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| - I was lost somewhere around Queen street in a snowstorm with a gurgling, uneasy feeling in my stomach when I came across this place. All it took was the words "Churrasqueira" on the sign to convince me to step inside and abandon my plans of going to the gym. I'd never heard of a Churrasqueira before, but it sounded kinda like "Carniceria," which always means good food.
I parked my bike in front of a be-toqued hobo and crossed the threshold. This place is the real deal. Boisterous olive skinned people (the Portugese?) conversed loudly with each other across piles of chicken and glasses of red wine. A baba-from-the-old-country-looking lady sat in a corner, monologuing to a group men standing around in jackets and scarves. Everyone seemed like they belonged here, like they either worked for the place or were related to someone who did. Some hilarious over-the-top foreign soap opera played in the corner, unwatched.
About the time when I was starting to feel out of place, this sweet girl behind the counter grabbed my attention and set me at ease with a good old "hi there, let me know if you have any questions!" I ended up ordering the half chicken special, the words leaving my mouth slow and gummy due to the fact that my lips were still frozen. I'd hoped I made a good first impression, because this girl became my rock. Within two minutes of stepping into this place I felt like I had been dropped into another country and I was gonna need a friend.
Initially, I had planned to grab the food and go, but the ambience was so pleasant that I decided to stay, even if that meant eating dinner in a restaurant by myself while being scrutinized by locals. I pulled out this new neuroscience book that I'd been hoping to read and got to work on it; waitress girl brought out some bread and butter. Ahhhh yeaa, I was gonna make of night of this.
Before I knew it, the chicken dinner arrived. The thing was huge, one of those classic big Italian dinner plates piled high with salad, spherical potatoes, chicken, and dipping sauce. It was truly the biggest pile of food I'd ever seen at a restaurant in Toronto.
The chicken was fantastic. Rubbed with salt and some interesting combination of spices. It was totally worth breaking this week-long vegetarian streak I'd been on. The potatos, too, were remarkable: salty, roasty, and inherently satisfying. However, the best part of the dish was the piri piri sauce. This stuff (which waitress girl later informed me was handmade made in house), had the perfect balance of heat, acidity, and flavor. It also had a fair bit of creaminess that really rounded out the flavor of the potatoes.
All too soon, the chicken was gone and I was stuffed. I felt truly good. Not even the thought of having to bike through the snow could put a damper on my chicken-fortified spirit. I'd had a good meal, made some progress on this book, and found a cool new place to eat where I felt welcome. I think the waitress even called me cute at the end there. Ahh yeaa.
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