Pão de Alho

You, with the tongs in your hand and that quiet isso não é pra mim in your head, listen to me. This is bread and butter. Garlic, salt, heat. If an industry managed to convince you that the powdered packet knows more than you do, the packet had a very good marketing department and no shame.

Pão de alho belongs to the churrasco table because it buys everybody time. The rice is waiting, the feijão is thickening, the meat or egg has its place, something green is coming, and meanwhile this bread comes off the grill with crisp edges and butter running into the cuts. It isn't the whole pê-efe, anota aí. It's the piece people steal before the plate is even assembled.

The method is the same honest kitchen grammar a gente uses everywhere: garlic meets good fat, salt wakes it up, heat has to be controlled. Too hot and the garlic burns bitter before the bread crisps. Too cold and the butter leaks out while the bread sits there looking embarrassed. Medium heat, a cooler side of the grill, and the discipline to let the butter melt before you chase char.

Cozinhar não é dom, é um aprendizado. Mash the garlic properly, soften the butter, cut the bread without slicing it apart, and grill it like you mean dinner, not like you're proving something. By the end you'll have pão de alho that tastes like comida de verdade: crisp outside, soft inside, and gone before anyone admits they took the last piece.