Took a trip to São Paulo the other weekend for our friend, Ric’s, birthday party. After a long(ish), comfortable(ish), overnight bus ride and after Eduardo violently yelled at a passing car that almost hit him, subtly reminding me to never, ever anger a cuddly mustachioed bear no matter how cuddly or mustachioed he may seem, we wrangled a cab to our hotel. Our hotel was a stark, slightly soviet, utilitarian tower (exactly what we wanted. Just a bed to sleep in.) in a neighborhood called Jardims (Gardens) with an unfortunate but expected check-in time of noon. For R$4 a piece we stashed our luggage and ventured out for some life in the big city. And on it goes, we went to the big fancy museum. Art. After about a half hour I looked at Matias and asked, “Are you Bored?” “Oh, god. I’m dying.” We let Eduardo know and he was disappointed if not surprised. He’s an art whore and we left him to it.
Matias and I hopped on the Metro and heading to the city center and did some T-shirt shopping in a great little market filled with rock and roll T-shirt shops, tattoo parlors and cheap food. It was a wasty, wandery afternoon comma-ed by a delicious P.F. (a common dish here, Prato Feito). There was some trouble getting our room squared away but it all was warm and fuzzy in the end (it always is). Tereza (Ric’s delightful and charm filled girlfriend and an ancient and super-close friend of Matias) told us about a cafe nearby where we could grab an espresso and wait for them to finish out their friday business.
Oh, fuck. Wait a minute. Back. The. Fuck. Up.
The first São Paulo treat: We were about 200 meters from the hotel, exhausted and a little dirty, walking along the edge of a wide boulevard when Eduardo lets out a girlish shriek, holds his meaty hands daintily up to his mustachioed face, and skirts behind Matias and I. I look ahead, unsure of the shriek-worthy event to see 5 or 6 SP motorcycle cops, guns drawn, pointing just beyond us to our right. It was AWESOME. They had been (apparently) chasing down some guys on motorcycles who had stopped just behind us. I looked back at them, their hands up, vigorously over-compliant. We skittered to the left, out of the line of fire and marveled, momentarily, at the violent spectacle of it all. I’m not much of a gaper and neither are Matias or Eduardo (thankfully) so we continued on with a little adrenaline and some nervous laughter.
The second São Paulo treat: The cafe Tereza sent us to, Santo Grão, was a goddamned joy. Outstanding espresso, great service (Alexandra was incredible) and a few hours of coffee and chat and cigarettes. Sorry, non-smokers, but I would be stoked to smoke a few cigarette inside the Ritual.
I know it’s blurry but nice, eh? Matias and I went there every morning for our entire trip and drank copious amounts of the Yergacheff and Kenya and plenty of the Brazilian coffees.
And for you snobs who know the look of a mocha, yes, this has chocolate in it. We sent it back but it’s the only one that had it’s picture taken.
Ricardo and Tereza showed up around 10pm. Ric marveled at how much Portuguese I’ve learned (the Brazilians are prone to blow smoke up your ass - they call it being nice - I call it bullshit. Thankfully Matias is a no bullshit kind of guy so I at at least have some point of fucking reference for the truth) and they were super excited to see us. After another hour of coffee and cigarettes (Brazilians are never in a hurry for anything) we moved on to our next bit of radical living.
São Paulo treat #3:
Fucking La Tartine. Five hours. Three bottles of wine. Three courses (I had some kind of roasted rabbit stew. Tasty fucking business). Cigarettes. A famous Cellist hit on Tereza and Ric got pissed followed by a delightfully tense moment. Thankfully we were all laughing about it 20 minutes later. At least I think we were. I certainly was. Some SP slut slipped the waiter her number to give to Matias. He has a girlfriend that would make the most hardened bachelor wish they had a girlfriend but, jesus, that kind of think will make any man’s head swell. And Matias is prone to head swelling. I was jealous.
Charming mismatched tables and chairs. Nudie pictures of Bridget Bardot on the walls. The aromatic mix of roasted meat, quiches, cigarettes, Argentinean Malbec and slightly jealous boyfriends. It was a dreamworld of magic and one of the best eating experiences I have ever had. And, this, was hanging in the bathroom.
I really wish that those pics were taken in that actual bathroom. I like the idea of imagining all of those things happening right there.
São Paulo treat #4:
Ricardo’s birthday party. So, yeah, Ric is amazing but his friends are lame. Third world rich is way worse than first world rich. I’ll just leave it at that. But the beer was cold and the Picanha was tasty (if slightly over cooked) and we drank and ate and talked. Some friends of theirs pulled Tereza aside and pointed over at us and asked, “Who’s the band?” As a narcacistic bunch who marvel at our own coolness (ok, maybe just me and Matias) we ate that shit up.
Here’s a few more great pictures of the party.
Ric, Matias, Eduardo and me.
Matias, Tereza and Branca.
Matias and Tereza.
Matias and Pedro.
Pedro and Tereza.
The aforementioned cuddly mustachioed bear. Eduardo.
Me and Pedro.
Wait for the Simba Safari post. Boy-o.
