Fogo de Chão

A friend who knows São Paulo better than I do put Fogo de Chão at the top of a list of three. He was right, as he often is.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: gaucho service in a polished glass dining room. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with Caesar salad assembled tableside, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a Burgundy that arrived too cold and rewarded patience, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: picanha, the dish that puts Fogo de Chão on every short list. Cut through it and you found that deep, beefy, almost iron-tasting interior that only comes from time and dry air. The signature touch — the rodízio of fifteen cuts on skewers — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for hash browns the size of a hubcap and broiled tomato with a breadcrumb cap. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was tiramisu, just barely too much, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I will be back. With company, next time, and a longer reservation.