Fogo de Chao- restaurant review

I believe literally translated from the Portuguese, Fogo de Chao means 'fog of the meal'. The Brazilian steakhouse bearing the same name can do so with confidence. Jill and I left Fogo in the heat of the afternoon in a meat stupor and as best I can remember, walked along the pedestrian 16^th street mall while the frivolous papaya dessert course supposedly aided the protein digestion. I fully expect a hangover tomorrow morning unless, after dark, I become a lobo guará and devour a cow. (That makes me want to watch Teen Wolf again. Fox though, not Bateman.)

Fogo opened its doors just a few weeks ago in LoDo on Wynkoop between 15^th and 16^th. As we approached the storefront blinds were drawn over the windows and the street and sidewalk were so still I expected a tumbleweed to mow us down. Black silkscreened awnings with the Fogo logo were the only evidence we were in the right place.

The adequate hostess delivered us into the main dining area. I don't recall what I noticed first, the salad yacht or the fact that the seating was only 15% occupied. The space could easily accommodate ten doublewides. The ceilings were high and the rich exposed woodwork was interesting and relaxing if you ever bothered looking up. (I mean, it wasn't a drop ceiling.) Later, I was inclined to look up when asking God to forgive me for such gluttony. For all the game they serve, the walls were suspiciously lacking any stuffed or mounted animals.

Once we hit the table we entered warp speed. I was not prepared for so much activity. Our waiter explained how things worked as men with bronze skin and deep set eyes, buzzed around the tables wearing knickers, boots, red kerchiefs, carrying hunks of seared meat on sabers and skewers. Those men were the gauchos. They are South America's version of cowboys. And what I thought were knickers are just pants tucked into their boots so they don't get mud on their cuffs. I do the same thing with my sweat pants when I shovel the snow off the driveway.

The wait staff focused our attention on the small round chips on the table. Now, if I were dining at Sizzler, I might have mistaken them for coasters, but at Fogo, the chips play a much more integral role in the meal. One side of the chip was red and the other, green. When the green side was showing it was to signal to the sword brandishing gauchos with fifteen different meat selections of beef, pork, chicken and lamb to come to the table and serve you. The waiter never introduced himself, nor did he need to as he explained the entire staff was at our service equally and working as one. Okay, then I understood, it was kind of like Golden Corral.

That was it. We were released to the salad bar.

The salad bar was not the brown lettuce and diced ham of the Ponderosa Steakhouse in my boyhood home of Muncie. I am certain the thick layer that coagulated on top of the nacho cheese was used for skin grafts at Ball Memorial Hospital. The Fogo salad bar boasted aged parmesan and Manchego cheeses, smoked salmon, crispy romaine lettuce, a creamy house Caesar, pasta salads, Brazilian hearts of palm, fresh mozzarella and sliced ripened tomatoes, Shitake mushrooms, prosciutto, and Italian salami, but no miniature corn cobs. Classy salad bars have little baby corn cobs.

Side dishes awaited us back at the white clothed table; fried bananas, fried polenta, mashed potatoes and hot savory cheese puffs. The cheese puffs tasted like Nabisco's Cheezits and the fried polenta reminded me of Cheetos except they stain my finger orange. Charlie and I love Cheetos! He say's "CHEE-toes!" The mashed potatoes were on par with the instant kind. Like everything else, the sides were bottomless, but my mom taught me not to fill up on the cheap stuff or waste money on Coke. It was then I turned the chip over to the green side.

Immediately I was rushed by a gaucho with a sword. Jill put her hand on my leg to keep from getting a Chinese star out of my sock. His accent was as thick as my collection of Hot Rodder magazines. I just said, "Yes sir" and they carved the meat right there which I had grab with a pair of tongs before it fell off. They just kept coming so long as that chip was green side up. Do you remember that game in elementary school PE class called red light, green light. It was like playing red light, green light with the gauchos. Jill told me to stop tricking them. "Come on baby, I'm just messin' around," I said.

The Jill said, "Quit talking like when I first met you."

Then I got so mad that I didn't want to talk anyway. I just wanted to eat my emotions. Good thing I was at Fogo. I turned the chip to green and the gaucho arrived with the house special, picanha, lightly seasoned and from the top sirloin.

I forgot about being mad at Jill after tasting it. I started thinking about how much Charlie would enjoy this place. I told her, "I wish I was an Emperor Penguin so I could just take some of this good food home to Charlie." Because we learned at the zoo that Emperor Penguins regurgitate the food they catch for their chicks.

Jill said I should get up from the table, so I excused myself to the bathroom. I got lightheaded coming back. I could feel the blood flowing to my swollen abdomen. Small price to pay for a sweet lunch.

I was thinking about skipping my Brazilian bikini wax appointment the next time I'm in the mood for Fogo de Chao. It's about the same price for lunch, $30. That's the best deal. For dinner the price jumps to $50 for no other reason than it getting dark outside.