hum together. Our sleepy five year-old watches from a lawn chair.
“Is there any more meat?” he asks rubbing his eyes.
“Yes zinho5, there is more meat. Did you have fun?”
“Can we do it again tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow meu bem6, next week. Next week we’ll do it again.”
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1. “Meu filho” = my son, but it expresses more. It connotates pride and love. "Meu filho" can also be used by anyone to a male younger than they are.
2. “fall on the grill” is an expression that sounds better in Portuguese--“o carne vai cair daqui a pouco.” It means the grill is almost ready.
3. Querida is a term of affection. Literally translates to “wanted one.”
4. A cháraca is typically a piece of land outside of town where a family has often built a place to stay for the day on weekends. There is often a simple kitchen and storage for cooking gear, hammocks and assorted mattresses and pillows for the afternoon naps. If its by a river, you will never not have guests.
5. “zinho” is the diminutive in Portuguese, here used to say “little one.”
6. “Meu bem” is another term of affection, literally translating to “my good” it can be used to mean my sweetheart or my darling.
