a brazilian dinner (lyn)

Zelia, Rodrigo, Victoria, Alexander and I are having dinner together.  We are going to the Brazilian place in Queens, the same one I went to a couple of weeks ago.  “Save your appetite,” I tell him. 

Around noon, a little after Alexander gets up, he asks if I’ll make him peasant bread French toast.  I do and he eats two large pieces with fruit.  I eat a cinnamon twirl pastry that I’d gotten yesterday at the Farmer’s Market.

At four, Alexander makes lunch.  Two large grilled cheese sandwiches on our well-used Cuisinart Griddler.  It’s his specialty.  I’m amazed that he can even be hungry after such a big breakfast.  “Hey, that was four hours ago,” is his response.  I have yogurt, berries, honey and granola.

By six, he’s hungry again.  It amazes me how someone can eat so much and still be so slim.  We leave the city around 6:15, and a 15 minute ride is four times that as traffic is horrible.  The restaurant is a non-descript little place in a non-descript neighborhood of Astoria Queens.  I’m a little nervous about my suggestion of a Brazilian diner to a discerning group of Brazilians.  My last suggestion to this same group was a romantic comedy with Sandra Bullock.  The movie was so bad that I was banned from making further movie suggestions for a few years.

Sunday night is a busy night at this little neighborhood restaurant.  I think Alexander and I may be the only English-speaking people there, which speaks to the authenticity of this place.  Pricing is by weight:  $4.99/pound for non-meat items, $5.99 for meat and non-meat, and $6.99 for meat only.  We fill up our plates with mostly meat (the regular sirloin) and a few other indigenous items.  The meat is outstanding.  Everyone agrees that it’s worth the trip.  Dinner, including dessert, three cans of Coke, and three trips to the meat counter for the two of us, is under $30.  I eat way too much and leave feeling uncomfortably full.

The best part of the night is of course not the food.  It’s the company.  We all get along like old friends do.  We non-stop talk, we interrupt, we tease, we disagree, and we of course laugh.  

But no one wants his or her picture taken.  "Why do you always have to bring your camera?"  "No, you are not taking any pictures."  Alexander grabs my camera and puts it in his pocket.  I have to beg him to take a picture of me.  "It's for my blog," I tell him.  So here I am, with my very flat hair, in front of this little gem of a restaurant in Queens.