As the saying goes: you can learn a lot about someone when you walk a day in their shoes. I like to think the same goes for when you eat in someone’s home.

I have had the honor to be invited to Tatão’s home — the beautiful Santa Albertina ranch in Campininha, three hours from São Paulo, twice. Each visit yields vast views and fresh thoughts on life.

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São Paulo has the second largest Japanese population outside of Japan (about 650,000+), but since my arrival here I’ve been pretty bummed by the lack of good Japanese restaurants. Thank God for the Koreans!

Koreans immigrated to SP with promises that Brazil was the country of the future — and Brazil still strives towards this dream. Brazil is booming and the potential is endless.

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The world is full of burger places. There is one in almost every strip mall in America, and then there are the chains which are often the culprits or the scapegoats of many a country’s poor eating habits. Burgers stretch the gut, go well with less healthy things like milkshakes, chili fries, extra cheese, and bacon. People think of burgers when it comes to fast food, but Brazilians go out of their way to spend their nights at a burger joint.

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It’s getting colder here in Brazil and dry season is approaching. In the North, the crops have been harvested. Festa Junina (June Festival) was carried over from the Portuguese to celebrate and thank God for the rain by eating wonderful foods–and like any good Brazilian party it has mutated into one of the biggest parties of the year. On any given weekend night during the month of June at most Catholic churches, there are festivities, country music, line dancing or quadrilha and loads of foods and hot wine and liquor to warm you up.

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In a city like São Paulo with its mild climate, and  millions of Italian immigrants, you would expect to find loads of good gelato. Instead there is a ton of picole (popsicles) and regular ice cream. Luckily for us, just down the street is Bacio di Latte (Kiss of Milk). On any given Sunday, you will be hard-pressed to find elbow room, let alone a chair, to enjoy your Pistachio di Bronte gelato, or any other of their 20 cream or fruit-based flavors.

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After getting canned without reason, the day after her maternity leave was up, Paula Cinini was not sure what to do; she had always worked as a journalist. To find some solace in this devastating situation, and cope with her mother’s passing, Paula dug up her mother’s old, partly-burned, worn recipe book and began baking.

The good book with mom’s recipes, burned pages, and finger prints throughout.

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In my hood, the chic São Paulo bairro of Jardins, I share sidewalks with a rather large group of Hasidic Jews. All of the beards make me feel like I’m safe and at home. They are the unspoken guardians of Jardins, as I have heard rumors of their n0-nonsense approach to local crime and robberies. A few blocks over and across the street from the neighborhood Hebrew school is Falafa, the pioneering modern falafel joint in a city full of pastel and mortadella.

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My wife and I are dressed to kill. The guards are looking us up and down. My hands are sweating.

I enter awkwardly remembering last minute to bow, even though I’m not sure who these people are greeting us at the door. We walk further in and meet Eriko, the multi-lingual and chic Italian counterpart of Q from the 007 films.

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Feijoada is not an everyday meal. It takes a long time to cook, is super heavy, and is served at most restaurants only twice a week (a holdover on the old catholic weekly dietary restrictions, here in Brasil). It isn’t fast food. It puts you in a coma after eating. It requires all of your bodily functions to be in tip-top shape, since it takes a good deal of work to digest.

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*Mercadão = Big market

The Mercado Municipal took four years to build and, once completed in 1932, was used by rebels in the “civil constitutionalist revolution” to hold and store weapons. It finally had its grand opening in 1933 as a market. It was built by the river (which is paved nowadays) to allow the freshest fruit to arrive by small boat.

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