The Bali getaway : An idiotic Odissey.

July 23, 2013 at 3:08pm I’m not the typical tourist. But this is an honorable exception, having working my ass off as a waiter/bartender/Barista and general punching bag for nine months with some 16 hour shifts, I thought I could use some mosquito infested heat at some tropical paradise at some third world cheap ass destination. I’m not proud of my choosing criteria on the destination, but as a broke waiter in New Zealand, I thought that Bali would be a lot cheaper after the bombing at a disco that ended up killing around 200 Australians affecting their currency as well. I set up the trip for three months to come so I had a reason to stand the idiots I was serving on a daily basis – I was so fed up with human stupidity that my plan was to travel alone and avoid eye contact with anyone who could speak any language known to me. That would leave me not much besides animals to reason with, which is very accomplishable with some chunks of food in my pocket. I boarded the plane on coach, obviously, with some inexpensive paperback I bought at the airport (in case of excess luggage, I can dispose of it with no guilt) wearing shades and my MP3 player. The Indonesian airline was, by far, the best flight you can have on a budget, I guarantee you, with amenities as a menu and cool slippers for my egg roll-shaped swollen feet. At some point, my attention was caught by two girls in that stupid girly way of saying things on that high pitched volume that makes everything sound stupid. They were attractive and made a point ignoring my presence. I put the volume on. In Brisbane, our only stop, where we would swap flights, we boarded with a hoard of mostly pre-drunk Australians on their way to Bali – I seriously thought they would still be afraid of being there, but realized that as me, they could be life-risking cheap. I tried to get myself to sleep and cursed the moment I passed on some Zanax offered by my ever friend/drug dealer craze friend. We landed and outside the plane the weather was mostly hot and dump to the point of one’s clothes get pasted on to its body, my face reminded as the soldiers on Vietnam war movies with that glistening mix of humidity and grease being the interesting part arriving at customs, where a gigantic vat lies with a sign on it, inviting drug smugglers to drop their drugs there (with a remind that drug smuggling is punishable with a death sentence ) I felt uncomfortable even not having drugs on me and thought what I would do If I had any, was that a bait ? a true chance of redemption ? How stupid was that ? I kept walking and thankfully, my fears of being an involuntary mule to deviate attention of real smugglers were dismissed after the drug check with those nice beagles sniffing my crotch. THAT felt exotic enough. But I successfully avoided a full cavity search. There was a shuttle waiting for me,and bad news: the shuttle was intended for everyone who booked with the same company which has branches in NZ and Australia and that meant being stuck in a small van with 20 other happy tourists. With my luck, it was pretty obvious that my Hotel was the last stop and the two annoying attractive girls from the plane were staying at the same place, one redhead with freckles called Maya, and an Asian(ish) girl whose name is impossible to pronounce or remember. We checked in and they sounded very surprised to know that I was completely alone and my room was way bigger and better than theirs. Ha ! suck it bitches !! I checked at my gigantic room with air conditioning, two king sized beds and a bathroom with orgy capacity for 12, and went straight away for the pool wearing my paper white tan obtained with months of work indoors and my newly bought hybiscus-printed Bermuda from the Warehouse worth NZ$ 10 (probably returning to its birthplace) it was early evening and I felt suddenly displeased to see a bunch of sunburned, fat caucasians sitting at the wet bar inside the pool. I sat down and ordered “the local thing that would make me drool soon, please” and got an Arak cocktail which tastes like sake but tastier and slightly more alcoholic which made me pretty happy. After three giant arak drinks, I was on social mode already and felt more chatty than my usual self – most of them, Australians except for an old couple from Hamilton and the two annoying girls from Auckland. They were around 15 persons; I didn’t bother about remembering their names since I wasn’t planning to see any of those people ever again. But a couple just called my attention – a newlywed couple from Australia, Daniela and Steph, they were just an unusual couple since she looked that regular next door girl with her regular brown hair and eyes with no memorable features at all but with a neat façade and Steph, a bald really white guy with big and wide open blue crazed eyes and equally big smile showing the lack of some teeth, surrounded for a crisp blond goatie that clearly yelled white trash, specially when added to really bad prison tattoos. I loved them instantly because they liked stupid things like me and they were so ridiculously aware of their weirdness that they really made the most of it. After getting stupid drunk, I went to the front desk to book some tour service to drive me around (I was advised that, driving there was not a good idea specially If I intended to keep myself wasted, besides their roads were winding and silly narrow) in all my drunkenness, I booked a van with a guide ALL FOR MYSELF, like Madonna or other supercuntstar I wanted it all for me, with no other passengers for two whole days and also booked scuba diving. Luckily, it was so cheap I could afford it. I went to sleep in the splendor of my drunkenness. I woke up with the phone ringing in my room, front desk telling me my transportation was already waiting for me, but I found out immediately that foreign unknown booze at large scales can be potentially hazardous; I dismissed the tour and told I would be taking it the following day. I woke up three hours later looking like a rape victim and sure felt like one. I did my walk of shame to the breakfast area wearing my shades and passed my new friends at the pool without actually pronouncing the words good or morning properly, I could actually not speak in a pitch higher than a mumble without feeling spears going through my brain. I sat and had around six black coffees and four cigarretes before the world started making sense. I still hated every single australian smiling and laughing at the pool, I needed a retreat from that entire good mood. I decided hitting the beach, I didn’t want anything to do with the people getting insanely drunk before lunchtime at the pool, for fuck’s sake, it takes me a few hours before trying to pull off such a stunt twice within 12 hours. I entered the beach, stood on the sand and took a deep breath right before I got attacked by the locals – they gently grabbed me by my arms and sat me under a tree while collectively giving me a foot massage, pedicure and some random guy was offering me a henna tattoo which I profusely said no with no effect, one lady kept touching my head and arms hair saying she never saw deep gray hair, at some point I was borderline panicking and trying to make them stop as gentle as possible while yelling and trying to make the tattoo guy stop poking me with a thin stick with henna “I don’t want your fucking tattoo !!” I kept telling him pushing his hand away. At some point I just managed myself to stand up and turn back to the hotel while being harassed by four or five ladies asking for money, which I didn’t have on me – I went to the room, got some money and gave them promising to give more if they keep themselves away. Now, I was hangover and aggravated while I’ve walked back to the hotel now for safer grounds. I noticed a little room with a sign that said SPA, got myself in for a treat: a full massage. I entered and a chubby dark lady asked my room number, took my key and put me laying on my chest in a massage bed with a hole for my face, right before lying on the bed, I noticed a pole on the ceiling but had no idea what was about to happen. The nice lady started spreading some very nice smelling lotion on my back rubbing very gently, I felt all the tension leaving my body immediately, finally, I made a good decision after all… …at some point she stopped when I was literally purring, I thought she was about to get some more lotion, yesss please, when all of a sudden I feel a firm and heavy pressure over my spine, it took me a few ouchs and some eye-popping squeezes until I realized the reason of the pole, it meant that a 100 kgs lady was walking over my back holding on to the fucking pole pressing her gigantic toes all over my spine that I could actually hear crackling and popping . After a few minutes of that, I confess it became bearable right before pleasant and some minutes later I thought about giving her a whip and handcuffs and beg her to get me off at once. I felt marvelous when I left the SPA and felt incredibly thirsty – I would hit the pool and abuse some Australians with the good God’s grace. The usual suspects were there, my favorite couple included, and I started an Arak attack deliberately self-inflicted this time, my system already had time to adapt to the local beverage, so I just assumed my liver had to deal with it, want it or not. I spent the whole afternoon and beginning of the evening drinking, now I was red-faced and unusually friendly to people I wouldn’t give a minute of any given day, but my beloved couple seemed to like my witted-foul mouth and invited me for a Mexican dinner at a local joint. Before going to our rooms, we went for a little shopping (I needed deodorant and some other amenities) and Steph and I, stupid drunk, thought that it would be a good idea buying sarongs to wear during our night out and probably during the whole week, the idea of a sarong and no underwear was really amusing for us and strangely enough for Daniela, who helped us choosing (I got a red one, and he got a green-multicolored hippie style). We hit the hotel, and one hour later we were at the very cheesy Mexican joint wearing sarongs and wildly drinking tequilas. I took Daniela for a dance and after trying to get Steph to dance with his wife, I decided it would be very amusing two guys dancing Gipsy Kings wearing sarongs swirling and making very affected faces. Daniela nearly pissed her pants and the staff and guests applauded profusely. We were pretty hammered by the time we left for the hotel for more Araks at the pool. I changed myself into my Bermuda and met Daniela at the pool, we ordered some Araks and were chatting inside the pool when a couple approached us – they were from New Zealand and newlyweds as well, they just looked neat, both were personal trainers and they were drinking coconut water because they “avoid alcohol intake as a matter of health” in fact, they were those couples of really adjusted, healthy, anal-retentive church goers we see on movies, the type I rather get herpes all over my body than spending a weekend together. We wanted to be nice and while we were chatting I heard some stomps, heavy and steady, getting louder and louder behind us – before we had time to turn on our heels, we saw a shadow casting upon us, all four of us looked up to see one of the most horrendous sights ever: Steph flying over the four of us, completely naked, his saggy penis flapping upon his strangely pink balls in what it felt a slow motion descend into the pool… The anal retentive couple was in pure shock; after a few odd seconds, the anal-retentive wife asked what was THAT(..) it took a good second for Dani to answer that THAT was her husband causing me uncontrolled laughter and involuntary bladder leakage, it took me a whole minute to stop peeing in the pool, I just couldn’t stop. That was one of the highlights of my whole trip. For our relief, the odd couple excused themselves immediately, and we kept our drinking at full speed until around one in the morning, I still had the tour booked the following day and had to be up at seven. God help me with the Arak effects. I woke up with the damn phone ringing again and feeling like shit – I felt a little better than the previous morning but still a bit hangover, I got dressed, grabbed my backpack and got a 12 pack at the bar to go, I stepped inside the van carrying my beer, wearing my shades and sat like a primma donna in the middle of the first row right behind my driver and the always smiling tour guide, he looked at me, smiled and said “you do really enjoy your beer, huh ?” I just told him I needed that to function properly. He was a nice guy, but at seven AM, I couldn’t really appreciate anyone being SO nice to me, in those mornings, I do appreciate a reverential silence; we were headed to the Monkey Jungle and for some temple visiting. After a few miles, they stopped at some place which it turned out to be a souvenir store, which kind of infuriated me – I instructed that since there was no other passengers, we wouldn’t be seeing any stores, restaurants or any other outlet made for the average tourist: I wanted the real stuff and I would choose where I want to eat and buy my shit. Speaking of my shit, after four cans of beer I was already in my good graces again and got my shit together, I was no longer a hot mess and started to get apeshit excited about the views, the places and the local scenery – everything looked so green and alive that I started also noticing how chaotic the local traffic can be, scooters with whole families of seven and their groceries on top, hundreds of them, small old cars, all just buzzing and crossing around ignoring that little thin white line dividing the two senses of traffic and other little things as life and death, for many moments I kept drinking long sips to make myself numb to the fact that I could instantly die in a country where my family could not retrieve my body that easily, or ever, depending on which side of those mountains we would roll down. My first route intervention occurred when we approached a wooden arena, with boards making benches in a small coliseum shape, with such a crowd that made our driver stop to wait for the people crossing the road. I asked what was that and Sam (my guide) answered it was a cock fight. “It is legal here?” “No.” “Stop, stop this car right now.” We entered the arena, Sam was pretty uneasy about entering the premises with the only white guy around while I was already halfway-drunk and not really giving a shit about it. I bet on a match and won double my money, I was glowing by the time I returned the car with my recently bought Arak drink being dragged by my arm by Sam. At this point, they had an idea with whom they were dealing with, a very drunk, irresponsible white tourist searching for some adventure. I felt really alive. The mood got a lot better in the car, as my guide started asking me questions about me, my life, my country, my whereabouts – at some point he asked if I was chasing booty, as in prostitution, but I nicely said that I think sexual tourism is disgusting, but that didn’t stop him saying that we westerners have big dicks, as he has seen on the (porno) movies, I actually explained that those guys are selected specially for having gigantic dicks but he thought I was being modest, which made me really happy – for the first time, I tried to convince someone that my dick is not big, that’s a pleasant first. After that, we’ve been to temples, seen artisans making rugs and wooden sculptures, more temples, more temples, and I was starting to feel bored because after a while, all temples look pretty much the same for the unprepared eyes of a drunken westerner. We were on a very winding, steepy road when I saw a bar aside the road, it looked like any dead-end road bar but with an exotic twist, it looked like a cabana with no walls at all apart from the counter/kitchen inside a wooden box – I started frantically waving and asking to stop, which my suspicious guides did very alarmed. We got down and I sat, told the woman with no teeth who apparently owned the place to serve my friends whatever they wanted and ordered a pout-pourri of everything she served there. I was regarded with a wooden sculpted plate with several little amounts of food,my guides started rewarding themselves for enduring with my behavior with some alcohol. I was literally stuffing my face with all that food that wisely, my guides politely refused to share with me – the tastes were from fruity papaya to fishy, mushy to crunchy and I was trying to get a brief description from the lady of each delicacy. At some point, there was this crunchy paste with green curry flavor (I was washing all of it with good bintang beer) which I devoured with bread, it had this prawn taste but a little milder and I literally licked the plate, when I asked about that one in particular, she was gesticulating and repeating the word “cricket”. “cricket?” “cricket”. “Cricket ? Cricket ?” I asked while gesticulating with my fingers as cricket legs scratching themselves. “Yess… cricket”. I kept eating while staring at her warming toothless smile. We finished eating and drinking, I chatted with the local drunks with my now guide/interpreter and off we went – temple, jungle, temple and to finish it off, temple again. We ended at Tanah Lot, a Buddhist temple built on a rock, at the sea, beautiful view but as many of them, we are not allowed inside so... after 15 minutes I got bored again and wanted to be back at the comfort of the hotel, where at the outside restaurant, there was my new friends all gathered where a TV was set for the Rugby match of the season: New Zealand vs. Australia. I’m proud to announce that New Zealand kicked some OZ ass. I still love the All Blacks. Sorry Michael. After the match, all of them decided to go sleep (that was a first) and I was left alone until the bartender closed. Bored, again. I decided to take a walk along the beach with my MP3 player on in a recently zen self-awareness acquired desire. The beach in front of the hotel had lights all along, but after some 200 meters, the beach was pitch black and the further I went, the more suspicious I grew, I had some money in my pocket and maybe that could buy me my life or at least a lighter rape, without the beating. At some point I started to feel confident again since not even the criminals were anywhere to be seen as the regular people. As I was walking in the dark, I felt a gentle vibration, I took off my ear buds, and heard a boom sound, like the bass of a disco – I kept walking with renovated energy. I walked until I found the source of that hypnotic noise, the promise of mundane life, a beautiful bar with giant bay windows called Metropolis with a replica statue of the robotic lady from the homonymous movie – I went inside in a heartbeat, as a fat woman drawned into a Dunkin Donuts. I sat and thought “what a hell, nobody here knows me, I can go a little girly” and ordered a Cosmo made with blackcurrant Absolut. It proved to be a bit watery and too sweet, so I reminded myself that I’m not a girl and not 15 for that matter, I ordered a plain Absolut straight up, and again, life started to make sense again. After a couple of vodkas, I didn’t even noticed that I was seating in a bar by myself (which, at that time, wasn’t completely new for me) when I was approached by the beautiful hostess, which had her way of making clear that she wanted to get away with me and believe me, nothing makes me more suspicious than a hot, hot girl approaching me out of nowhere. We talked a bit and she suggested we could go for her place and I felt like I really had the biggest dick around, but as all things in my life, that was ruined when she asked for money in exchange for her hot pocket and only if I agreed to go to her place (no hotel, no hotel). Since I’m not into waking up inside a bathtub filled with ice and one kidney less, I politely declined her generous offer and keep focused on getting myself hammered. Which, I may say, I succeeded. The following morning, the damn call from the front desk again – my tour friends were awaiting for me, I took my usual 12 pack under my arm and off we go again exploring Bali; This time, I managed to get my guide stupid drunk by the time we were back at 7:00 pm, the tour ended at 17:00 but I dragged him into my alcohol fueled tentacles. Back to the Hotel, my Aussie friends invited me to join them at a nightclub at 22:00 hs. Got dressed and waited at the lobby with my usual Arak drink at hand, when they came, a group of 12 or 15 Aussies wearing the most ridiculous shirts ever, pissed drunk and ready for action. We got into the cab, I told them that due to the latest events (the bombing) I shouldn’t be hangin around with them, they were bad luck. Everybody laughed, but I was being deadly serious. We got to the club; the place was big, with stages, round small platforms for pole dancing and the lightning made it look like a very kitsch fish tank, at the entrance we receive a voucher for a drink called “jungle juice” which consisted on fruit punch with loads of Arak in a bucket sized glass; after three of those, I was already moving like Jagger (in my mind, in reality I was a white guy trying to dance reggae music, which is scary) and I made a little bet with my new friends, to climb a table and dance on it in an epileptic manner, which I pretty much accomplished but in the middle of my performance, I felt a heavy thump on my neck, knocking me off the table – I hit the floor like a bag of shit – the bouncer was menacing staring at me when I looked up and started yelling at me, I apologized and literally begged on my knees (well, I was already there) to not be threw out. We successfully made it through the night and managed to get back to the hotel, we had to carry some of our soldiers on our shoulders, some of them hit the pool and I called it a night because I wasn’t supposed to be drinking before scuba diving in first place. I woke up at seven again, with the damn phone ringing, tasting what probably could be my own anus, which by this time must have been misplaced by drinking my ass off, I got up and embarked in a blue van with a French couple and a energizer bunny from hell that was the diving instructor, I thought who has such energy by 7:00 am and thought what it would be like having him as a flatmate – I would probably have him killed by the end of the first week. We went to Amed, a small village in the northeast part of the island where it was supposed to be one of the best diving around – quick stop to their agency where they check our certificates and we got there two hours later. After getting ready, all gear on; we got on some canoe like boats that left us at our starting point to make all the way back to shore diving. The diving went smoothly, we followed bunny all the way around when I checked my manometer: I was in the red zone – I poked bunny showing him that I would may run out of that thing that might would be cool having when you’re 13 meters down in the water, but he ignored me and kept going for my horror but I still was finding everything so beautiful and made up my mind it would be a nice way to leave this world. For my surprise, I didn’t notice that we were nearby the shore, and at a shallow depth which means I made an ass of myself. At the end of the dive, we had lunch scheduled at the local restaurant but they had no menu and nobody came to announce the specials so we waited until our chef/host/waiter brought our meals. For my not so glad surprise, the cook came with a plate with rice and a whole fried fish, and by whole I mean scales, guts and the works. I was planning to poke around the fish, until it gets messy, have a little rice with the best bits and leave without offending our host but I miscalculated the possibility of him seating by my side to share his beer with me; apart for the scales, it wasn’t that nasty. I came back spitting scales all over the van, as my little revenge. Back to the Hotel, I had some serious dinking to do, since my tour schedule had finally ended and my Groundhog Day mornings were over. I met my Aussies at the wet bar (I wonder if they ever left the hotel) and this time, there was one more aussie – Grant was living there for six months and wasn’t planning to leave so soon, since there was some lack of child support charges awaiting for him back in Australia, he decided that money would be better invested on booze, cheap Indonesian hookers and the occasional weed than actually supporting some egoistic child that wants to steal the best years of his life. Nice guy. With our pack of criminals together, we embarked in a drinking competition chugging Arak as we had no tomorrow – I can’t remember who won, damn, I don’t even remember going back to my room, but I had some flashes of one of the kiwi girls peeing on the garden, then making out with the Asian(ish) girl before passing out on the deck chair, Daniela got her hair braided “rasta” style, which looked absolutely ridiculous on a Jewish-looking girl , and I trying to reach a bottle of Arak from inside the bar counter while Bruce Lee was away, fell face down inside the bar making the whole group come to my rescue. It was a tropical “Ryan Soldier” without bombs and shooting but the blood was there. I woke up, for the first time eleven O’clock and went for breakfast and for some gift shopping on the streets, exchange some money, see the surroundings and maybe have lunch on some local restaurant. I entered one of the local money exchanges (not certified) and handed a US$ 100 bill, the guy behind the counter got a pile of small notes and started to count really fast when I noticed something fishy – I gave a quick look inside the counter and caught him dropping notes into an open drawer, I told him that I’m Brazilian and we probably invented that trick, got my money back and left for a certified exchange. I entered one of the million shops that sell bijoux, wooden crafts and all those useless stuff tourists love, and I notice the woman was wearing a burka. It’s culturally polite that you must bargain prices with them, which I hate, I do not feel pleasure on begging a few cents on stuff I didn’t even want to buy in first place. The woman started doing her business, and I remembered Bruce Lee saying that we were on Ramadan, so I applied the lowest kick ever: I asked if she could lie during Ramadan, she said no – then I asked what would be the lowest price she would make. She took off around 40% of the price and looked furious, she was fuming. I’m not proud about myself. Then, I was randomly walking around, looking for stuff to buy and maybe grabbing a bite, when I see this people standing by a van parked on the street. They stopped me and apparently wanted to chat – there are only a few reasons locals will stop you in their country: A)They want your money; B)They want to torture and kill you; C)They want to torture and kill you, and get your money. D)They just want to rape you. And maybe torture and kill you. And, get your money. They were fat, brown, and they all looked alike, three fat guys and one fat girl, as a matter of fact, I like fat people – I want to squeeze them, pinch their cheeks and grab their fat back of their necks, so they inquired where I was from, yadda yadda yadda… …when I mentioned I was living in Auckland, they all got OHHH, their sister (who was supposedly a nurse) was going to Auckland which was driving their mother crazy (they have life-lasting mother issues, a lot live with their moms until 40) and I should go to their place to talk to her. I still don’t know how I ended inside their car, heading outskirts Denpasar, I spent the whole way planning my escape plan, If it was too fast to jump off the car, If I was strong enough to overpower the fat chunky girl blocking the door, etc… I was hoping for a quick and painless death, but stupid people like me wouldn’t probably deserve mercy because getting in stranger’s car in a strange country is certainly not the smartest move ever, Ricardo. If I get lucky of only get sexually abused, I would learn something for life. We got to their place. It was a nice beautiful house indeed, we got inside and the mother was setting the table for lunch; the living room was clean, spacious and had an opening on the roof with a stone artificial waterfall and a little pond with catfish inside. It was a true view. The uncle looked me with a disgust expression, but the rest of the family treated me really well, the food was superb but the suspicion of a Manson Family likeness was always in my mind, they are probably feeding me so I would taste better when they barbeque me later on. I asked to take a picture of them, but their beliefs say that if you take a picture inside the house, you take all the good energy and their ancestors’ souls with you. Felt like an uncultured asshole again. After the meal, they took me back in their van and asked money for gas (that’s the catch!!) and I gave what probably would be 15 days wages for them, they seemed satisfied, and dropped me exactly where the picked me up. I was really relieved. And non-violated. As much as I deserved. I stopped at the first bar made of bamboo, ordered a Bintang (which I drank with two sips) and my world started to make sense once again. I had two or three more, and now I felt safe and comfortably numb. Sweating like a pig, probably a retarded effect of my previous fear and self-loathing. Back to hotel, pack it all up, pay the bar tab. I’m ready to go. Dani and Steph were leaving the same day, we left for the airport together (Steph was still wearing the sarong, and going commando) we had some beers and said goodbye to never hear about each other again as travel mates should do – never know each other in our normal environments and avoid disappointments. Do that, and be an eternal legend to someone. When I tried to get on the plane, the guy at the check-in informed me I couldn’t board because I didn’t have my plane ticket to Brazil on me (even having a multiple entry visa to New Zealand). I was outraged, I would have my flatmates mailing me from New Zealand, and I would have been stuck there for days, in paradise… ..Suddenly, that didn’t sound that bad and besides, I had half on the money I brought left. But I had to go back to work, and after a US$ 50 bribe I bought a ticket to Brazil from Auckland 100% refundable after I went back. As I was back, I returned to work waiting tables. There’s something people in New Zealand and Australia call “Bali Belly” and it means that after you come back, all that exotic food will turn itself against you, so that means you will shit brown watery matter each 20 minutes in the first week, intervals increasing 20 minutes every week during one month. Can you imagine, a waiter patiently waiting for you to decide between the mushroom pasta or carbonara (with or without cheese) sweating profusely because he’s nearly shitting his pants (and ruining your appetite) ? Yep, that was me. Eventually, my asshole went back to its normal size and color, and I stopped thinking that I would die of some third world flesh-eating bacteria. And for the record, I would do all over again.

By the way....

O projeto de escrever um livro (de verdade) vai aos trancos e barrancos... pois se estou em casa, fazendo nada, é porque tive que ir ao invés de trabalhar ou malhar por estar cansado. Mas está saindo... enquanto isso, ando lendo o livro da Gabrielle Hamilton, muito inspirador ver como ela abriu o Prune em NY. E o República Gastronômica da China também é sensacional. E tantos outros... quem sabe eu não sou o próximo ?

De volta ou não.

Não devo mais ter tantos leitores após dois anos de paralização, então posso começar a derramar meus planos de futuro próximo : tentar abrir e não enterrar no rabo um restaurante. A procura por imóveis tem sido frustrante e a perspectiva de fracasso meio que as vezes me fazem torcer para tal lugar não estar disponível, mas minha futura sócia tem me empurrado em direção ao fabuloso desconhecido. Simplesmente espero que este se torne o blog oficial de meu restaurante ainda não nascido. Que bom estar de volta, dois anos sem cozinhar parecem muito tempo... ..estou ajudando família nos negócios e mantendo um olho em meus pais enquanto desleixadamente gasto o dinheiro deles na inconsciente busca por compensação de (ter que) me voluntariar a estar em uma cidade que não quero, fazendo o que não quero, em uma situação não-desejável, me relacionando com pessoas pouco desejáveis. Meus amigos de infância casaram, mudaram-se, formaram-se, e para eles, meu cozinhar deveria ser mais um dos passatempos que ELES cultivam, assim como cuidar dos filhos, dos cônjuges, da pintura da casa são mais importantes do que qualquer coisa que seja importante para mim, e isso me deprime e ressente um pouco. Quero agora, dar à luz ao meu bebê, criá-lo, nutri-lo até que ele cuide de mim também. Na verdade, não há nada para mim aqui que seja de verdade significativo a não ser o que sempre será e não é mutável - a presença da família e a familiaridade toda da vida que levo. Será que eu mereço, enfim, ser feliz mesmo que falindo meu sonho ? Não faço o tipo sonhador.

Lembranças sangrentas.

Hoje, estou um misto de nostálgico/triste/aliviado.



Há quase quatro meses definitivamente longe das cozinhas profissinionais.

Este fim-de-semana me lembrou disso com todas as letras, pontos, marcadores e dificuldades que a profissão te impõe (ou cobra de você) - minha tarefa este fim de semana era a mais simples possível : cozinhar spaguetti para 12 pessoas, spaguetti levemente picante ao Vôngole com kilos de alho e salsinha aos litros de azeite extra-virgem. Um chipanzé bêbado pode realizar a tarefa, se bem treinado.



Minha noitada de Sexta não foi diferente das muitas que tive ao longo da carreira, cheguei em casa às seis da manhã e sem dormir, fui direto ao batente (que ficava a 200 kms de estrada, vá lá), meu senso de responsabilidade continua o mesmo, em cinco minutos estava no portão com minhas facas, uniforme impecável, etc... ...mas o resto mudou muito ao longo dos anos.



Minhas ressacas, agora, são muito mais intensas e incapacitantes que há dez anos atrás, o que significa que estava saindo com a largada queimada e que o dia seria difícil. O fato de chegarmos ao local antes dos primeiros pios evocarem dos galinheiros mais um atraso de três horas e meia para servimos a comida também não ajudaram. O fogão da cozinha que iria usar estar sem gás também não ajudou pois carregar um botijão de mais de 200kgs em duas pessoas por uma distância de 30 metros até o carro é uma tarefa que também não desempenho com a mesma desenvoltura de sete anos atrás pelo menos.

Suando aos cântaros, pus a água para ferver pouco antes da hora combinada para servir.



O spaguetti cozido à perfeição, vamos fazer a tal da pasta, a cozinha agora começava a esquentar, meu estômago dando voltas e voltas em órbita de nada (completamente vazio a não ser pelo álcool residual da noite anterior), as cozinheiras me mandaram menos da metade do vinho branco que eu precisava e eu tinha um terço do alho que pretendia usar, o local em que estava não era usado há seis meses e não havia um único ingrediente a vista - estava fazendo o melhor que podia para não deixar a pasta ruim, aceitável e suave era um bom patamar (enfim, não foder a receita) e na hora de adicionar a pimenta malagueta, calculei três mini-malaguetinhas para 2kgs de macarrão, não iriam matar ninguém. Sem calcular que : a capsicina da pimenta se dissolve em óleo (no caso o litro de azeite no qual refoguei), o quase um kilo de vôngole fica levemente apimentado/elétrico quando cozido - somados, iriam provocar uma hecatombe mexicana, tive que servir quase com um aviso de biohazard. Curiosamente, recebi elogios de uma platéia afecionada por pimenta ou, muito educada para me mandar passar a pasta em minhas hemorróidas, o que considero um castigo apropriado para um cozinheiro que fode um prato simples como aquele. Meu principal objetivo durante todo o dia, na verdade, era não vomitar na panela enquanto servia kilos de frutos do mar fumegantes aos convidados. Tive a impressão de que não seria de bom tom.



Lembro da época do Tatler, eu era o cozinheiro mais ágil, mais empolgado e mais confiável que o (pouco) dinheiro poderia pagar - no Cassino eu era o chef em ascenção de que todos ouviam falar, eu estava no fundo e no topo do mundo ao mesmo tempo.

Morava em um apartamento decente em Auckland CBD, conseguia pagar minhas contas e minha bebida (e bebia, muito) mas estava constantemente irado, ver os carros dos clientes me deixava irado, olhar as roupas e relógios deles me deixavam irado, passar todos os dias na frente da Breitiling de Auckland me deixava puto. Na verdade, o que me deixava puto não era querer um relógio daqueles, nunca quis e duvido muito que queira ainda comprar um, mas o fato de existirem pessoas que usam um carro no pulso enquanto eu não tinha um(e nem teria, ao que tudo indicava). Os trinta anos vão chegando, e com eles a resolução de que se portar como um imbecil de 23 não era mais o indicado para progredir na vida - e você começa a ver a vida com mais responsabilidade, medo e baixas expectativas fora o fato de seus joelhos não estarem mais tão rápidos e responsivos à 14 horas de pé em frente à fornos em 300°C , a realidade é que se eu disser que sinto falta disso, eu estou mentindo. Amo cozinhar, amo tratar meus ingredientes com respeito e carinho, amo odiar vegetarianos, mas dizer que eu gostaria de enfrentar 14 horas por dias de stress, calor sufocante e momentos de desespero que tendem a durar cada vez mais dentro de uma cozinha abarrotada em meio à comandas intermináveis, mâitres D' histéricos e head Chefs sádicos... ...acho que não, obrigado.



Lembro das pessoas com quem trabalhei - Mark Beeby provavelmente será (e é) o Head Chef mais lembrado por mim, pelas insanidades e crimes cometidos com e pela comida, pela personalidade transloucada com que tratava os restaurantes e cozinheiros e por ter sido um mestre em custos abaixo dos 20% sem sacrificar tanto a comida (que não era nem de longe Fine Dining, mas uma refeição honesta se o Tatler cobrasse uns 30% a menos no menu). Esse é o homem que explodiu uma batata assada na minha cara, explodiu duas recargas de sifão em uma frigideira logo atrás de nós no passe só pela diversão, distribua tapas e apertões na bundas em xadrez da equipe e acabou como um grande amigo (ainda que odiado pelo resto da equipe).



Steven não-lembro-o-sobrenome me ensinou muito, porém não sobre cozinha (eu era melhor que ele) mas sobre a vida dura e competitiva que uma cozinha poderia ter, dedurando, sabotando, provocando e fazendo de minha vida um total e completo inferno - me fez perceber também, o valor de ser honesto e leal até com quem te ferra. Acabou despedido por ser desleal à mim (e por quase fazer o chef perder seu assistente, no caso, eu) mas morreu através da própria boca, não pela minha, tentando fazer com que fosse despedido e meu visto de trabalho revogado. Acabou como head chef de uma pizzaria (fiquei surpreso) e depois foi dar umas bandas pela Austrália e nunca mais ouvi falar dele, tomamos algumas cervejas juntos depois que ele foi mandado embora, ele confessou todas as merdas em que me metia mas disse que sinceramente respeitava meu trabalho e que me via como uma ameaça ao cargo de Sous-chef. Nenhum dos dois conseguiu o cargo, apesar de eu ter conseguido mais privilégios que o próprio cargo oferecia por ser a cadelinha preferida do chef. Não que tenha orgulho disso, mas ganhei muitas folgas de fim de semana.



Craig Saunders e Fran Nolan, respectivamente, me ensinaram o valor da lealdade mas na mão contrária, olhavam por mim, me ensinavam tudo de tudo : manejo de faca, técnicas, pontos de cozimento, receitas pessoais, como trazer de volta à vida receitas assassinadas pela falta de experiência, tudo. Craig me ensinou a NUNCA, ou ao menos no mínimo possível, entrar em pânico e que um cozinheiro pode e deve se orgulhar de ser inteligente.

Fran, na verdade, foi um dos primeiros a me ensinar o que é uma paixão, sincera e incomprometida pela comida e pelo que ela poderia proporcionar, pelo estilo de vida dos chefs, a ter a habilidade de transformar ingredientes ordinários em pratos extraordinários e por nunca desvalorizar nenhum ingrediente - uma cenoura ou foie gras, ambos tinham seu valor e deveriam ser o máximo que poderiam ser (não que ele ficasse igualmente empolgado ao ter que utilizá-los em cada caso). Ele foi o único a me dizer "é bom ter você de volta" quando voltei de dois meses de férias no Brasil, reconfortante.



Fabricio, argentino, me ensinou muito, muito... ...nem sei por onde começar, talvez a não levar tudo tão a sério, como cozinhar pode e deve ser uma equação, uma ciência, e não apenas arte como alguns dizem, e me ensinou principalmente a ter orgulho de usar meu uniforme, andar de cabeça erguida e nunca, nunca levar mais desaforo para casa do que alguém em minha posição deveria. Me ensinou, na verdade a ser um pirata da cozinha, arruaceiro, indestrutível, mas uma máquina na hora de trabalhar - ser organizado, limpo e nunca esquecer detalhes. Ele me ensinou a me livrar de uma relação indesejada no trabalho de uma maneira fácil e rápida - um simples boquete no banheiro feminino e a gerente nunca mais iria poder se dar ao trabalho de uma vingança, caso eu não correspondesse às expectativas amorosas dela. Quanta sabedoria.



Mike Novak, o lavador de pratos da República TCheca, constantemente chapado ou bêbado (ou ambos) me ensinou algumas coisas - nenhuma delas propositadamente, Deus o poupe de fazer alguma coisa didática mas principalmente a nunca copiar ou tolerar alguém que fuma um baseado cinco minutos antes do serviço do jantar, a ser o traste mais amado pela cozinha pela consistência de caráter e pela obtenção/apropriação não-autorizada de ingredientes em momentos de necessidade e considerar a equipe a ponto de aparecer para trabalhar no dia da morte de seu pai, ou continuar a imergir a mão em uma pia de água morna/quente durante horas a fio após mergulhar mais de 50% da mão na fritadeira à 250°C - após isso, qual membro da equipe iria atrever-se a não aparecer por causa de uma gripe ?



John Jones me ensinou muito do que não se deve fazer ao abrir um negócio, à dividir melhor as relações dentro do trabalho e tudo mais que pode em uma didática reversa - fazendo tudo isso errado.

Se o seu funcionário é seu amigo, a não ser que ele não queira receber dinheiro de você (acredite, eu constantemente não quero e não cobro o favor depois, nem conto com isso) pague-o, nem um centavo a mais ou a menos, mas pague. Gosto muito dele, um cara muito amigo e afetuoso, tanto que ameaçar vender o carro dele para receber meu dinheiro relativo às ferias e horas extras de sete meses de trabalho ininterruptos (sim, sem dias de folga), não afetou nossa amizade. Hoje, o Café que ele abriu, é um sucesso em Queenstown (PJ's Café) e lucra profusamente com Cafés da Manhã e Fish and Chips para os backpackers da região, as vezes eu ligo para ele para saber das novas. A esposa dele me odeia, como se eu pudesse me culpar por um/qualquer irlandês beber demais.



Meus quatro subordinados na Skycity, me ensinaram a liderar sendo regular e constantemente quatro idiotas irresponsáveis que jogaram futuros brilhantes na lata de lixo abandonando a escola por um estágio de dois anos pelo Cassino, sendo relapsos e infantis no trabalho e por, inocentemente, sempre serem surpreendidos por mim nas piores horas possíveis. Igor e Sean (a.k.a. Mary Kate e Ashley), Vanessa e Jake (o adorável vagabundo) eram minha responsabilidade de certa forma, quatro crianças que curiosamente, como cães vira-latas, mesmo após serem cobertos por pontapés, sempre vinham abanando as caudas quando me viam. Gostaria de saber se eles se tornaram grandes Chefs, cozinheiros ou seja lá o que resolveram fazer da vida.



Um grande Chef brasileiro, me ensinou que ações valem mais do que palavras e decência se mede geralmente pelas primeiras - mostrou-me isso explorando jovens chefs, pagando tão mal que os únicos que podem trabalhar para ele, são os que justamente não precisam trabalhar; negando a oportunidade a quem realmente poderia beneficiar-se desse privilégio. Não que a equipe mais experiente dele tenha a mesma sorte, são muito bem-pagos e amam seu chef, nada disso, aliás admiro muito o trabalho dele. Mas não tolero a forma de excluir jovens talentosos, cheios de gás e esperanças por não poderem se manter em uma cidade como São Paulo por "brincar de trabalhar". Eu passei por isso, e logo em seguida, no próximo emprego, estava ganhando o triplo do que ele pagava. Valeu a pena para conhecer quem é quem na indústria, mas não sei se faria de novo pelas mesmas condições.



Pascal Valero me ensinou que um Chef pode fazer dinheiro sem vender a sua alma, que pode-se vender comida boa a preços razoáveis e que principalmente, um Chef pode ter uma aposentadoria decente sem ter que morrer acorrentado pelo pé nos fogões, sem desaparecer de sua cozinha. O homem é um gênio, em muitos sentidos, por não complicar a vida de sua equipe, por se fazer respeitar e se dar a esse respeito e mostrar que não basta saber cozinhar apenas - um Chef tem que administrar TODOS os aspectos de um grande restaurante, saber o que está nas geladeiras sem abrir as portas, gerenciar 50 cozinheiros ou mais, saber quais precisam ser agradados na hora certa e quais merecem uma gelada na hora certa. Trabalharia para ele até em uma barraquinha de praia fosse preciso, ele sabe que aprender com ele é uma coisa preciosa e não faz segredo disso, aliás, ele dificilmente irá enrolar você, doa a quem doer.



Aprendi demais com um jovem chef, tinha uma admiração quase lunática pelo trabalho dele - porém vi a ambição culinária transformá-lo em um maníaco, custos estratosféricos margeando o trabalho, a pressão sobre ele se transferindo para a equipe, o sonho da cozinha perfeita dando lugar à um crescente pesadelo que consumiu nossos sonhos de utopia, vi as próprias expectativas dele serem devoradas pelo monstro que se instaurou naquele lugar, me senti ressentido por receber a frustração dele em doses cavalares e por não corresponder às expectativas dele me fazendo sentir impotente e inútil - na verdade eu queria ter feito mais por ele do que desejava para mim. Acabei pedindo demissão imediata, coisa que nunca havia feito na vida, mas na hora, no momento, tudo parecia muito... ..dolorido. E ainda é.

Mas o talento e a vontade férrea estão lá, e tenho certeza que vou ouvir o nome dele muito ainda, torço por isso e não acho que ele mereça menos que isso.



Com meu atual acólito e parceiro no crime, aprendi a ter responsabilidade pelo negócio e pelo emprego de outras pessoas até - poucas pessoas depositaram (depositam) tanta confiança em mim quanto ele, e por isso ele terá minha lealdade... ...mas na verdade, ambos gostamos de cozinha, hoje em dia, contanto que não precisemos estar lá o tempo todo. Ambos estamos afastados da cozinha, ambos estamos com saudades da loucura, da pressão, da equipe.



Mas o que realmente me dá saudades, é sentar em um bar após a batalha diária, pedir uma cerveja com seus colegas e beber sem culpa, com o sentimento do dever cumprido - essa sensação, não é negociável - voc~e sabe quando você merece, quando nada saiu errado, quando todos estão felizes (e cansados), quando todos irão para casa com um leve sorriso no rosto. Na verdade, quando escrevia no blog antigamente, cheguei a atacar pessoas que não mereciam a minha raiva não-direcionada, as pessoas me acham mais comportado em geral, mas ainda odeio um monte de coisas, até porque, eu estava genuinamente PUTO, com a vida, com a falta de melhores perspectivas, com a perspectiva certa de que as coisas estavam ruins e tendiam ficar piores. Sabotei muitos empregos promissores pela negra percepção de anos e anos a fio trabalhando assim, para me tornar um homém de meia idade decrépito, melancólico e com nenhuma chance de aceder na indústria pelas péssimas condições que estes anos de trabalho me deixariam. Minha mente já não lembra de tudo em detalhes mínimos, não responde mais à velocidade dos pedidos e eu sou muito mais tenso e bravo dentro da cozinha do que jamais fui - a paciência se esgota, e para quem já tinha pouca, não é nada bom.



Mas, eu continuo. Amando muito tudo isso, contanto que tudo isso não venha em uma caixa de papelão (e com gosto de papelão). Quem sabe eu ainda não volte à cozinhar

Ok, você venceu. Macarrons !!

Descobri hoje que o meu sagrado Le Cordon Bleu Book não tem Macaroons - fiquei sentido e maio que quis jogar o livro pela janela, como assim não tem Macaroons...
Mas o meu Food The Definitive Guide veio ao meu socorro mais uma vez, e me mostrou a verdade e me salvou da ignorância pura. Esta receita é de macaroons tradicionais, para aqueles chiques de aparência perfeita e lisa, esqueça, procure um Patissiere mais próximo de seu lar e faça amizade com ele, cubra-o de presentes e mimos, champagne e quando ele menos perceber, estará fazendo macaroons no Bar Mitzva de seu sobrinho.
O que você pode fazer é :
Forrar uma assadeira com papel arroz, tipo papel-manteiga mas comestível, misturar 110 gr. de amêndoas em pó (disponível em casas como a Barra Doce em SP), 170 gr. de açúcar e uma colher de sopa de farinha de trigo. Adicione duas claras de ovo sem batê-las, duas/três gotas de essência de amêndoas e meia colher de chá de essência de baunilha (seria ótimo ter favas de baunilha à mão, mas são estúpidamente caras) e bata tudo muito bem - com uma colher ponha a mistura em gotas grandes deixando assentar e deixando espaço para crescerem e asse por 20 minutos à 180ºC, deixe esfriar completamente e retire da fôrma. O papel arroz é o toque do livro que diz que vai grudar nos macaroons, mas se você tiver papel manteiga não custa tentar, legal seria um Silplat, um tapetinho de borracha que você forra a assadeira e não deixa nadinha grudar (mas para variar, custa uma bica)...
Aproveite esse pedacinho da França com um bom café ou chá, para presentear em uma caixa legal também é bacana e não custa Tããão caro quanto aquela garrafa de vinho que sua amiga adora, o que vale é a sua intenção e esforço para fazer um presente tão pessoal como esse, e salvar-se de comprar um Chateauneuf du Pape que iria arrasar com seus planos de um home theather.
P´roxima parada - Provence e porque não deveríamos estar tão longe de lá...

Todos amam ceviche.

Cebiche, essa maravilha moderna.
Se você não gosta de peixe crú, por favor passe para outro site, mas se você gosta e está cansado de sashimi, veio ao lugar certo.
Cebiche é a entrada perfeita, é leve e saboroso e até rende pracas quando vai se abrir o apetite de convivas inesperados, se eles não gostarem tanto melhor pois você pode comer mais enquanto sorve um vinho verde sem culpa nenhuma - descole um pescado branco e corte em tirinhas fininhas (adoro fazer com robalo) e tempere com uma mistura de limão siciliano, sal, azeite extra virgem e se puder uma pimentinha curtida em óleo e uma ceboulete por cima para decorar, a glória total, se puder usar hortelã, coentro (para quem gosta) picado misturado ao azeite, esta é a glória dops deuses, para que lembrar que pão existe quando Deus nos deu peixes ?
Ceviche ou Cebiche é um prato peruano que está viajando pelo mundo e se você realmente quiser impressionar, sirva-o.
O importante é que o limão ou outro cítrico cozinhe-o para você, arrange as fatias pelo prato em uma flor bonita, ponha uma salada ou salmão em cubos pequenos no meio (como eu amo fazer) e belisque com pão (vá lá) catando umas folhas para um sabor perfeito...
Não gosta de peixe crú ? Ok, arrange um pargo de 1,5 a 2kgs. limpo com escamas, ponha capim-santo no meio e umas rodelas de limão na barriga e em uma assadeira ponha uma camada de sal grosso, o peixe sobre ela, cubra com muito, um absurdo de sal grosso e asse em forno à 200ºC por 50 mins. ou espete com um palito, se estiver macia está pronto - quebre a casca de sal em volta em puxe para cima para descobrir que seu peixe terá sua pele toda retirada pelo sal deixando o interior carnudo exposto para você cair de cara.... sem erro.
Liberado até por Deus, ora...
Cebiche pode ser feita de lagosta, camarões, e o que mais sua imaginação quiser, apenas polvo eu recomendo que cozinhe antes (em uma panela funda, água fervendo com cenoura, aipo, cebolas, ban-chá (chá japonês amarrado em um pano), nabo e depois corte em tirinhas e tempere do jeito que eu falei o cebiche...
Adoro polvos no mar... mas se caíram na minha rede, eu traço.

Frutos do mar são uma paixão. God, tenho que colocar mais frutos do mar aqui...

Deprê

Hoje eu tô deprêzinho... mais tarde eu tento postar alguma coisa útil, pois hoje pasalix é pouco pra mim...
Ser um cozinheiro (e dos bons) requer talvez mais do que eu tenha à disposição hoje em dia, mas não vou deixar de gostar de gastronomia.

Bouef aux poivre

Bouef aux Poivre - O nome já parece chique, cheira a chique e é chique.

Alguns usam filet mignon, eu particularmente prefiro bifes de Contra (mas tem que ser O Contra) mas a escolha é sua afinal.
Peça ao seu açougueiro bifes grossos, de 2,50 cms perfeitos, elimine um pouco da gordura deixando uma camada que não agrida suas coronárias (alguns chefs adoram gordura, esse não é o meu caso quando passo uma receita) e depois faça um Au jus de carne, peça ossos de perna de boi (ou vitelo) cortados e asse-as no forno por 40 minutos a 180ºC at[é que fiquem douradas,pegue uma panela de fundo grosso e salteie cenouras em cubos, cebola cortada em duas metades, aipo, e alho porró, após seus vegetais adquirirem coloração viva, despeje uma ou duas (depende da quantidade) garrafas de vinho tinto e um bouquet garni (o mesmo do pato), adicione os ossos ou trapaceie com um ou dois cubos de caldo de carne se você realmente não suportar ossos mas deixe esta mistura ferver em fogo baixíssimo até reduzir em dois terços ou a mistura cobrir as costas de uma colher (se perceber que não vai rolar, trapaceie de novo misturando um pouco de maizena em água fria e adicionando devagar sem parar de mexer) até que se forme um caldo espesso e bonito, amadeirado.
Agora, moa grãos de pimenta do reino, soque-os sem fazerem que virem pó, eu os coloco em uma frigideira e sento porrada com uma panela de ferro pesada por cima, mas crie seu método ! Seus vizinhos irão pensar coisas estranhas pelo barulho mas quando sentirem o cheiro... ...vão miar na sua porta ou comer pão com o cheiro.
Enfim, pegue sua pimenta e adicione seus bifes pré-lambuzados de um pouco de azeite e sal e pressione cada lado até que a pimenta faça crostas... ..parece ultra-forte, mas o resultado compensa - depois frite em uma frigideira com um fio de óleo fumegante por dois minutos cada lado e transfira para uma frigideira ou assadeira um por um, e enfie-os em forno pré-aquecido à 200ºC seguindo o seguinte tempo, varia de forno para forno, se o seu for o forninho da Barbie, vai levar mais... Ok, 5 mins mal-passado, 7 ao ponto e 9 bem-passado, guarde qual será qual e vá retirando.
ponha seus bouefs no prato e cubra com o molho que você fez com tanto carinho e sirva com o acompanhamento de sua preferência.
Variações : pode-se usar a própria frigideira que você fritou os bifes para fazer um molho, jogue vinho tinto e caldo de carne e reduza (ou trapaceie) coe e ponha sobre os filés, o au jus pode ser misturado à cogumelos pré-salteados, pimenta verde (daí, esqueça fazer o poivre, apenas frite seus bifes e ponha o molho) ou reduzido ainda mais para virar Demi-glace, mas o importante aqui é a sua receita preferida, como não ??
Apresente decentemente, galhos de alecrim são ótimos para decorar, mas nunca, nunca recomendo bem-passado vale lembrar, aprenda a comer carne ao ponto e honre sua vaca ou boi, que se tivessem a sorte de starem na Índia jamais iriam ter que parar em seu prato.