There was an air of expectation outside Feijao com Arroz that one usually doesn't associate with a strip mall parking lot. After pulling into one of the few remaining spaces, I walked past a Brazilian grocery store and a Brazilian dentist to the restaurant.
It was an hour before game time, but there was already a line at the entrance. A middle-aged woman in a blue tank-top said something to me in Portuguese, to which I replied "Nao falo Portuguese." "Where are you from?" she asked. "Originally, New Jersey," I said. "But I like Brazil." "You sit with us," she said. "I have a friend who's coming," I said. "He can sit with us too."
Julietta and her daughter Melissa and I paid $10 for ten coupons, which would go toward our meals, and walked to our table under a ceiling strung with green and yellow flags. Three big screens covered the walls; three TVs hung behind the bar - all tuned, naturally, to the Brazilian pregame show.
Soon Julietta's girlfriends arrived, as did my friend John, with his friend Apollonario. We ordered caipirinhas. There is something to be said for being a freelance writer. Or a Brazilian.
The first half was frustrating: no goals and no food. At one point the commentary was interrupted by an announcement that illegally parked cars would be towed. Melissa looked out the window and noticed that her car was blocked. As she went out to investigate, her mother said: "She's American. She worries about everything."
During halftime, the kitchen got cranking. In the second half, so did the Brazilian offense. At the first goal - scored from an unbelievable angle - the entire restaurant erupted in joy, people - many of them in yellow soccer jerseys - rising from their seats and clapping their hands. A jubilant, unified, long-awaited explosion.
After the match - Brazil 2, North Korea 1 - a band took the stage and played samba. A few people left, back to the real world, a few people danced. Julietta invited us all to her house on Sunday for feijoada and the match against the Ivory Coast.
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