Stuck in Mud

Tuesday night has become redneck night in the neighborhood.

Fortunately not in the true redneck way, meaning it's Brazilian redneck rather than, well, you know.

A girl's got to earn a living, so after spending the afternoon writing and the early evening eating, I was ready for some low-key fun with minimal effort to do so.

A light rain, an early dusk and a little melancholy. I needed some fun.

Enter Bistro 27's Brazilian night, and while I'd done it two weeks ago, I had no problem returning to the scene of that crime.

When I arrived, two women were getting ready to leave the bar, both speaking Portuguese with Chef Carlos before they left.

It was a scene that played out throughout the evening, as tables got up to leave and came over to have one last conversation with the chef in Portuguese.

Seems this Brazilian night is attracting all the right people.

It's the Chinese restaurant rule. If most of the people eating are the same nationality as the chef, it tells you a lot.

I began with a glass of Vinho Verde because, rain be damned, it's Spring and I refuse to drink otherwise, at least to start.

A couple moved from their table to the bar for glasses of Port, ensuring that Carlos would begin expounding on Port.

He did a good job and I learned a thing or two, although he shushed me whenever I asked too detailed a question.

I've been told my curiosity can be annoying.

Despite having eaten for a living earlier, I couldn't resist a small plate of the Vaca Atolaoa, a hearty short rib and yucca stew he'd made for Brazilian night.

It necessitated me moving to a Portuguese wine, the Vega Douro, because the chef has one rule on Brazilian night and that's that Portuguese wine goes best with redneck Brazilian food.

And, frankly, who am I to argue?

Maybe if our rednecks drank a little better, their necks wouldn't be so red, if you know what I mean.

As I enjoyed the dish, I got the translation of its name ("cow stuck in mud") and while Carlos said it wasn't the best translation, the falling-off-the-bone short ribs were kind of mired in the dense stew broth.

As I ate the long-cooked ribs and toothsome yucca, a guy came in, looking for all the world like a lounge lizard.

When he was told about the Brazilian specials, he looked skeptical, so I jumped right in, suggesting he try some cow stuck in mud.

He agreed and for a minute, I think he thought taking my suggestion meant we were going to be fast friends, but I quickly disabused him of that notion.

Luckily for me a friend arrived, got wine and sat down next to me for some girl talk about men, play-going and vacations.

The lizard was soon forgotten until he got up to catch the Marriott van home for the night.

Brazilian rednecks I can handle. Lounge lizards, not so much.

The Port-drinking couple got up to leave, asking me if I was a regular at Brazilian night.

I'm two for three, so I guess that's a yes.

Color me tickled to have a weekly Brazilian pop-up in the neighborhood.