Support local restaurants. That’s the mantra I’m always preaching. But every once in a while, I fall off the wagon. This year’s Mother’s Day was one of those occasions.

All I wanted that day was to be left alone. Then, once I was left alone, I felt resentful that nobody had made an effort to celebrate me. So around 7:30 p.m., I decided that since nobody had cooked dinner for me or taken me out, I would take the entire family out myself, including our service dog. It did not matter to me that nobody felt particularly hungry so late in the day.

But … before we eat we needed to take the dog to the park. By then we did not have too many dinner options.

My 9-year daughter is very enthusiastic about The Cheesecake Factory, most likely because of their extensive display of cheesecakes. But in my resentful mood, I deliberately chose the restaurant next door instead: Fogo de Chão.

I knew almost nothing about it, except that it looked fancy, dance music was blasting, and there was no wait for outdoor seating. The manager was exceptionally friendly and made no issue whatsoever about our dog. The staff, overall, was warm and accommodating.

Then came the menu.

That’s when I realized it was a Brazilian steakhouse following the traditional churrasco style of service, where gaucho chefs circulate through the dining room carving endless portions of grilled meat tableside. Founded in Southern Brazil in 1979, Fogo de Chão has since grown into an international chain with locations across the United States, Brazil, Mexico, and even the Middle East. Somehow, I had managed to walk into a global steakhouse empire without knowing anything about it.

The restaurant itself felt polished in that distinctly corporate way, where every detail seems carefully planned. We sat outside near a large fire feature on the patio while dance music drifted through the speakers and shoppers passed by. It felt lively, upscale, and relaxing for someone who had spent most of the day feeling unappreciated. 

The Mother’s Day menu did not offer their usual entrées and instead focused entirely on the Rodizio-style experience. Unlimited meat at $60-plus per person is simply not my kind of dining experience. Even though my eyes are often bigger than my stomach, fortunately my stomach still knows its limits.

Thankfully, they also offered bar bites with a bit more variety.

My husband ordered the Lobster & Shrimp Tacos, served in a Napa cabbage wrap with citrus aioli, shredded slaw, pickled red onion, dedo de moça peppers, and Panko breadcrumbs. They sounded fresh, light, and ambitious enough to justify avoiding an endless parade of meat skewers.

My daughter ordered the Picanha Burger: Fresh ground in-house, smoked provolone, romaine lettuce, tomato, onion, chimichurri aioli, brioche bun. It came with crispy polenta, and despite my recommendation otherwise, she added yucca fries as well.

I ordered the Spiced Chicken Sliders with Marinated Chicken Breast, arugula, tomato, pickled onion, tropical aioli, and brioche buns. Anticipating that I would ultimately become the designated eater of rejected yucca fries, I added regular fries to my own order.

We also ordered the Queijo Assado — Blistered cheese drizzled with malagueta honey, which sounded exactly like the kind of indulgent appetizer that should arrive quickly and disappear even faster.

I began the evening with a Caipirinha made with Silver Cachaça, fresh muddled limes, cane sugar. I had always wanted to try one. More than a decade ago, when I lived in Cambridge, it was an extremely popular drink, yet somehow I never got around to ordering one.

By the time I finished it, I decided I deserved another and ordered the Strawberry Hibiscus Caipirinha with Silver Cachaça, house hibiscus elixir, strawberries, limes.

Somewhere during that second cocktail, all resentment about Mother’s Day dissolved.

The service, however, became increasingly chaotic as the evening went on. Our Queijo Assado never arrived. Neither did my daughter’s burger. While she waited, I shared my sliders with her. The manager remained cheerful, stopping by to joke with my daughter, but somehow nobody realized her entrée had been forgotten until we finally asked about it nearly an hour into dinner.

By the time the missing orders arrived, she was no longer hungry, and frankly, none of us felt particularly interested in blistered cheese anymore either.

When the check arrived, there was no acknowledgement of the missing dishes. No complimentary dessert. No adjustment to the bill. No simple gesture of apology that most restaurants typically offer when mistakes happen.

To be fair, I genuinely enjoyed the cocktails and the lively atmosphere. But the food itself was largely forgettable. Granted, I wasn’t expecting culinary greatness from the bar menu. And I understand that on busy holiday evenings, servers become overwhelmed and mistakes happen.

Still, there should be some acknowledgment when things go wrong.

At the end of the night, it felt like the universe reminding me why I should stick to my own philosophy: support local restaurants.