Bossa Novas, Bikinis, and Bad Ends Read online

  When we got off the train, that first sight of Christ towering above us, His arms outstretched to embrace all of us sinners below, was overpowering. I’m not that religious. I went to Sunday school sporadically when I was a little girl, but I haven’t been to church in years. I’m sort of a Presbyterian, but I couldn’t tell you the difference between that denomination and all the other Protestant faiths. I just have this love of Christ and His teaching of peace, love one another, look out for each other, help the poor and sick, do unto others as you would have them do unto you, that has stayed with me all these years. I try to practice what He preached, but I fall far short.

  Sort of instinctively, each of us Hoofers went off by herself to a corner of the plaza to look up at that enormous white granite statue with Christ’s face blessing us from above. I felt that He was looking at me, that His spirit reached down into my heart and gave me a feeling of peace and quiet and warmth that I don’t often have in this clackety world we live in.

  All my questions and worries and anxieties about the dance we would do that night, about Maria’s death, about Denise back home without me, about my wanting a drink sometimes, just went away, disappeared. I was alone on that mountaintop with Christ. I could feel His arms around me, hear Him reassure me that I was safe, that nothing bad was going to happen to me because He was looking after me.

  All the other people in the crowd around me seemed invisible. They were quiet too. Part of it was the overwhelming size of this huge sculpture. Part of it was being so high up above all the problems and little anxieties down below. I had never felt like this before. I once climbed to the top of the Statue of Liberty and felt a surge of love for our country, but it was nothing like this feeling of surrender to a force much stronger than I.

  I looked up once at the same time Mary Louise did, and there were tears in both our eyes. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. Both of us knew exactly what the other was thinking. Thank you, God. We have so much.

  After a few minutes of this totally peaceful experience, I was aware of a fluttery little redheaded being flitting among us to take us back to the train.

  “Come along,” she said, her hand on my arm, pulling me toward the platform where the train was waiting to take us back to the city below. I said another “Thank you” silently and followed her.

  “That was unbelievable, Natalia,” Mary Louise said. “Thank you for taking us up there. I’ll never forget it.”

  We all murmured our own expressions of gratitude for this unforgettable experience.

  When we piled out of the train and were herded back into the van, Natalia bubbled into the front seat again and said to Ramon, “To the Samba.” Then she leaned over the front seat, waving her hands, talking fast.

  “I am taking you to my favorite restaurant for lunch,” she said. “It’s called the Samba because they play samba music all the time, and because the food is divine. Wait till you taste it. Very Brazilian. I thought you would want the full Rio experience!”

  “That’s perfect, Natalia,” Tina said. “We’re dancing the samba tonight at the hotel.”

  “I know, I know,” Natalia said, practically falling into Tina’s lap. “I am going to sing while you dance. You dance to the song ‘Copacabana,’ no?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Tina said. “Should be good. Actually, I’d like to get back to the hotel and rehearse with you.”

  “Good idea,” Natalia said. “But let’s eat first.”

  We stopped in front of a small restaurant, and Natalia flitterered and fluttered us in the door the way she always does. She never seemed to stop moving—back and forth, around and around, until we were all seated at a table near the window. There was nothing particularly Brazilian about the room. We could have been in New York. The tables were set close together and there were no cloths on them. Then the music started. It was a samba so compelling, I wanted to get up and dance to it. All of us were moving our shoulders and torsos in time to the strong beat of the song. Natalia was obviously delighted to see us caught up in the mood and the rhythm of the music.

  “I think you will be part Brazilian when you go back to the United States,” she said. “Our music has become a part of you.”

  “You’re right, Natalia,” Tina said. “It’s impossible to sit still.”

  “I can sit still long enough to eat,” Gini said. “What should we order, Natalia? We don’t read Portuguese so we have to rely on you.”

  “Of course!” she said. “You must start out with a drink first—a caipirinha. Very Brazilian.”

  “What’s in it?” Janice asked. “I had one at the hotel yesterday, and it was fantastic. Cool and delicious. But I never found out what they put in it.”

  “Very simple,” Natalia said. “Just lime and sugar and cachaca.”

  “What’s cachaca?” Mary Louise asked.

  “It’s a liquor distilled from sugar cane,” Natalia said. “Only found here in Brazil. They use rum in other places, but it’s not the same.” She waved to the waiter standing nearby.

  “Felipe,” she said. “Six caipirinhas, por favor.”

  “Just five, Natalia,” I said. “I’ll have water, please.”

  “You come to Rio and drink water!” Natalia said. “No, is not possible. You must have a caipirinha!”

  It used to bother me when people insisted on giving me a drink when I first gave it up, but now I’m used to it—pretty much.

  “No, really, Natalia,” I said softly. “I’ve given it up. I really just want water.” Not exactly the truth. I definitely wanted a caipirinha, but I’m learning. One day at a time.

  Her expression changed. She got it. And being Natalia, she found something good about not drinking.

  “Fewer calories!” she said. “No wonder you’re in such good shape, Pat. I should give it up too.”

  “Tell us about the menu, Natalia,” Gini said. “What should we order?”

  “Felipe,” Natalia said to the waiter as he put the drinks in front of us. “Bring us some pão de queijo and some calabresa sausages to start—oh, and some pastelzinhos too. Please.”

  She practically rose out of her chair with delight as she ordered these appetizers. “Oh, oh, you will love these,” she said. “The pão de queijo are little cheese puffs, little chewy things that you eat along with the spicy, garlicky calabresa sausages, and the pastelzinhos are crispy turnovers filled with tomatoes and olives.”

  “Sounds like a whole meal, Natalia,” Mary Louise says. “Aren’t they kind of heavy?”

  “No, not at all,” Natalia said. “They’re little yummies. You’ll see. And then—”

  “Why don’t we start with the appetizers,” Tina said, “and then see if we have room for the main course.”

  Natalia sighed. “Americans,” she said. “Always watching your figures.”

  “No, no, it’s not that,” Tina said. “We have to dance tonight, and we don’t want to eat too much. You understand.”

  “I do understand,” she said. “I always eat a lot anyway.”

  “Well, how do you eat so much and stay so thin?” Gini asked.

  “I just eat one meal a day,” she said. “That’s all I need. And I dance a lot. That gets rid of tons of calories.”

  The waiter brought the drinks. I was surprised to find that I didn’t yearn for a caipirinha. I wasn’t crazy about my glass of water either, but I could live with it. It’s hard to stop wanting liquor when it’s been a big part of your life. For so long, a drink at the end of the day was my way of relaxing, of letting go of other people’s problems after a day of counseling clients. A little bourbon and water on the rocks. Or a glass of white wine. Sometimes a sweet vermouth with lemon. A beer on a hot day. I didn’t really think there was anything wrong with this habit until one day I couldn’t stop. I just kept drinking instead of eating supper and stumbled into bed and fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember the last part of the day before.

  Then I began having a drink earlier and earlier. On
e morning I woke up and had a drink before my coffee. My friends noticed. They made a few tactful comments, but they left me alone until I realized I had a problem. I started going to Alcoholics Anonymous where a sponsor helped me through the first weeks. I hadn’t realized how much I relied on alcohol to get through difficult days. It took a while—a whole year in fact until I could go to bed sober every night. What a difference it made in my life. I had more energy. My brain worked better. I was calmer.

  Don’t get me wrong. I still want a drink when things are really difficult, but most of the time, I don’t go back. It also helps being with Denise. She stopped drinking when she came to live with me to make it easier for me, and she always had something interesting planned for us to do at the end of the day. She still has an occasional drink when we go out to dinner or to a party at a friend’s house, but she claims she doesn’t miss a drink or two every day. I love her very much.

  But those caipirinhas did look good.

  Gini, who can read my mind, saw me take a sip of the water. “Drinking straight vodka again, Pat?” she said and winked at me.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling at my funny friend. “Can’t believe you’re drinking that insipid little distilled sugar thing.”

  “We don’t all have your hollow leg, Pat,” Janice said.

  Did I tell you I treasure these women? They’re always supportive when it counts. I value their friendship more than gold.

  Natalia, who didn’t really get the whole thing, looked around nervously. I could imagine her thinking, “Oh, never mind, they’re Americans. Who knows what they’re talking about?”

  The waiter brought the appetizers, and they were incredibly good.

  “You have to eat them in a certain way,” Natalia said. “You must alternate bites of the pão de queijo, the cheese puffs, with the calabresa sausages, which are really spicy and garlicky. It’s the contrast of the two textures that brings out the best in each one. And in between those two, you nibble on the pastelzinhos, which are crispy, some filled with unmelted cheese, some with beef, tomatoes, and olives.”

  We followed her instructions. She was right. The different flavors and textures were sublime.

  When the appetizers were almost gone, Natalia said, “You can’t stop now! I won’t allow it. You must have their picadinho before you go.”

  Tina looked around the table at her fellow Hoofers and could tell we wanted to try whatever this was. I mean, when would we be back in Rio again?

  “OK. Six pica—whatever you called it—please, waiter.”

  While we finished the last few bites of our crunchy turnovers, Gini tried again.

  “Tell us more about Maria, Natalia,” she said. “We only spent a short time with her and didn’t really get to know her. What was she like?”

  Natalia took a sip of her caipirinha and fiddled around with her silverware before she answered. Her face was serious. “Maria was my friend,” she said. “She had a horrible marriage with that Lucas. She used to cry all the time. He cheated on her from their honeymoon on, and she was miserable. Finally she had enough and divorced him. The court awarded her alimony—quite a bit—and Lucas would either pay a small part of it or nothing. Maria had to take him to court all the time to get her money. I wouldn’t be surprised if . . .”

  “If what?” Gini said. We were all listening intently.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t . . . Don’t pay any attention to me. I didn’t like Lucas because of the way he treated Maria. But I don’t really know if . . .”

  It wasn’t hard to guess what she was going to say. Gini leaned forward to ask another question, but before she could speak, the waiter brought the picadinho.

  One bite and I had to finish this delicious beef dish, flavored with garlic and onion and green pepper and tomatoes and I don’t know what all. It wasn’t exactly a light dish, but who cared. We all gobbled it up and skipped any more discussion of Maria and Lucas. Mary Louise, of course, had to know how to make it.

  “Natalia,” she said, “this picadinho is superb. Could you get the recipe from the chef here please?”

  Natalia almost turned inside out with delight at the change in subject. This she could understand. “Better than that, my little Hoofer. When we get back to the hotel, I’ll ask our chef to show you how they make it and give you the recipe. His name is Luiz, and he’s a darling. He’d do anything for me.”

  “I’d love that, Natalia,” Mary Louise said. “How do you say ‘thank you’ again?

  “ ‘Obrigada’ if you’re a woman and ‘obrigado’ if you’re a man.”

  “Then mucho obrigada,” Mary Louise said.

  The waiter came back to our table as we finished our meal and asked if we wanted dessert.

  Tina waved her hand. “I think we’d better stop here,” she said. “We’ll waddle onto the stage tonight and collapse if we eat any more.”

  I could have used a little Brazilian dessert, but of course Tina was right. We followed her out to the van after paying the bill.

  Back at the hotel, Natalia flibbertigibbeted into the kitchen talking all the time to Mary Louise, whom she dragged along with her. A few minutes later, she came out again and said Luiz would be happy to show us how to make the picadinho.

  “We can rehearse later, Tina?” Natalia said, making her question into a statement.

  Tina smiled. She’s the most flexible woman on earth. “Come on, Hoofers, let’s go see Luiz.”

  Luiz was a tall, jolly man in his thirties, slim and spotless in a white apron and chef’s hat. He bowed when we came into his large, very clean kitchen and said in slightly accented English, “Welcome, my dancers. Natalia says you would like to learn to make my picadinho. I am making it for dinner tonight so you will get to eat it again later. It has to cook long time, but I show you the first part now. Come closer.”

  Even Gini, who hates cooking, couldn’t resist this handsome man who obviously loved what he did.

  “First,” Luiz said, “you must brown a chopped-up onion and some garlic in olive oil in this large, deep saucepan. I have already chopped.”

  While they were browning, he pulled out a large bowl. “In this bowl, I have put some beef—really good beef like sirloin or filet—stirred-up eggs, chopped celery, green pepper, parsley, peas and canned tomatoes.”

  “You use canned tomatoes?” Mary Louise asked, surprised. “I thought all chefs used fresh tomatoes. I always feel guilty when I used canned ones at home.”

  “It does not matter that they are canned,” Luiz said. “They are the very best plum tomatoes. You will like. But if you insist on fresh tomatoes, don’t use the large, tasteless ones. Get the fresh small tomatoes, preferably plum tomatoes.”

  He mixed together all the ingredients in the bowl until they were thoroughly combined. When the onions and garlic were a delicious-looking brown color, he added the mixture in the bowl to the saucepan and cooked them until they, too, were brown, stirring all the time.

  “Now,” he said, “we add some salt and pepper and red wine—be sure it’s a dry red wine. I use Portuguese wines, but you can use a cabernet or a pinot noir, anything dry. Now I cover our pan and cook for about fifteen minutes.”

  While the wine was flavoring the ingredients, he asked us where we were from. We told him we lived in New Jersey.

  “You go to New York?” he asked.

  “We love New York,” Janice said.

  “What does such a beautiful woman do in New York?” Luiz asked.

  “Everything that’s legal,” Janice said, making him laugh. “I love the theater and good restaurants. I go to museums and baseball games, walk in Central Park, ice skate in Rockefeller Center, ride on the carousel in Bryant Park and the one in Brooklyn. You should come there. I’ll take you on a private tour.”

  “Lovely lady, I would follow you anywhere,” Luiz said, leaning across the counter to kiss Janice’s hand. See why we keep her around?

  When the wine had done its job, Luiz added some more wine and red pepper flakes, and put the
cover partly back on.

  “Now this must cook for an hour to let the wine disappear into the picadinho. Then I add some green olives, some capers, maybe pimento, raisins—whatever I feel like—and cook them just long enough to heat them. Tonight, before you dance, I bring it to you to eat.”

  “Small portions please, Luiz,” Tina said. “We’re already full from a sensational lunch, and we’re dancing a samba. We need to be able to move.”

  “Do not worry, senhora,” he said. “I will give you just a taste, so you can enchant our guests with your dance.”

  “Obrigada,” Tina said. That was becoming our favorite word in this land of gracious living and generous offers.

  “It smells divine, Luiz,” Mary Louise said. “Any chance you could give me the recipe?”

  “Of course, my little American housewife,” Luiz said. “I will have it sent to your room.”

  Mary Louise gave him a hug—she always hugs people—and we left the kitchen to change into rehearsal clothes.

  Picadinho

  Serves four.

  ⅓ cup olive oil

  1 onion, chopped

  3 cloves garlic, chopped

  2 lbs. lean ground beef—sirloin or fillet

  6 eggs, beaten

  2 ribs celery, chopped

  1 green pepper, chopped

  1 cup chopped parsley

  2 35 oz cans of plum tomatoes

  ½ cup green olives

  1 tsp. capers

  1 tbsp. chopped pimento

  1 cup peas

  ½ cup raisins

  Salt and ground pepper

  ½ cups dry red wine

  ¼ tsp. hot red pepper flakes—not too much

  * * *

  1. Brown the onion and garlic in the olive oil in a large, deep saucepan.

  2. In a medium-sized bowl, mix the beef, eggs, and the next nine ingredients together.

  3. Add the meat mixture to the saucepan with the onion and garlic and cook over medium flame until the meat is a light brown, stirring all the time.