Up front

Publisher Trent Modglin embarks on his first all-you-can-eat adventure to Fogo de Chao and lives to tell about it.

By Trent Modglin

We were about five minutes into our visit to Fogo de Chao when I realized that, well, this is exactly why the terrorists hate us.

Good ol’ fashioned American greed and self-indulgence at its best. A longing for more in a life of excess.

Oh, but it tastes so good.

If you’re unfamiliar with Fogo de Chao, let me give you a brief tutorial. It’s an all-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse. There you have it. Class dismissed.

They place a coaster in front of you. One side is green, the other red. Green means go. If you have it green side up, the “Gaucho” chefs bring you fire-roasted meats on skewers to carve right there onto your plate, and they do so in rapid-fire succession.

Red side up means stop. That gives you a chance to breathe and undo your belt.

I had never been before, so I decided to experience Fogo with friends who had. Mike started the day off with a mass e-mail, indicating it’s best to eat a light-to-medium-sized lunch, but to do so earlier in the day than you normally would, to allow for mass consumption later.

I planned on following his advice. Problem was, I got swamped at my full-time job and ended up eating a late lunch, and a little more than I anticipated. So when we entered Fogo for our 7:30 reservation, I was not nearly as hungry as I wanted to be. But that didn’t matter because the very second your nose captures the scent of the perfectly cooked steak, chicken and pork, the stomach begins making noises — good noises — telling you it can handle putting on a show if you can.

Two guys from our group of seven decide to head to the enormous salad bar first. They claim it helps the digestion. They immediately are made fun of. Their manhood is brought up for debate.

Our waiter comes by to explain the process. We listen politely, but can’t help but be distracted by the gouchos flying around from table to table. As soon as the waiter takes our drink orders, we decide to enter the fray. Green side up, baby. Time to go to work.

Unlike a group of women letting their food get cold because of incessant chatting, at our table, there is mostly grunting, pointing and the sound of fork and knife causing sparks. I don’t remember a single conversation lasting more than three or four sentences for the first hour or so. Like the Blues Brothers, we are on a mission from God.

The chefs bring out skewer after sizzling skewer of tender filet mignon, garlic sirloin, parmesan-crusted pork tenderloin, ribs, leg of lamb, roast, bacon-wrapped chicken and more. There’s just so much, and all of it is quality. Not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings, I find I can’t say no to a goucho. Slightly overwhelmed but loving it, I stay on green for longer than what is deemed healthy in 48 states.

One friend, who shall remain nameless, goes to the bathroom and returns 10 minutes later to promptly flip his coaster to green again. He receives applause from the table. Brian gets up to go for a walk, perhaps around the block, to regain his normal heart rate.

After a good solid hour of work, the pace begins to slow, chairs slide back, the shoulders slump and a brief cease fire is called.

“Doesn’t Brian look like he’s going to get sick?” someone asks. Laughter does not help a full belly.

Then it starts again. We’re here for 15 rounds folks, so bring on the beef ribs, the lamb chops, the top sirloin, the chicken drumsticks, the sausage, the filet.

Sides of cheese bread, fried bananas and seasoned mashed potatoes are replenished, but my focus is still on a plate in front of me that would send Nicole Richie into hiding.

“Careful with the side dishes,” Mike advises covertly. “They’re trying to fill us up.”

Jason is the first to wave the white flag. He takes his napkin off his lap, puts it on his plate and announces he’s done. He is incessantly booed and called names. “Sissy” is about the only one I can print here.

Scott G. goes to the salad bar for a few pieces of cantaloupe. He, too, is called vicious things, though not to the extent of Jason.

Someone actually utters the phrase, “Man, that’s just a little piece of heaven on a skewer,” only I can’t remember who. Wish I could though.

One of the married guys on this excursion is told to take his green and red coaster home to use when his wife makes him dinner. “See how that goes over,” someone says with a laugh. (He wisely leaves it behind.)

The manager asks if there is anything we might need. Any requests at all. I tell him a wheelbarrow would be nice to get me to my car. Someone asks for a doggy bag. Sorry sir, can’t do that.

Scott G., fresh off his melon expedition, suggests rubbing the belly. He says it helps make you feel better. He again is called names. “It’s really uncomfortable for me to speak right now,” he says through a forced smile.

After a while, it’s decided Fogo de Chao is definitely not a first-date kind of place unless you’re a caveman, and this type of behavior is actually condoned in your society. Someone says he’s afraid to stand up too fast, as his legs may give out. Another jokes that he may have thrown up a bit in his mouth earlier, but he didn’t stop long enough to find out. We collectively wish we had weighed ourselves before and after, just for proper documentation. We did a lot of damage.

Scott B. then utters a phrase I’ve never heard before and may never again: “OK, give me one more garlic beef, but then I’m really done.”

He forces down a little more than half, and when asked if his plate can be cleared, he stares at it for a good 10 seconds, contemplating, perhaps negotiating with his digestive tract. “Yeah,” he finally secedes. “I’m done. Why do I do this to myself?”

I began to ponder that question as I tried rubbing my belly (and no, it doesn’t work). Why did we take pleasure in gorging ourselves for more than two hours at Fogo de Chao? Was it because we could? Was it a treat, a way of rewarding ourselves for slaving away at the office during the week? Was it male bonding in its most simplistic form? Was it something more complicated than that, this ugly side of being gluttonous Americans?

“I’m going to go in tomorrow and tell the vegetarian I work with that I don’t agree with her stance on life,” says Jason. “I’m going to tell her I feel sorry for her on occasion, and this is one of those times.”

Well, there’s my answer.

Trent Modglin
Publisher
The Real Chicago
Trent@TheRealChicago.org

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