THENASTYBITS (28 page)

Until the late nineteenth century, Salvador was the center of the Portuguese slave trade. Forbidden from practicing their religions, the unwilling transplants simply went undergroun with their spiritualism and their culture, conducting ceremonii in clandestine groups and folding them into Portugues approved Catholic services. Ultimately, as with so many thin Brazilian, the natives absorbed the Portuguese and were a sorbed by them, intermarrying, mixing in their okra and the
^:
spices and their spiritual view of the universe, opening the wa for the music, food, and culture of Brazil to become the fabulo gumbo it is today. Animism, superstition, fetishism, and vood
(candomble
being one variety) are as much a part of everyda life there as going to the market.
Capoeira,
a once-outlawe martial art developed by slaves, is now practiced everywhere, b children on the beaches, by street performers, and in well rehearsed professional shows for the amusement of tourist

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with the
berimbau,
a single-string gourd instrument, keeping rhythm.

Our first night in town, we visited Pelourinho, the cobblestoned colonial-era neighborhood that was once home to the slave owners and the center of Portuguese power. Now quaint, un-threatening, and picturesque, the neighborhood that once housed the whipping post is a well-tended, well-policed tourist mecca, high on a hill. It's a place that could drive, and has driven, poets and artists mad with pleasure. Our taxis pulled up the bottom of a steep climb, as night was falling, and we climbed the hill just as a
candomble
service was winding down. I wish I could adequately convey the heartbreaking beauty of it all: the locals joining hands and holding candles, affixing
lembrancas de Bonafini
(little fe-tishistic ribbons thought to fulfill wishes) to their wrists, singing, and wishing each other well in the failing light of a centuries-old square, with the heady aromas of incense, dende oil, and things cooking everywhere. When the ceremony broke up, the crowds dispersed and we were swept along with them through the narrow cobblestone streets and alleys, passing tantalizing glimpses of food and handicrafts in tiny shops and dimly lit storefronts, kids selling cigarettes and
lembrancas
nipping at our heels. Tropicalia issued from distant windows, words were exchanged in many languages, in strangely hushed voices between passing tourists. Even the street hustlers were gentle if persistent. A boy approached and reached down to fondle my rope sandals, curious and completely uninhibited. I slipped him a few reals.

We ate at Sorriso da Dada, a tiny, much-loved place located on the ground floor of a plain, whitewashed colonial home, decorated with warm, colorful oil paintings. Dada is an imposing black woman, pictured in a painting on the wall in traditional garb, and considered to be one of the best Bahian cooks in the country. Her other restaurant, Tempero da Dada, situated in a somewhat rougher neighborhood, attracts the wealthy and powerful in their limousines; bodyguards and security goons are said to line the street, watching after their cars while the rich eat her wonderfully soulful and hearty home-style cooking.

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It was easily the best meal of the entire adventure: unpretentious, colorful, jacked with spices and flavor, unrestrainedly African, smelling so good we almost fainted while waiting to eat. The food was served family style, and we blindly ordered just about everything on the menu:
moquecas
(seafood stews cooked in coconut milk and fiery red dende), grilled piranha cooked in banana leaves,
acaraje
(fritters of black-eyed peas filled with dried shrimp), soft-shell crab, spicy shrimp, crawfish, prawns, lobster, all accompanied by the ubiquitous and intoxicating Bahian condiments,
farofa
(a starchy yucca side), cararu (a piquant mix of well-spiced okra, peppers, and dried shrimp), and
vatapa
(a bread and flour porridge with cashews, dried shrimp, and ginger). I don't remember it all; my head was swimming from the caipirinhas (made with fresh cashew fruit) and the tall Antarctica beers, as well as the frenzy of trying to get all that incredible food into my mouth.

Manioc, coconut, chilies, okra, dried shrimp, yucca, cashew fruit, and of course dende oil play significant roles in much Bahian food, but the broad range of textures and flavors, and the surprising array of seafood, can keep you busy exploring indefinitely. This is not boring food. It's assertive, muscular, unafraid. In larger restaurants, Bahian dishes appear side by side with Portuguese and German dishes, faux-French classics, and workaday favorites. The menus can be a mosh pit of clashing flavors and cultures, an international riot of the classic and the extreme. There was a lot of smiling and moaning at the table among our increasingly inebriated number, and once again, the chefs were hatching plans. Taka and Michael discussed where in New York they could buy the necessary ingredients, strategizing about
moqueca
and roasting fish in banana leaves. I was encouraged, as I didn't want to have to fly back to Brazil every time I wanted to relive this incredible experience.

After dinner in Pelourinho, we walked through the dark streets, heels clicking on cobblestones. Around midnight, I broke away from the group to sit in the central square, chatting with

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street kids in broken English and Spanish, giving out the occasional cigarette and real. Except for the reggae music from the idling taxis and the occasional tourist, it could have been the 1700s.

The Sushi Samba crew had a full day of sightseeing planned, but the following morning I decided I was going off the reservation: no churches, markets, or for-tourists displays of regional/ ethnic dancing and native handicrafts. It was a national holiday, Brazil's five-hundredth anniversary, and all of Salvador, I was convinced, would be going to the beach. The sightseeing portion of the week's entertainment was over. No samba lessons. No buffets. The surf was up.

I woke up late, left the hotel, and walked smack into a parade. Now, I hate parades. I'd rather hear the sound of my own teeth being drilled than the music of John Philip Sousa. But this was different. The streets were packed solid. Held in place by the throngs, I got an unexpected look at Bahia's idea of their best foot forward. First came the military, all the branches, one highly motivated unit after another. Each tried to outdo the other with loud, deep-throated chants of "Bra-ZEEL!!" "Ba-HEE-YA!!" "SALVA-DORR!" Army, navy, fire rescue, mountaineer units, sinister-looking folks in black pajamas and balaclavas, it was fascinating to see which groups were popular with the crowds and which weren't. Female cadets, goose-stepping in Cuban heels, got a big hand. The riot police, who paraded with their crowd-control gear, were decidedly unpopular. Representatives of the indigenous culture passed to polite claps and what looked like embarrassment. Indians everywhere, it seems, get the short end of the stick.

When the parade had finally gone by and the streets became passable, I walked down to Barra, a long and imposing strand overlooking a magnificent beach. From the
farol da Barra,
an eighteenth-century lighthouse at one end, all the way to an open-air restaurant on a bluff at the other, the sand was mobbed. Thousands of barely dressed locals were packed around a cluster of thriving
barracas,
basically beach shacks that serve
chopp

(icy-cold draft beer) and food. Oiled up with sun products, they were swaying to music, splashing around in tidal pools, riding body boards in the surf, swimming, socializing, playing soccer, practicing
capoeira
moves, sunbathing, sleeping, making love, flirting, eating. I grabbed a plastic chair, ordered a
chopp,
which came in a helpful insulated sleeve, and dug in for the afternoon.

Food came at me from all directions. Vendors hawked
acaraje, bolinhos,
paper cones of dried shrimp, grilled fresh shrimp, paper tubes of shelled nuts, boiled quail eggs, and
pastels.
Others came by with a mozzarellalike cheese on skewers (for a few centavos they'd dredge it in herbs and, fanning the coals in the metal buckets they carried with them, they'd toast the skewers until the outside was brown and crispy and the inside runny delicious).

People cracked open coconuts and served them with long thin straws. Spear fishermen, right out of the water, dropped still-twitching groupers, snappers, crabs, and lobsters right on the tables, offering to have them cooked up at the nearest
barraca.
Sitting only inches from the neighboring tables, I couldn't help but nearly join in with others' meals. People tore at whole grilled fish with their hands, handing out pieces and sharing
chopps.
Now and again, someone would get up to cool off under a running water pipe. Since the music was loud and seductive, and the mood bordering on orgiastic, each visitor to the shower felt compelled to do a little wriggling and dancing under the water for the amusement of the throngs. Women in white skirts and traditional headdress fried up little cakes and poured
cacbaqa
in coconuts. Couples nuzzled and hugged and kissed. Everyone was friendly, informal, a little drunk, and having a good time while their skin sizzled in the strong midday sun. The music played on. It seemed a paradise.

What can one say about Rio, except that it's all true. Everything you've heard. It's stunningly beautiful. The people are gorgeous. Our hotel was located right on the beachfront in Copacabana. On the way from the airport, Michael and Matty and Taka, noses pressed to the glass, gazed longingly at the white sands and blue-green water, the verdant green rainforests, and high bluffs and clifftops, listening with horror as our unexpectedly swinish Brazilian escort tried to hard-sell us a guided bus tour. We'd barely arrived at our hotel, and Matty was headed across the street like a heat-seeking missile, peeling off his shirt and calling for caipirinhas. There was no question of going anywhere that didn't involve a beach.

You know about the Corcovado, the high mountaintop sculpture of Christ with arms outstretched. You've seen Sugar-loaf. I've seen the pictures too. I'm sure that there were beautiful churches, fabulous museums, incredible public parks with unspeakably lovely waterfalls, a rich and fascinating history to be discovered. But I hit the beach. I had, I told myself, solid investigative reasons for this decision. In Brazil, and in Rio in particular, it is said there is no figure more important to the culture, no creature more admired and emulated, than the
carioca.
The
carioca
is a role model and the ideal state of being is his.