It appears the Brazilan specialty is the all-you-can-eat buffet, and as we do for the umpteenth time in this country, we grab a plate and load up, paying for either per gram or for the entire shebang.
Brunch on the southern part of the Americas is similar to the north–eggs, breads, fruits, juices, breads, rolls, sweet things, coffees, and more, and now, we take turns oscillating between the not-quite-sure-what-that-is-but-totally-divine egg scramble thingy and plates of tiny tucks of bread, some sweet, some less, cubes of banana bread, squishy coconut rolls, chocolate croissants, regular croissants.
And, oh my, the coffee.
After months and months of freeze-dry instant poo, the cup of deep-brew drip is heavenly, the perfect balance between the sucker punch of an espresso and the mellowness of a cup of joe, roast neither bitter nor green, a trifecta of richness, depth, and flavor to savor and breathe in, aroma smooth and soulful.
Add to it the quintessential American-European conversation, the mandatory compare and contrast of vacations, the horror of discovering that Americans suffer through the year with only two weeks of vacation a year at best, a total travesty for the European, he used to an average of four weeks, sometimes six, and we ponder the quality-of-life of one continent over the other.
Another cup of coffee later, and mmmm, goodness, I wish I could bundle this roast home with me, cradled in my hands for an occasional sip of bliss, but, no, it’s now the afternoon and really, we have things to do and buses to catch.