Every year is the same thing.
Every year Carnival begins on Saturday and ends on Ash Wednesday, with an elastic and glittery tolerance for before and after.
Every year some dancer’s codpiece falls off on the avenue.
Every year there is confusion when determining the samba school parade.
Every year there is gossip about betrayal in the celebrity box.
Every year some publication launches some trend in costume (or lack thereof), makeup, behavior. Every year there is the Carnival drink, always worse than last year.
Every year, journalism publicizes these trends because every year there is Carnival and a lot of space to fill with letters.
Everything is repeated every year during Carnival, so I ask permission to repeat myself too.
I went to see what I had written last Carnival. It was the same whining as always. Food falls down the list of priorities at this time of year, but I need to write about food here at Folia de S.Paulo. Oops, Sheet.
Carnival is not a time to think about food, but we need to eat and we do. Eats very poorly.
Carnival is when you lose your discernment.
It’s when you send in the most disgusting food from the most disgusting bar, which has no water and a blocked toilet.
That’s when you catch a parasite that won’t cure until Easter – and you blame it on the inn’s breakfast.
It’s when you spend hours in traffic jams and find yourself having to eat the arid Grail chicken skewer for lunch. Or the half-meter pastry that the kiosk on the coast fries in four oils.
That’s when you start barbecuing at the beach house.
It’s when you buy illegally slaughtered meat in a pool full of bad-looking guys, because the butcher shop and the market are closed. Then you drink too much and burn your meat, it would be rubbish.
This is when all the restaurants on the beach have people leaving because of the thief, except one. The most exelent of them. And that’s where you go, half out of lack of options, half out of cluelessness.
It’s when you kick the bucket after waiting for your dish for three hours in the hottest restaurant on the beach, you leave without eating and with eight liters of beer in your mouth.
That’s when even good restaurants go bad. It’s when the cook doesn’t show up for work, the waiter goes to cook drunk and the owner of the place calls his teenage nephew to wait tables.
That’s when you examine the fridge in the early hours of the morning and commit the greatest culinary atrocities: noodles with dulce de leche, brigadeiro with canned tuna.
That’s when you spend the whole week eating exclusively bread and butter on the grill. Because that’s when you only remember that you need to eat in the morning, when you return home from the party.
It’s when your travel friends eat all your food while you’re passed out in the gutter.
Every year Carnival is an endless succession of mistakes. And you want to know? That’s the fun. Carnival is chaos, it’s disorder, it’s laughter.
You have the rest of the year to eat well.
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