We Go To Rio

As I was dropping off to sleep last night, my mind was crowded with memories of our time in Rio during our first cruise together, back in 1969.

The ten days from Cape Town had been spent lying like so many lizards in the sun – no one had told us then how that would cut our lives short – sipping on cold beers, eating great food, laughing at the antics of the entertainment crew, dancing the night away and…. well, just generally enjoying ourselves as you do on a cruise. Now we were approaching the coast of Brazil for our first stop – Rio de Janeiro.

We’d crawled up from our cabin in the bowels of the ship before dawn. Huddled on the foredeck with other sleepy passengers we could see the craggy coast sliding towards us on a cloudy morning. I don’t think any of us had realised the height of the cliffs guarding Guanabara Bay on which Rio sits. The gap we were heading for was narrow but beyond that we could see ranges of mountains. The grey light was fading and the day was becoming brighter when, in a very theatrical heavenly gesture, the clouds parted and like a spotlight, the morning sun shone on the state of Christ The Redeemer – Corcovado - just long enough for us to get a couple of long range shots. Unforgettable and certainly among the very best of the many memorable sights we’ve seen.

The other very happy memory of Rio is, not surprisingly for those who know us, related to food. At the end of every trip, usually as we’re waiting at the airport heading for home, we try to evaluate the high spots of the trip – best meal, best experience, best view – and try, often with considerable difficulty, to slot in the latest of these into the very much longer list from previous travels.

There is no doubt about some items. Rab is certain that she will never have a better pizza than the one we watched her eat at Saltsjöbaden outside Stockholm. I still can’t make up my mind whether the Schweinhaxe I devoured in Cologne last year was better than the one I enjoyed with gusto in Swakopmund in Namibia – and what about the Gravadlax on our first visit to Stockholm – and Lars’ Baltic Herring Pie and…. But there I go, digressing again. Back to Rio.

We’d teamed up with some other young folk on the ship and had agreed that we’d all go out on the town the first night we were in port. We went our own way during the day –there are some good stories about that! – and met for drinks in the late afternoon. One of the couples was bubbling over with enthusiasm about the guide they had met – a university student by the look of him – and his plans to take us to a German Beer Hall that night. They reportedly did a mean Schnitzel there. It’s always bit awkward being the dissenters in a crowd of enthusiasts and so after objecting as politely as we could – and offering in vain to cook schnitzels for all back in Cape Town we agreed reluctantly to go along.

Unfortunately, after a hair raising rise on a speeding bus, the venue was closed when we got there. Undeterred, the lad suggested that he knew of an even better place and led us through some rather dodgy byways and lanes to what looked for all the world like a Steakhouse that wouldn’t be out of place in Cape Town. The proprietor, who may or may not have looked like the guide, welcomed us with open arms and invited us to be seated, putting a glass of curiously coloured liquid by each place. “Tigers Milk”, the guide told us and we were urged to drink it down while the beers were opened. As the glasses were topped up again, Rab and I asked “How much?” “No, no, don’t worry, this for you.” came the response.

As the only ones with any experience out of South Africa, we suggested that we should get some pricing in place before we ordered the meal – there were no menus – but were assured that it was a very cheap place to eat. Only a dollar or two (this was 1969) – and the steak was the best in Brazil. Again we felt we had to go along with the now slightly sozzled group who were all somewhat upset when the bill came with a price that was well above the estimate, especially when the expensive Tigers Milk was included. I think we all blew several days budgeted spending on that meal.

All of which made us ensure that everyone knew that we were not going to the German Beer Hall the following night with the mob and would make our own way to a Brazilian restaurant of our own choosing.

Finding a suitable restaurant is never too difficult for us in a foreign spot. We just ask the locals where they eat. That usually ensures that we find a reasonably priced meal serving the kind of food we might not get back home. And so it was in Rio. We were in a jewellery store in the Rua Branco admiring the stunning work and stones when we got chatting to the charming young lady behind the counter. We thought she was an American living in Rio as she had a soft US accent but she assured us she was a Carioca as the proud residents of Rio identify themselves. She recommended a restaurant – Chale – and gave us directions how to get there. She assured us we would not be disappointed. And we weren’t.

The suburb where we found ourselves that night was not well lit. The driver of our taxi – a Volkswagen Beetle as all Rio taxis were at the time – pulled up outside what seemed to be an imposing mansion and gestured that we had arrived. Well aware of the potential dangers that can lurk in unfamiliar places and the difficulty we might have in getting a taxi back to the ship, I stayed by the car while Rab went to investigate matters further. She was back in a flash and I thought we’d be headed for home but the smile on her face, once I could see it through the gloom made me realise that she approved.

We paid off the taxi and crunched up the brord driveway. At the double doors of the stately home stood two small boys dressed in the formal page boy outfits of the previous century, holding flaming torches. The maitre d was in tails and the waitresses (thank goodness we didn’t have to call them waitrons then) were gorgeous Cariocas in floor length hooped skirts, gliding round the elegantly furnished rooms, romantically lit by candles. No one spoke English so ordering a meal caused some laughter as the staff demonstrated the main ingredients – fish, chicken, coconut, peppers….

As we sipped our local wine – we could indicate bianca so at least that was the right colour – the sounds of a guitar being gently strummed came floating into the room, followed shortly afterwards by a handsome balladeer who strolled through the tables singing a Portuguese version of “Those Were The Days”. I think that was the first time Rab said she could die happy and she still goes weak at the knees remembering the night.

The food was excellent, the price was right, the taxi was there when we needed it and we boarded the ship in a state of euphoria. Certainly a night to remember.