Jessica’s Response to- The Honeymoon, Part IV

Rioz , the restaurant we went to, is a Brazilian churrascaria. I’m not sure what the exact Portuguese to English translation of the word is, but I’m pretty sure it’s something along the lines of “the most delicious food you’ve ever eaten, served to you in excess by Gauchos that tend to your every need.” I love food, and I certainly love Gauchos, so this place was a wet dream for me.

You’d have to eat there to know what kind of experience this place is, but everything about it was perfect. The setting, the service, the food, the awesome Caipirinha that was made in front of me by the traveling bartender, the Mango cream dessert. If we had a churrascaria in Delaware I would not only weigh 800 pounds, but I would be broke. The restaurant was by far our most expensive night out, but it was worth every penny. They had Hearts of Palm and scallops on their SALAD BAR! Gah!

Onward to the “reprimand” that I gave Jeremy in the restaurant. I understand that my dear husband adds a little flair into his tales for dramatic effect, but I’m kind of surprised that he chose to dedicate most of this recollection to me shushing him. I’m also surprised that he referred to my early evening excursion at Broadway at the Beach as “shopping,” because although I did technically buy things, they were all souvenir type items for our family members. ‘Cause, you know. SOMEONE had to do that.

He’d like you to think that I left him all alone, crying in his beer, on our honeymoon, while I emptied our bank account on shoes and pedicures. In reality, I was gone about a half hour, and I froze my ass off the entire time in a sleeveless top, capris, and flip flops when it was about 62 degrees outside. And I had to pee the entire time. That Caipirinha ran right through me!

Jeremy did get a little too excited over the game. Excited is good, and I was happy as well, but we were sitting at the bar at a very kvetched, family-oriented restaurant, and there were people all around us eating conch fritters and key lime pie, all of whom looked at him in gaped mouth disbelief when he screamed, and he did scream. So I thought I would gently remind him that we weren’t in a sports bar. Apparently, this was a huge deal, because not only did he write this post about it, but I overheard him telling his father about it on the phone as they were discussing game results.

It’s funny that he should remember a little “shush” in such great detail, and yet he still cannot remember when I ask him to vacuum the living room or clean his toothpaste out of the sink after brushing! Very suspicious.

Jeremy Writes- The Honeymoon Part IV

Several days had come and gone, and I was yet to be reprimanded for anything.

And, then, it was Wednesday.

The day started lazily — and reproach – free — enough. I believe we went to the pool and read and slept and swam, and were so exhausted from doing nothing that we needed to refuel.

The place’s name is Rioz, and it dances on the sand.

Well, not really on the sand… about six blocks from the beach. And, it didn’t dance, either. It just… kind of stays in one place…. as a Brazillian Steakhouse is inclined to do.

And, in we went.

40 dollars each may sound like a hefty price for a buffet.

But…. damn.

The salad bar was ginormous, and included mussels and sushi and some incredible salads.

And, then, on the table, was a little cardboard circle. On one side, red. The other, green.

We flipped the coin to the green position.

Suddenly, our table was swarmed by Brazillian men the way a turd is quickly surrounded by horseflies

“Parmesan-encrusted pork?” asks the first guy.

“Slow roasted chicken sausage?” asks a second.

“Garlic steak?” a third.

And so on.

11 different guys visit the table within seconds, heaping our plates with the best tasting meat we’ve encountered…. definitely on the trip… perhaps ever.

And what better way to burn off 7,000 calories than to go to a bar and down a bunch of beer while watching the Stanley Cup playoffs?

Jess and I waddled across the street to Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, where the large TV in the center of the bar was broadcasting the Flyers and Canadiens matchup.

Jess went shopping and left me on a bar stool, eyes glued to the television, hand around Yuengling number three.

When she came back, the Flyers had a two goal lead.

She ordered a beer.

And, halfway through that beer, the Canadiens had scored twice. About a minute apart. Tie game. With less than 6 minutes left.

And then, Daniel Briere snuck one past Huet.

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHH!!,” I screamed, forgetting that I was not exactly in a sports bar, and that Southern Parrotheads aren’t nearly as excited to see the Flyers win as I am.

“Shhhhhhhh!” came from Jess, who glanced around nervously to make sure I hadn’t made anyone choke on their coconut prawns with my sudden (and, admittedly, loud) outburst.

So, it wasn’t a scolding, really. If she had a rolled up newspaper, she may have swatted my nose with it and said, “No! No yelling! That’s a BAD JEREMY! No Cheeseburger in Paradise for you!” and that would have been the end of it.

So, more conscious of my surroundings, I silently celebrated as Mike Knuble tapped one into an empty net, and Jess and I, drunk and happy and full of garlic steak, retreated back to the room.

To watch television, or something.

Wow, we’re lame.

More to follow….