we ate their little heads

i love trying new restaurants. i especially love places that i discover through a friend who happens to be 'in the know'. i used to live in on the little italy/little portugal border but was too intimidated to enter the family owned churrasqueira and barbecue joints that seemed to be everywhere. the smell was intoxicating but the large, rowdy families out front always freaked me out (because i am usually high) so i'd pass right by and end up eating chester chicken from the starbank on the corner.

recently however, we got a posse, our bicycles, a trumpeter and rolled up to the barbecued meat party. we had queijo fresco (fresh goat's milk cheese) with an incredible fucking hot sauce. the sausage was brought to our table, ON FIRE, and tossed around like a baton at a parade. oh, right, we were outside, on a huuuge patio, on a warm spring night with grilled sardines and mammoth quails and sweet portuguese wine and a goddamn rock garden with ivy covered fences to block out the dirt of the city, the wrath of real life.

it felt like another universe on that bench. that yard without pretension; just stories of back home. i was covered in grease and brine with wine staining my teeth and i was happy. there is nothing better than food with friends. beers with bros? coke with confidantes? roofies with roommates? sex with superhero sidekicks? ok... that last one sounds fucked but intriguing.