Churrascaria!!!

(English Title: Meat My Blade)

On the potentially dismal occasion of my 36th trip round the sun, I visited a Brazilian churrascaria. If you haven't been to one, it's a magical place where you first take a stellar trip around the salad bar, which is really a buffalo mozzarella/kalamata olives/proscuitto/steamed asparagus/marinated mushrooms and more bar, then are whisked back to your table to delight in what you found there for a few moments while sucking down caipirinhas (a.k.a. Brazilian margaritas).

Next, enter the intricate communication system in place akin to the sign language used by Drasnian spies, in the form of a circular card, one for each person at the table. One side of the card is red, the other, green. Flip that red card to green and wait. Within seconds, a fleet of smartly dressed, hot, Latin gauchos descends upon you, each bearing a rod of steaming, delicious meat for your consumption. Each meets your eyes as you communicate your most intimate carnal desires: Oh yes! Spicy sirloin! Ahh, filet mignon!! Most of the time you get a just-right portion of meat slid skillfully onto your plate; sometimes you have to use tools to assist in the process. If you don't want a particular cut, you dismiss the offering gaucho with a word (much simpler than with a failed third date).

While my arteries are probably not happy for this meat-fest, and vegetarians would surely be offended, I think all in all a trip to the churrascaria is enough to remind me what life should be like: delicious meat from hot guys when you want it, peace, salad, cheesy bread and flan when you don't.