That's powerful restaurant juju when you get it right, disastrously obsequious when you get it wrong. There's something in our culture, in today's mindset, that regards too much service as somehow shameful. A few very specific situations exist – at hotels, spas, dinners with sultans and kings – where being coddled, being not just seen and served but truly taken care of, seems appropriate. But in any standard, upscale restaurant environment, servers have a narrow line to walk, striking a dangerous bargain between too little (which can seem haughty or cold) and too much (which will quickly become smothering and uncomfortable). Fogo de Chão's floor staff walks that line with the combined and consummate grace of a dancer, anticipating needs (a different colored napkin so as not to leave white lint on black trousers, a quick change of plates or another drink when the glut of food seems approaching the verge of overwhelming) and operating not as individual servers seeing to individual tables, but as a single service organism whose sole duty is the care of all those on its floor.
In a town like Denver, which has always struggled with the balance between Western casualness and continental fine-dining formality, this display of refinement was shocking. And while I did not love every single thing that passed my lips — the polenta, for example, was tough and slightly dry, the hearts of palm lacking texture — I had the feeling that, were I to complain about the least thing, the problem would not just be solved, but eliminated with swift and draconian efficiency; made not just better, but to not exist at all, wiped clean from history and memory by another onslaught of young men bearing skewered meat and caipirinhas.
The staff at Fogo de Chão is pleased to meat you. (See more photos on
the slideshow page).
Location Info
Details
Fogo de Chão
Lunch $24.50
Dinner $38.50
Salad bar only $19.50
1513 Wynkoop Street
303-623-9600
Hours: Daily, lunch and dinner
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There is nothing like being cared for to leave you stupid with pleasure. There is nothing like being made welcome to make you want to return. Were I Zeus or Escoffier, I would have made my way back to Fogo de Chão the next night — to dine again off the bounty of the Coser brothers' vision, folded into the smooth, seamless hum of a machine built to serve, to provide both the comfort of attention and many, many pounds of meat.
As it is, though, I am just a normal man. So I waited two days to return. And this time, I wore my big-boy pants.
To see more of Fogo de Chao, go to westword.com/slideshow. For more South American restaurants, see page xx.
