My brother suggested that I meet him last week at a restaurant called Fogo de Chao, a Brazilian steakhouse in midtown. Apologies to any Portuguese speakers over my pronunciation. This was somewhat out of the ordinary. Not the restaurant — I knew nothing about the place — but that we were venturing beyond his neighborhood for dinner. Typically, we meet at his apartment for a drink or two — I drink he doesn’t — and then go somewhere in the neighborhood.
But I knew that his choice of restaurants would be safe, even if I’d never heard of the place. Jamie has the most limited palate of anybody I know. He eats steak or cheeseburgers. He does not eat fish. He has cookies for breakfast. When he added salad to his diet in mid-adulthood it made news in the family.
He spends his winters in Buenos Aires, famous for its meat, where he consumes steak daily and where there is little to any social pressure — not that I’ve ever known him to bow to social pressure — to eat anything else. He wanted to try Fogo de Chao because he’d visited its sister restaurant in Rio de Janeiro. I assumed it was a new establishment to New York City. But part of a chain that extends from South America to the Middle East, it has apparently had a presence in Manhattan for more than a decade.
The restaurant takes as its inspiration Churrasco, the South American tradition of cooking meat on skewers over an open flame on the pampas. I don’t know if the pampas part is true. I may have made it up. But it sounds atmospheric. It’s rare that you visit a restaurant that involves a learning curve. One of the attractions of steak houses is that their menus are almost as straightforward as hailing a hot dog at a baseball game.
But Fogo de Chao is different, as both my brother and our waiter explained to me. The way it works is that you grab a plate and help yourself to the sprawling salad bar; smoked salmon, Caesar salad, hummus, black bean stew, and fifty other dishes. That’s in addition to side dishes deposited at your table — caramelized bananas, polenta, garlic mashed potatoes. We hadn't even started eating and I was already full.
But the centerpiece of the experience is the meat on skewers. I was tempted to think small — I fill up quickly — but my brother persuaded me to go for the “Full Churrasco”. What that meant was continuous table side carvings of top sirloin, bottom sirloin (not that I’d be able to tell the difference) roasted chicken, ribeye, filet, lamb chops. Even some sort of roasted cheese dipped in honey.
I didn’t understand why my place setting came with tongs until the first of many waiters brandishing a skewer sidled up to our table. The drill was that he carved a slice of whatever he or she was hawking and before it dropped to the floor you were supposed to catch it with your tongs and deposit it on your plate. When you were ready to cry uncle or just wanted to take a break before consuming even more meat you were instructed to flip a coaster by your seat that said, more or less, hit me up again or please leave me alone, I fear I’m about to require heart bypass surgery.
The restaurant was packed on a sultry summer night. There were more women and children than you typically spot at a midtown steak house. But the dominant demographic remained men meeting for drinks and dinner after work.
I hate buffets. Let me count the ways. Tossing that old Catskills resort joke on its head about the food being terrible and the portions too small at Fugo de Chao the food was great and the portions too large. I suffer from both a small appetite and a fervent desire to get my money’s worth. That’s a perfect recipe for dissatisfaction when confronted with a buffet that runs to dozens of items. By the way, I did my research. Are you aware that there’s a term zumgphobia that refers to an intense fear or aversion to eating at buffets. I’m not truly afraid of buffets. I’m simply thrown into despondency knowing that I’ve spent the money but will barely scratch the surface.
And now add waiters coming around every minute or so toting skewers with steak, chicken and whatever. I definitely made a mistake accepting that lamb chop. I hate to waste food. According to the University of California at Berkeley nearly half of the food at buffets is wasted. On the other hand, I’m perfectly content to stop eating as soon as I feel full. I can probably count on the fingers of one hand the times I’ve been a member of the clean plate club when it comes to anything except dessert. And at Fugo de Chao I even got a doggie bag for the majority of my cheesecake brûlée with berry sauce.
I doubt I’m going back. Give me a traditional steakhouse where you split a Caesar salad with a friend, order the petit filet mignon with fries and perhaps a shared side of creamed spinach, topping the experience off with a hot fudge or butterscotch sundae with extra sauce. I can’t understand restaurants that scrimp on the sauce, that drizzle it over the ice cream. They ought to be obligated to supply you with a full pitcher of the stuff without having to beg and plead for it. But that’s a whole other story.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.
