World Cup has a nice beat, and you can dance to it
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Let me just say that I’ve seen the future in sports, in a sprawling restaurant/lounge in Glendale of all places, the kind of town Burbank residents visit when life gets a little too complicated. Glendale: Gateway to Pasadena, gateway to a calmer and more spiritual life.
I will hold you in suspense no longer, for the future of sports is the samba, which should be mandatory in all athletic events. Much as I love marching bands and the seventh-inning stretch, I love the samba even more. It speaks to me the way Axl Rose once did, with clarity and compassion.
It can be quite sexy too, the samba, but we shouldn’t necessarily hold that against it.
At Brazil’s World Cup match the other day at Gauchos Village, a Brazilian joint in Glendale, they did the samba at halftime, then danced again after Brazil had finished clubbing the Ivory Coast to near-death.
I’m noticing that Brazilians play soccer the way angels frolic in fields of edelweiss. They fall but bounce right back up. And occasionally, just when you think they are simply too full of mirth, you see them do something pretty extraordinary.
Now, there are a lot of bars and restaurants catering to the World Cup crowd, but few can match Gauchos Village for spectacle. It is a large room, with the timbered ceiling stretching all the way up to what would be the third floor. It is a handsome venue, with the feel of an upscale South American hunting lodge.
And what they hunt here is World Cup victories.
“In America, you have the Super Bowl every year,” says owner Kevin Aksacki, who collects money at the door, leads the samba and runs every detail of the big restaurant. “But we only have the World Cup every four years.”
The more I learn about soccer, the more I don’t understand. For instance, why is there no three-point arc? Why are there so many ties?
But mostly, why does the World Cup take place only every four years? Why not annually? For the world’s most popular sport to crown a champion only once every four years seems crazy. It would be like college football without a playoff system.
In the meantime, we have this great World Cup. In Los Angeles, just waiting in line is an experience. I’m meeting my buddy Stanley at Gauchos, and while I wait I meet Greg, an advertising creative director, and George, an actor in a Michigan T-shirt.
Oh, and there’s Marge too, who explains to me about j-borhoods (heavily Jewish neighborhoods) and gay-borhoods (heavily gay neighborhoods), as she waits for her wife to show up. I love L.A. Really, I never had conversations like this in Des Moines.
Once Stanley and his girlfriend Eva show up, we grab a place at the bar, then wiggle our way into a table up front with Greg and George. Last time I saw Marge, she was on the arm of Gauchos owner, Kevin, proudly leading a large group of buddies to a VIP table out back. Life in L.A., huh? Often, it seems like a slightly whacked-out episode of “Friends.”
Fortunately, I’ve brought Stan along because he actually knows something about soccer.
“Ivory Coast has that beast Drogba up front, plays for Chelsea,” Stan explains.
I soak this up because I love the Beautiful Game (soccer), which gets even more beautiful at halftime, when the buffet of grilled meats is served and the samba girls show up, full of wiggle and silver glitter that seems to be somehow baked onto their skin.
The samba is “all in the passion,” explains dancer Daniela Brazil, who runs a company that provides Brazilian dancers for events and tours. If your high school guidance counselor neglected to mention such business opportunities existed, you have a right to feel disappointed. Life could have been so different.
As the day winds down, my new buddy Greg tells me how his goal is to experience the World Cup at a variety of bars catering to different teams and their fans. I think people should aim for something a little higher in life, but in the meantime this sounds like a worthy way to appreciate our city’s rich diversity of beers.
In fact, Stan tells me of a place in Echo Park that draws legions of Mexico supporters. “I know the owner,” says Stan, who is technically Salvadoran American, but like me can blend in with anybody.
By the way, I’m also hoping to find a good French restaurant, where I can eat well and watch Team France explode into a thousand tiny pieces. Wish me luck.
Oh, too late?
