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….
What Really Happened 