So I haven’t seen my oldest son Adam in nearly six years, for a variety of reasons – but mostly because I have lived in Thailand for the past five years teaching English. Now that I’m back in Provo, he and I planned to get together for lunch. He would buy. Teaching English on a modest salary for the past several years, I can state with certainty that two of the sweetest words in the English language are “my treat.” As an aging tightwad I just don’t hear that phrase often enough!
Since he was ponying up the dough, I graciously allowed him to choose the spot. He wanted to try out a new place up in South Jordan, called Tushar.
Indian food, right? Nope, he said, it’s Brazilian.
Brazilian?
Now, I’ve noshed at delicatessens, stampeded through steak houses, fumbled with chopsticks at Chinese buffets, dunked chips in flaming salsa at Tex Mex joints, gorged on green papaya salad in Thailand, and even tried to dissect part of a goat at an Ethiopian restaurant, but, world-traveler and bon vivant that I am, I have never had a Brazilian meal. Would the waitresses be dressed like Carmen Miranda? Could I endure the inevitable Villa-Lobos melodies in the background? In my mind I saw the walls festooned with ghastly amateur paintings of Sugar Loaf Mountain. This did not sound promising.
The drive up to South Jordan was punctuated with the sort of uneasy stop-and-start conversations one has with people not seen in a while. My son nearly wrecked the car while trying to show me pictures of the grandkids from his wallet; I nearly put him to sleep with my long accounts of Thai pedagogical theory. And the weather was not helping things any. What’s with all this icy rain? I thought I had moved back to desert country; if I wanted monsoons I would’ve stayed in Thailand.
So when we reached Glover Plaza on the South Jordan Parkway and turned in to Tushar I was not in a good mood. I was prepared to dislike everything that was set before me. But since I wasn’t paying for any of it, I ordered A LOT.
First came the Pao de Queijo, or cheese buns. You know those greasy fried mozzarella sticks some places have? Well, these little cheese buns were a hundred times better. Light and crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside without turning into stringy stuff like Elmer’s Glue. Next came the coxinha and risolis (and, no, I don’t know how to speak Portuguese – I stuffed the menu in my pocket when the waitress wasn’t looking.) Loaded with chicken and with cheese, these fried dough items were not as stellar as the cheese buns, but I saw them being made by hand in the back of the kitchen – and anything made by hand in today’s world deserves a pat on the back. I had to fight Adam for the last one.
The grilled cheese on a skewer reminded me very much of the toasted cheese I could never get to come out right when I made it at home – except theirs came out just right – not too hot, not too cold, but warm and pliant like Ingrid Bergman in that recurrent daydream I have . . .
I was starting to warm up to this place. No Carmen Miranda imitations, and the décor is low-key and tasteful. The menu said they had Brazilian soda pop, so I told Adam to get me some. It’s called Guarana Antarctica, and it tastes like Dr. Brown’s Celery Tonic. It would go good with a pastrami sandwich. Then I had him order me the house drink – the Tushar. It’s a fruit smoothie combining cashew fruit with mango. As Nero Wolfe would say when his factotum Archie delivered the goods, “Satisfactory.”
You know how some people start looking at their watches when they think they’re out of time? Well, my son started looking inside his wallet as I ordered a small steak. Just four ounces, with onions. That’s the first steak I ever ate without adding any salt or steak sauce. It came with a side of fried bananas, which were to die for. They had a touch of cinnamon to them; just a soupcon, as I told my son, who by now was biting his nails down to the hyponychium. Silly boy, was he still worried I was going to act the curmudgeon? Not with good eats like these, I wasn’t!
It was still early in the afternoon, and since Adam had not indicated any hurry to go back to his office, I bade the waitress bring on some glazed pork on a skewer. It came with a side of soupy black beans. I like my beans soupy, don’t you? Makes a nice dip. And there was bacon in the beans, too.
Finishing the skewer, I patted my stomach contentedly. This was turning out to be a very happy reunion. I had discovered Brazilian comfort food. Adam seemed relieved. He got up from the table and began to mouth some platitudes about how good it was to see me again. I told him firmly to sit down so we could order dessert.
We had peanut pave and flan. You all know what flan is. They give you a mighty big serving of it at Tushar. I could barely finish it. For some strange reason Adam claimed not to be able to eat anything else, and kept mumbling something about an old fart with a hollow leg. I told him to speak up, but instead he sunk into a sullen silence. Peanut pave is a sort of peanut butter pudding, but on a celestial level. I convinced Adam to try some of it before I engulfed the rest – it brought a wan smile to his peaked face.
Yes, indeed, a reunion with a family member is a truly filling experience, er, I mean fulfilling experience. I suppose if I give the address of the place it’ll get so crowded that Adam will use that as an excuse to never take me there again. A father and son should dine together often, especially when the son foots the bill. I suppose next time he’ll take me to the Holiday station for a hotdog, the little fink.
Author biography: Tim Torkildson is a former ESL teacher in Thailand, who now lives in Provo, Utah, to be nearer his children. He writes web content for sites such as http://www.scripturepoetry.
This piece appears on this BlogSpot courtesy of the guest author, Tim Torkildson, with his permission.
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