There’s a temptation to think Brazilian barbecue was invented by a marketing team in São Paulo who wondered how many different cuts of beef they could parade past a table before someone gave up. In reality, churrasco began about as far from polished city restaurants as you could imagine. Out on the pampas, the gaúchos – South America’s answer to the cowboy, only with better cattle – lived off the land and cooked what they had over open fires. There were no marinades or sauces; just meat, coarse salt, smoke and enough patience to let the fire do its job. When your livelihood revolves around some of the finest cattle on the planet, restraint isn’t just admirable; it’s common sense.
That philosophy still sits at the heart of Fogo de Chão, the restaurant formally known as Fazenda. The restaurant shares much of its DNA with its predecessor; same site, same interiors, same market table filled with just about every side imaginable. At its heart it’s a wonderfully simple idea; cook good meat properly and keep bringing it until your guests admit defeat. It’s gloriously theatrical without feeling gimmicky. The little green-and-red disc is one of hospitality’s greatest inventions, giving diners the illusion of control when everyone knows it’s optimism, rather than hunger, that keeps it turned to green.
A quick look on the Fogo de Chao website will tell you where the differences lie. They have become bigger, more luxurious. It’s not just the meat now, but the stuff you can order to come with the meat; get the indulgent churrasco, as we did, at £77 a head and you can choose from lobster, snow crab, caviar, or scallops to go with the meat sweats. Look down the menu a little, as we did, and you’ll find some pretty elaborate seafood dishes.
I start with wagyu empanadas, surely the ultimate in pasties, all loose ragu and curds of egg, whilst Sophie has the prawn cocktail that’s really nothing of the sort. Five generous sized prawns are set on ice with bowls of marie rose sauce, chopped egg, salsa, a bottle of hot sauce and some lettuce. It’s more a build-your-own wrap than cocktail, but it’s fun finding out the most successful combinations, which are all of the above that don’t include egg. We make a trip to the market table that involves mostly salad for Sophie and mostly chillies for me, order more cocktails to go with the wine and let them know it’s safe for the meat to arrive.
Skewers arrive one after another like a well-drilled relay team, each carrying another excuse to loosen your belt; rosy picanha with its glorious cap of fat, smoky lamb, sticky pork collar with honey and chicken that reminds you it doesn’t always have to be the consolation prize. Sophie’s favourite is the beef skirt – the Brazilians call it Fraldinha – that’s just about medium, with a miraculous smoky and faintly saline crust that only honest fire can produce. I like the gammon for almost exactly the same reasons. With this we both have clusters of snow crab with long, elegant legs that quite literally go up to their armpits. Eating it is an exercise in optimism bordering on theology. Every crack of the shell is a negotiation, every extracted sliver of meat a tiny triumph over biology. You’re rewarded in teaspoons for your perseverance, which is perhaps why it tastes so impossibly good. Scarcity has always been the greatest seasoning. Dipped in little more than warm butter, the crab becomes almost embarrassingly pure, as though any embellishment would be an injustice.
We skip dessert and finish up the excellent red. Anyone who has been on here for any amount of time will know that I was always a fan of the old spot and this is no different. It’s a happy dinner in a room full of happy customers and thats a big thing that has been missing of late. They understand that the genius of the rodízio isn’t excess for excess’s sake. It’s rooted in an old tradition of generosity, where the host’s job is to make sure nobody leaves wondering whether they should have had just one more slice. And for that Fogo de Chão absolutely nail it.
9/10
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