‘Queen of Aperitifs’, Juriti has been a real pub with root snacks since 1957

The chef, a foreigner and very famous, spoke days ago about the pub that had just opened. Another person on the same wheel challenged him. He argued that the house might not be a pub.

The chef replied and said that it was, yes, a bar, as it served feijoada on Saturdays. With a pig’s ear and foot, he stressed.

Sorry, chef. Your bar may be great, but it’s not a bar. Boteco is A Juriti, which carries the epithet Queen of Aperitifs. And that doesn’t even serve feijoada, by the way.

Juriti, since 1957 in the Cambuci neighborhood (central region), serves frog, oyster, mussel, pastry, chorizo, quail eggs, pickles, crackling, squid, manjuba, smoked ricotta, gorgonzola, bird chicken, drumstick, olives and roll mops, which are marinated sardines with onions. It’s a lot of snack, just root pinch, and nothing your cardiologist would approve of.

This same Juriti fulfills other basic requirements of a bar, apart from longevity and the menu: the waiters-patrimony, the loyal and mainly local clientele, the unpretentiousness of transcending the parish condition and, very notorious, the absence of the words “bar” and “bar” in the name of the establishment. Only those who are not boteco vero resort to them.

I am a Cambuci brood and spent my childhood passing in front of Juriti, but without entering. My parents weren’t adept at the family bar. When I reached drinking age, I went with the others to the west, in Pinheiros and Vila Madalena.

Because it wasn’t cool to drink in Cambuci. Despite being very close to the city of postcards –it is right next to Liberdade and is 10 minutes from Avenida Paulista–, the region was far from the routes of bars. It still passes.

I discovered Juriti late. I discovered that the bar in my neighborhood is a reference among the most famous bartenders in Belo Horizonte and Rio. Cambuci raised to the heights.

From the façade to the bathrooms in the back, one can see in the environment that Juriti has undergone minimal physical changes in these almost 65 years of history. An understatement to say that the place has stalled in time.

Affixed to the tiled wall, a black plastic sign with snap-on letters advises the dissatisfied customer to call 198, the number of Sunab – an organization that was discontinued in 1997.

In the ethylic field, A Juriti is famous for the beats (R$18) that are already bottled behind the bar. I’m not a fan, I don’t recommend it, but take whoever you want and enjoy sweet drinks. It also has draft beer, cold beer and an ok selection of cachaça.

Among the foods, the absolute star is Joan of Arc (R$ 43). A naughty name, perhaps a little cruel, for the pepperoni sausage roasted over an alcohol fire, in a small glazed structure with a chimney that overlooks the bar.

Try not to miss the pyrotechnics of the preparation – it’s a relevant part of the show, but no one will ask you to see it. That’s not Paris 6. On the plate, the sausage is sliced ​​and bathed in Worcestershire sauce, with bread on the side.

All fried foods are dry and tasty: pastries, coxinha, kebab and meat dumplings (all at R$3.50 a unit). The crackling (R$ 8.50) comes in two versions: the leather pururuca and the pork belly, with meat and fat. Both were great, despite being exposed for long hours in the greenhouse.

A rare snack and victim of discrimination, the breaded frog (R$ 25) is another jewel of Juriti. Soft, tender, moist meat, well seasoned in garlic, well fried, served with a lemon wedge.

Gibinha and Zé are the ones who bring all this to the table, they are employees with a history almost as long as the bar itself. The waiter Bigode, loved by the customers, did not resist Covid: his death generated a fair commotion among the patrons.

Also in the pandemic, they said that Juriti had closed for good. It was fake news, luckily.

Juriti is open, but not too late. It’s an old bar, for old people, with old waiters, old-fashioned food and old customers, the warning is given. Go early.

And don’t be offended when they start stacking the tables and lowering the roll-up door while you’ve still got your glass full. The night may be a child, but A Juriti is not.