Brasa

Before Brasa even opened, I hated it. Of course, this is totally irrational, but it took over the spot vacated by my favorite place to get coffee and read the paper. So because of my own stupid sentimental crap, I never gave it a chance, until last year.

That was when I had the Great Pasta Disaster of 2008, where an entire batch of my own homemade pasta sauce ended up on the kitchen floor. I proceeded to calmly pour the rest of my bottle of wine into a mason jar, and drove to Brasa for the first time. I don't even remember what I had, but the experience was overshadowed by my kitchen clumsiness, as well as the fact that I was buzzed and driving around with a $25 chianti that I had turned into a roadie.

This time, my acumen was right where it needed to be for a meal at an establishment that has, since opening, garnered itself quite the reputation.

So, here is what I ate. Rotisserie chicken. Black-eyed peas with cornbread. Fried plantains.



So how was it, my three readers may be asking themselves? Let me put it like this. I have a few rules when it comes to food, and I adhere to these rules quite strictly. They are mostly for my health. One of them is that I don't eat chicken skin for the sake of eating chicken skin. Another is that unless its the 4th of July, I don't fucking eat pork. Well guess what, I was dipping the chicken skin into the red sauce like it was chips and salsa. And I couldn't even bring myself to eat around the pork bits in the black-eyed peas... just couldn't do it. I ate everything on my entire plate with reckless abandon. I was embarrassed for my self and my family, but I couldn't stop eating.



So, yeah, the moral of this story is that Brasa earned its stripes for a reason. Holy shit, it's good.