Opinion – Cuisine Bruta: Isabel, companion of eating, drinking and singing

It’s kind of weird when you’re finally introduced to someone you’ve known, in a way, forever. That’s how it was when I met Isabel for the first time.

Isabel do Vôlei accompanied me during pre-adolescence, when open TV was my nanny and I was interested in sports. It was at that time that women’s collective sports gained due recognition in Brazil – in addition to the generation of Isabel and Vera Mossa in volleyball, there was the basketball of Hortência and Magic Paula.

By a happy coincidence, Isabel became the girlfriend of my friend Luís, a film producer, from Rio de Janeiro and living in São Paulo.

I went to meet them at the Modi restaurant, three blocks from my house, on a Friday in early July. We had focaccia, crab gyoza and egg yolk ravioli. From there, we went to Banh Mi, a Vietnamese restaurant in the beautiful view, and had a pho bo – beef soup with rice noodles and tons of fantastic spices.

Isabel, Luís’ girlfriend, corresponded exactly to the image I had of Isabel as a public person: intelligent, open, interested, generous.

The following Sunday, we went to Bom Retiro to eat Korean barbecue at New Shin-La Kwan. There was a short wait, so we waited at a watering hole on the nearest corner.

A woman of six feet, slippers on her feet and a glass of beer in her hands, Isabel behaved as she should behave in Ipanema, where you look away from famous people so as not to act like a jerk. But Bom Retiro is very sparse of celebrities, so Isabel’s presence began to attract passers-by.

One of these fans had already found Isabel in a train car in Japan, where both of them used to live. She tried to remember the previous meeting, I don’t remember if she remembered, but the conversation continued as if both were old acquaintances.

At the restaurant, my conversation with her turned to personal matters. Isabel was patient and attentive to my whining about a relationship that had ended weeks before. And honest enough to say that I screwed up in the episode. I added a “take a look”, but deep down I knew that Isabel was right. Shit I did.

On the way back, when the couple left me at the door of the house, I pulled Isabel for a shaky selfie of a beer groupie. We already treated each other like friends, but she was still the giant I learned to admire at a very young age.

The last time I saw Isabel, the three of us went to izakaya Donchan, a lovely Japanese joint with karaoke. Isabel was as comfortable as a chicken in a garbage can. She ordered duck breast tataki and let out her voice.

At farewell, we agreed to eat feijoada for the next lunch. They didn’t look for me. I didn’t look for them either. That the couple had their moments alone.

Today I woke up from uneasy dreams and I’ve already come across two messages from Luís on WhatsApp. In the first, direct, he used only two words: “Isabel passed away”. On the second, he asked me to forward a video I made of the two of them singing “Não Quero Dinheiro”, by Tim Maia, in karaoke.

Out of respect for Luís and Isabel’s family, I will only show the video when and if I have your express permission.

The news of the loss of my friend Isabel (I think I can call her that) was the beginning of a gloomy Wednesday. Hours later, the message would arrive of the death of Seu Maurício, father of Ivan Finotti, my colleague from Sheet and much more – we’ve been great friends since the days when Isabel rocked the courts.

Maurício was monosyllabic and intimidating on the landline (the only type that existed when I, as a teenager, called to look for Ivan at my parents’ house). In person, he was affectionate and bailed me out of a few ORs when I was scared of my own dad’s reaction.

Anyway, I know that you have nothing to do with my wanderings in Bom Retiro or the friendships of adolescence, but writing is my escape valve. To say it’s been a bad day is an understatement. You’ll have to endure: the bad days, like the lives of good people, also pass.