Restaurant: Favella Chic
Location: Old Street
By Boeing : 6363 miles
By Boris Bike: 9.3 miles
It is a quirk of the alphabet that two of the world's most beguiling and bewitching countries fall within the first two letters. This means I had the great pleasure of experiencing Brazil with the taste of Argentina still lingering tantalisingly in my mouth.
For the English, a largely conservative, risk-averse race, peculiarly accustomed to and comforted by rote and routine, Brazil provides the antithesis to the calculating conformity of their everyday lives. While we would panic without such order we still yearn to escape. And where better to escape to than Brazil, that global brand encompassing exuberance, flair, passion and impulse in a heady cocktail of hedonistic sensory abandon.
While Argentina seems to be the tourist destination of the moment its neighbour Brazil has been adopted by many as their second country. This is seen through a striking cultural marker. For most young men wearing their national football shirt is to quite literally bare a badge of honour, wear their hearts on their sleeves. Imagine a Welshman wearing an England football shirt. Now imagine that welshman lasting more than ten minutes in a Swansea skirmish. And yet that same welshman could happily sport a Brazilian shirt without so much as a raised eyebrow or signet ring imprint on his brow.
On suburban greens and sink estate wrecks boys dazzle and dribble, leaving hapless defenders in their wake in a yellow Brazilian haze. On the football field, the playground, the beach and even the litter strewn courtyards of provincial shopping arcades to be Brazilian is better than British. Given that in football, and by cultural osmosis the whole way of life, Brazil is expression, invention and virility, the legendary Pele has spent the last decade promoting erectile dysfunction. Well not promoting it as such, but, how do i put this, raising its profile.
Opening the door of the old street based Favella Chic I was hit by a wall of sound as the samba beats of the house band blared out at an ear-bleeding volume. It was an assault on the senses; the eyes drawn to the decadence of the decor, the almost kitsch over elaboration of detail adorning the walls and lines of shelves serving no other purpose than to mount votive objects and popish paraphernalia. Waiting for my dining companion to arrive I ordered that most Brazilian of cocktails, the Caipirinha. Made from fermented sugar cane it is eye-wateringly sweet and cheek-pinchingly strong.
Favella Chic had drawn a eclectic crowd. There were businessmen on their way home from work, art students in small, beret wearing groups and the odd couple craning towards each other to whisper sweet nothings amid the din of the band. The name of the restaurant is intriguing. A favella is a shanty town and ramshackle slums with their communal scenes of profound poverty are seldom described as 'chic'. It is like a Liverpudlian describing the Toxteth estate as 'cosmopolitan'. But such is the lure of Brazil that even its seediest, least civilised aspects are imbued with an exotic mystery. Rather than the squalor and misery of a slum, we project an image of a favella as a vibrant, vital district with children playing football in the street and impromptu concerts performed on steel drums. The fact that its residents are defying poverty makes their lust for life and irrepressible spirit all the more romantic.
Brazilians display that visceral emotion and raw passion that has come to define Latin America and is seen it its music, dance and cinema. Not even an emotion as discrete as mild annoyance is internalised, and this is illustrated by my waitress who throws her hands in the air in consternation when I explain that I need a few more minutes with the menu. For a catholic country, with a strict moral compass, Brazilians rarely miss an opportunity to let their hair down. Looking up from my menu I noticed that I was sitting below an alter; a painted wooden statue of Jesus peering down at me. It was, in miniature, like Brazil's most iconic monument looking down over the notoriously sinful city of Rio De Janeiro.
Having travelled from Argentina via Bolivia the menu had a familiar feel, with an emphasis on meat and staples such as potato, and beans. As with its neighbours, being such a large country, Brazil borders no fewer than nine south American countries, the cuisine is an amalgam of local traditions and foreign influences from the waves of immigration in the modern era. With Portuguese rather than Spanish colonial influence, the food has echoes of its former imperial masters with bacalao, salted cod, and chourico, a spicy, salty sausage.
After stumbling through several days in a pork induced malaise after my Bosnian adventure i was keen to explore alternatives. But wishing to be authentic i ordered the national dish, Feijoada, a black bean stew with various cuts of pork, including belly, ribs and sausage: Very rich, very salty and very filling. It was a delicious dish. The food and drink echoed the excess, swagger and brash braggadocio of Brazilian culture.
Ordering wine was something of a challenge as the waitresses, alluring but bolshy, preferred to dance rather than serve. But in Brazil no-one works when they can play.
