"All we need is lots of gay sex and this would be just like the Roman Empire," remarked one of my many dining companions at The Brasilia Grill in Newark, NJ this past Saturday.
The occassion was Porkchop's 26th birthday, which naturally necessitated an enormous gathering of his childhood friends, immediate family, relatives, and New Jersey-dumb NYC friends, all of whom were more than happy to troop down Ferry Street in Newark to gorge on all-you-can-eat-meat, churrascuria-style.
It was gluttonous, to say the least. Despite fair warning by Porkchop's older sister that we would stuff ourselves before the meat came, we all crowded around the salad bar, scooping up rice and beans, plantains and assorted other offerings.
Then came the meat. It came fast. I can't recall the order that it all arrived, but I do remember the endless skewers of sausages, grilled chicken, skirt steak, turkey wrapped in bacon, pork chop, shish kebab, some other kind of steak, lamb, and the incomparable picanha, an extremely tender piece of steak seasoned with rock salt and served in paper-thin slices. We powered through pitchers of sangria and beer, leaving empty caipirinha glasses in our wake. But the focus was meat. More meat than I have ever eaten in my entire life.
Dessert came, though I don't recall it well. The waitstaff trotted out with drums and tambourines and led the restaurant in one of the many renditions of "Happy Birthday" we would hear that night. We all looked at each other dazedly. So full of meat. (NOTE: it's two days later and I still feel affected by this situation). We stumbled out and made our way to a local bar. I still can't believe I managed to stomach one more beer after all that.
Happy Birthday, Porkchop!
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