The plan for today was to watch the Brazil-Chile Round of 16 game.
We stopped by a local hotel last night to inquire as to whether we needed reservations to watch the game in their restaurant. (Yes, Brazilians reserve tables to watch games in restaurants. It even happens in Little Brazil in NYC, where it will cost you $60 USD for a meal and a view of the game.)
They assured us that no reservation was required, so we knew it wasn't the place to watch.
I woke up early and blogged. I heard the familiar noise of a loud-speaker from the street. I've learned enough Portuguese and leaned out my window enough times to know it was the propane delivery truck (gas stoves here are powered by large propane tanks, about 4x the size of US ones used for backyard grills) announcing their presence and prices. I'll be home before I get the hang of this place.
We asked some friends and settled on a local restaurant/bar or three that sounded like good potential candidates within walking distance.
The morning flew by and I realized we'd be too late if we didn't get to one of them soon.
Last week's American watch party filled up 2 hours in advance of the USA-Portugal game. Maybe I was supposed to wait in line overnight for a Brazilian bar.
We high-tailed it out the door and through the flooded street. Yes, it had been raining again.
Our other option was to go the long way around but there was no time to risk getting lost. As with last Thursday...never mind...we vowed never to speak of it again.
We walked about 2 miles through what turned out to be a not-so-good part of town and found the restaurant...empty.
Huh? It is 11:35 am and kickoff is at 1:00. There are three big screen projectors and three small screens over the bar. This place should be full. Maybe this is the wrong place to watch. But the place is set up for a large crowd, both inside and out.
We ask for a table in front near one of the big screens, and that is when we start noticing the "Reserved" signs on table after prime-viewing table. We find the first/best unreserved table and are only about 30 feet back from the big screen, with a good, unobstructed view.
Thirty minutes pass and no waiter even attempts to take our order. My wife asks if they know we are here for the game or whether they are going to kick us out for not ordering food. The rest of us wonder if she is serious.
We order some pitchers of exotic fruit juice and an espresso to help calm my wife.
By the time our drinks arrive, the restaurant has begun to fill. By 12:15 most of the tables are gone. By 12:30, patrons newly arrived are desperately scurrying around to find a vantage point from which to watch.
We sip our juice and I tell my family, "That's why we needed to practically sprint here."
We order some appetizers around 12:45, but the place is packed. We're in no rush. We'll be here until at least 3:00.
We people-watch and estimate the bar to be about 75% Brazilians. Perfecto.
Almost everyone is wearing a Brazilian jersey, unless it is a green pantsuit fashioned out of the Brazilian flag (artist's rendering). The restaurant is upscale but the atmosphere and patrons are casual. The staff is ready for the crowd, and service is admirable and efficient. Think Superbowl Sunday with table service, very attentive table service.
Around 12:59, the people with reserved tables start to arrive. One table of five is already on their second bottle of champagne, with four more to follow to the slaughter.
Women range from the sloppy to the haute coitured. It reminds me of a church on Easter or a temple on Rosh Hoshannah. Everyone out to see, be seen, be seen eating, and worship their personal god.
We order lunch, knowing it might not arrive until halftime.
Kick-off comes and an early goal by David Luiz sends the bar into a frenzy. This will be an easy game...
A huge firecracker goes off in the street. It must be an M-80 or larger. We duck and cover. No one else seems to notice.
The food arrives sooner than expected, as does the equalizer from Chile. The room falls silent, as patrons refuse to even acknowledge what everyone can sense.
Patrons chainsmoke on the deck, just outside our table's reach. I ask the manager to ask them to stop (I'm pretty sure it is illegal to smoke in restaurants in Brazil, and all the smoke is blowing in through the open doors). The manager talks to the smoking patron but there are many understudies ready to take up the cause. He returns to apologize profusely through a busboy interpreter, saying only, "The man has many problems. We are sorry. Very sorry. Very sorry." Like everything in Brazil, smoking rules are on a sliding scale.
The tension continues for another almost unbearable 60 minutes more of regulation and 30 minutes of overtime. Chile rattles the crossbar and all of Brazil's nerves.
The food has long since been ignored, but we order some more juice.
Women in tight, cropped tops and short shorts hang on every moment. The table next to us is polishing off champagne bottle number six (?). We've lost count, even though every time they order one, the waiter blocks our view while he pops the cork and pours a glass for each of them. A bottle of Tabasco shatters. A woman in six-inch platform shoes stands to avoid the glass and red slick beneath her chair. We can't see the screen. Is she that drunk or just insane? The busboy and the patron who dropped the Tabasco are trying to clean it up and calm her down, blocking our view even more. Don't they know the penalties are about to begin!
Julio Cesar appears on slow-mo close-up on the big screen. He looks pale as a sheet and about to vomit. The fate of all Brazil rests on his shoulders. We don't want to be in a bar or on the street if they lose, but it is like an accident too gruesome to look away from.
David Luiz scores Brazil's first penalty. The room explodes.
Chile misses their first. The room re-explodes in appreciation for their GK.
Brazil misses its second penalty, and the room nearly implodes.
Chile misses their second, and people start to breathe a sigh of relief. The GK could be elected president any moment.
Marcello scores again for Brazil, now up 2-0, and the room is in a frenzy. A middle-aged but well-preserved Brazilian woman is standing on her chair, flashing anyone who cares to notice. Her 70-year old mother does the same.
Chile scores and Hulk misses, and Chile scores again. Suddenly it is 2-2, and the room is getting increasingly nervous. We consider an early exit but can't bear to leave. This is way more fun than that stinker of a match between US-Germany.
Neymar steps to the penalty spot, still limping from the beating he has taken for the last two hours. Like Elvis, his aim is true, and no Brazilian will ever question why he wears the #10 jersey.
Chile misses their last penalty off the post. Brazil wins 3-2 and the room is chaos.
We cheer. My son nearly dislocates my shoulder with his high-five x 2. We're high-fiving complete strangers.
My son offers to take a picture of the multi-generational flashers with their camera. They think he is asking to be in their picture and invite him in. No one cares who you are, selfies for everyone!
We notice it is well past four. We have been in the restaurant watching the beautiful game with the beautiful people for almost five hours.
This has been one of the greatest experiences of our trip so far, but things can go to shit quickly in Brazil, and we still have to walk home several miles through unfamiliar neighborhoods. We decide to walk along the beach...our bag of leftovers marking us even more obviously as tourists, if that were possible.
The fireworks begin in the empty streets.
We hurry home, unsure of whether we would have been safer if Brazil had lost. (I think back to my friend's constant reminders that Brazil would go up like a powder keg when they lose, because of the pent up anger over spending and corruption.) Large explosions are heard every few minutes, small ones nearly constantly.
We spend the rest of the night listening to them from our balcony and our bedrooms. We eat leftovers and watch the Columbia-Uruguay game from the safety of our living room.
The city is thick with smoke, this time with the distinct smell of sulphur-laden Chinese fireworks, and you wonder if you have a sore throat or just smoke inhalation.
For the second time in a week, Brazil is burning, and this time it isn't for the Festival of Sao Jaoa.
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