I lost my Meat Control

I'm in Dallas on a business trip, and it's not exactly Girls Gone Wild, but we did have a good time tonight. Ever since yesterday, my coworker Bridget has been talking about "meat on a stick," referring to a Brazilian restaurant called Fogo de Chao where they bring huge skewers of meat to your table and carve off a piece. Tonight we went there with some other folks from the conference we are attending. Here's my review.

Our waitress, Melissa, was great. Anyone who can refer to their costumed, meat-wielding coworkers as "gauchos," with a straight face, deserves an honorable mention in my blog. (Later she made some helpful nightlife recommendations, complete with a hand drawn map, but I'll get to that.) To our great delight, she addressed us as "y'all," to which Bridget tactfully replied: "Wow, we're really in Texas! Do you have a gun under that vest?"

This restaurant has a gimmick to let the staff know when you are ready for more meat. You get a coaster which is red on one side and green on the other, and green means bring on the meat. Early in the meal, my coaster disappeared. One of the gauchos scolded me. "You lost your Meat Control...no more for you!" Think Soup Nazi, but holding a stack of beef and a very large knife.

They had about 6 different cuts of beef, plus chicken, great pork tenderloin, lamb, and sausages. The lamb was my favorite. It was perfectly cooked, juicy and a little salty and just plain MEATY. The place was expensive, but great fun for a group, and the food was tasty.

Bridget can really pack away the meat. I mean, this woman weighs about 95 pounds, and she is like a bottomless pit. (I am her boss, and I know just what she is going to say when she reads this..."I can't work under these conditions!") By the end of the meal, some of us were in Meat Coma and others were in Meat Euphoria.

Somebody called a taxi-van to pick up all 7 of us. On the way to our next destination, there were three moms in the back seat (myself not included) talking about giving birth, and poor Mark was begging to change the subject. A few people bailed out, and the rest of us went to the waitress-recommended bar, the Loon, which was a lot like the VFWs in Minnesota. Juke box, soggy carpet, canned beer, amorous drunk guys, you get the picture. Somehow, it seemed like the appropriate way to end the rainy evening.

I still have not found in Dallas the Texas of my dreams - the big hair, mechanical bull, tight jeans Texas - but at least someone called us Y'all. And I had a LOT of meat.