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It tasted a little like sawdust. I coughed, liberally doused my feijoada in black bean sauce and managed another mouthful. The second one was better – in fact, mixed up with some juice, the pork meat, white rice, orange and flour tasted quite delicious. ‘This dish comes from the slaves,’ said my friend Barbara, ‘but…
‘You want to go somewhere?’ giggled Barbara, as we kissed passionately in her parents’ porch. ‘I can take you to a motel if you like.’ It was a little after midnight. She reversed a black Peugeot through the security gates, its engine purring contentedly on sugar cane ethanol. And we squealed off through the city…
