I went to Fogo de Chão yesterday to watch the Brazil-Switzerland match and feast on the extensive salad bar (which includes meat – cold cuts like prosciutto and salami – and the black bean stew feijoada).
A large screen TV hung at either end of the bar, where I took a seat next to two men speaking Portuguese. I ordered a Xingu Black, a kind of Brazilian Guinness, and soon after it arrived a plate containing four balls of pão de queijo appeared.
After the first half, a man with a ginger goatee took the seat next to me and ordered a beer in what I took to be a European accent. “You’re not Swiss are you?” I asked, fearing he might be in for a disappointing lunch.
“No, Swedish,” he said. “But I’m for Brazil. My girlfriend is Brazilian.”
I asked him what happened to Sweden this year.
“We were in the group with Spain and Poland,” he said. “We lost to Poland.”
I told him my wife is Polish.
