The first offering on Brasil Steak House’s Circuit of Meat was a grotesque roast on a cutting board, its arteries, spongy connective tissue, and gristly meat making up a gray, layered beef cake. It was an anatomy lesson in the lesser-used cuts of the cow, even more gristly for the green-and-gold canteen’s unflattering fluorescent lights. As the server rolled his cart away, and a fair-skinned Brazilian rolled in, we thought it’d be better not to focus on what salt-laden leftover he was offering, but his pirate get-up instead: poofy, black pantaloons, a white and red sash around the waist, shaved head, biker mustache, and well-muscled left arm, from, no doubt, hoisting countless steel rods of things wrapped in bacon onto tables. He shaved a slice of salty, sinewy beef rump into our waiting tongs. It, like everything else, ended up in a half-eaten, salty meat pile on the side of the plate, alongside the sausage, the pork tenderloin, the beef tongue, and the “steak”. In 20 minutes, we drank a liter of water.

Brasil Steak House panders to the lowest common denominator, those who make the double mistake of confusing meat with prestige and then what’s skewered at Brasil with meat, and those too cash-strapped to protest. Their roving bar cart, and its earnest, caipirinha-shaking attendant, is a nice touch. And the business is impressive for its ingenuity, figuring out so many different ways to deliver salt, oil, and cheap starch. But as a place to eat? Brasil Steak House is terrible.