Fogo de Chao is not a place that any mortal man could visit with any regularity while remaining mortal, without ending up just flat dead from a meat overdose. Zeus, perhaps, could eat here three times in a week. James Beard or Escoffier could've probably managed four in their portly heydays. Me? I'd be a headline, baby. All caps: NOT TERRIBLY FAMOUS FOOD WRITER FOUND DEAD ON WYNKOOP STREET. Details would include the blood and flan on my chin, the lamb chops found stuffed in my pockets, the odor of caipirinhas on my breath and the smile that couldn't be removed but by the intervention of a team of internationally famous embalmers.
Meat, meat and more meat -- that's what's on tap for this week. And as I discovered when I ate at Fogo de Chao, the latest in a very short line of Brazilian churrascarias that have tried to make their mark in this steakhouse-heavy city, you can't beat that with a stick.
