A necessity born from scarcity has become an identity.
No alto das montanhas de Santa Catarina, onde a necessidade de conservar carne sem refrigeração gerou saber, a família Zandonadi transformou uma solução de escassez em patrimônio vivo. O frescal — carne salgada e maturada, interrompida no meio do processo do charque — carrega mais de cinquenta anos de conhecimento transmitido entre gerações. Agora, com o Selo Artesanal conquistado, esse produto singular ultrapassa as fronteiras estaduais e começa a chegar a mesas que ainda não sabem o que estão prestes a descobrir.
- Por décadas, a ausência de inspeção federal prendia o frescal dentro dos limites de Santa Catarina, impedindo que um produto único chegasse a outros mercados.
- A transição geracional trouxe tensão e escolha: Germana e Fábio abandonaram carreiras na engenharia mecânica para assumir uma produção artesanal cujo futuro dependia inteiramente deles.
- A obtenção do Selo Artesanal rompeu a barreira regulatória, reconhecendo o frescal como produto regional único e abrindo legalmente o caminho para vendas em todo o Brasil.
- Curitiba já recebe remessas, e o Paraná surge como primeiro horizonte de expansão — mas a família avança com cuidado, priorizando que o consumidor entenda e prove antes de escalar.
- O produto chega ao mercado sustentado por rigor técnico: gado criado em campo nativo na Serra catarinense, controle preciso de temperatura na maturação e acompanhamento veterinário constante.
No alto da Serra catarinense, em São Joaquim, a família Zandonadi passou mais de cinquenta anos aperfeiçoando um corte de carne que quase ninguém fora da região conhece. Tudo começou como resposta à escassez: sem refrigeração, o charque — carne salgada e seca ao sol — era a única forma de conservar o boi abatido por meses. Mas os Zandonadis descobriram que, ao interromper esse processo na metade e controlar cuidadosamente a temperatura de maturação, chegavam a algo diferente. Não seco, não fresco — algo entre os dois, macio, que cozinhava rápido e tinha sabor próprio. Chamaram de frescal.
Esse conhecimento nunca foi escrito. Passou do fundador ao filho Hilário, que hoje conduz a produção, carregando o que aprendeu por observação e prática. A qualidade começa no campo: apenas gado criado em pastagem nativa da Serra, nunca confinado. No inverno, quando a grama enfraquece, os rebanhos migram para pastagens melhoradas. O veterinário Cléberson acompanha os animais — cruzamentos Charolês que garantem boa carcaça — e após o abate, a carne passa por câmaras frias com temperatura monitorada antes de chegar à açougue no centro da cidade.
Por décadas, a falta de inspeção federal manteve o frescal preso dentro de Santa Catarina. A conquista do Selo Artesanal mudou isso: o certificado reconhece o produto como manufatura regional única e autoriza a venda em todo o Brasil. A virada coincidiu com a chegada da nova geração. Germana, neta dos fundadores, e seu marido Fábio deixaram a engenharia mecânica para assumir o negócio — não por obrigação, mas por pertencimento, pela certeza de que o que construíssem ou perdessem dependeria de suas próprias mãos.
Curitiba já recebe remessas. O Paraná se abre como primeiro mercado além-fronteira. A família fala de expansão com cautela: o que importa, dizem, é que as pessoas entendam o que é o frescal, que o provem, que reconheçam o trabalho por trás dele. O que nasceu da necessidade virou identidade. E agora, com o selo, esse saber começa a viajar — chegando a mesas que ainda não ouviram falar do frescal e ainda não sabem o que estão perdendo.
High in the mountains of Santa Catarina, where winter winds strip the pastures bare, the Zandonadi family has spent more than fifty years perfecting a cut of meat that almost nobody outside their region knows exists. It began as a problem without a solution: how to preserve beef when there was no refrigeration, no electricity, no way to keep meat from spoiling in a place where cattle were slaughtered once and had to feed a family for months. The answer was charque—salt it, dry it in the sun, and it would last. But somewhere along the way, in São Joaquim, the Zandonadis discovered something else. They found that if you stopped the charque process halfway through, if you controlled the temperature carefully while the meat matured, you ended up with something different entirely. Not dried. Not quite fresh. Something in between that was tender, that cooked quickly, that tasted like nothing else in the region. They called it frescal.
The distinction matters more than it might seem. Frescal is salted and matured, but it is not the hard, desiccated charque of old necessity. Because it has been partially dehydrated rather than fully dried, it softens in the pan or on the grill. It renders faster. It stays moist. The Zandonadis learned this by trial, by watching, by the kind of knowledge that passes from father to son without ever being written down. The founder taught himself to cure meat with salt alone, with no one to instruct him, and that understanding moved through the generations. Today Hilário tends the production, carrying forward what his father learned and what his father's father discovered by accident.
Quality, the family insists, begins in the field. They use only cattle from the Serra catarinense, animals raised on native pasture, never confined. A feedlot animal, they say, produces frescal that tastes different—lesser. In winter, when the mountain grass weakens, they move the herds to improved pastures to keep the supply steady through the year. A veterinarian named Cléberson oversees the animals, watching the bloodlines—Charolais and synthetic crosses that yield good meat and strong carcass weight. After slaughter at the processing plant, the meat is salted, moved through cold rooms where temperature is monitored precisely, and only then sent to the butcher shop in the center of town.
For decades, the product was trapped by geography and regulation. The processing plant had only state inspection, which meant frescal could not cross the border into other states. It was a regional secret, a local pride, a thing you could only buy in Santa Catarina. Then the family obtained the Artisanal Seal—a certification that recognizes frescal as a handmade, regionally unique product and permits sales throughout Brazil. The timing mattered. The younger generation had already stepped in. Germana, granddaughter of the founders, and her husband Fábio had left careers in mechanical engineering to take over the business. They chose to do it not for the money but because the work was theirs, because it was tied to the place they came from, because failure or success would depend on their own hands.
With the seal in place, markets began to open. Curitiba, the capital of Paraná, started receiving shipments. The family sees potential for growth across the state and beyond. But they are careful about how they speak of expansion. What matters most, they say, is that people understand what frescal is, that they taste it, that they know the work that went into it. A necessity born from scarcity has become an identity. What began as a way to keep meat from spoiling has turned into a salted, matured product with more than fifty years of tradition behind it, linked to the churrasco culture of the mountains, to the way people in that region have always eaten. Now, with the Artisanal Seal, that knowledge—that way of making—is beginning to travel beyond the Serra catarinense. It is beginning to reach other tables, other states, other people who have never heard of frescal and do not yet know what they are missing.
Notable Quotes
A feedlot animal produces frescal that tastes different—lesser— The Zandonadi family
The most important thing is that the consumer knows the product well— The Zandonadi family
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does it matter that they stopped the charque process halfway? Couldn't they have just made charque and called it something else?
Because the halfway point is where the meat becomes something entirely different. It's not dried hard like charque. It's tender. It cooks faster. The flavor is distinct. They didn't invent this by reading a recipe—they discovered it by watching what happened when they controlled the temperature and didn't let the meat dry all the way through.
So it's a happy accident that became a product?
More than that. It became a way of knowing. The founder learned by doing, alone, with no instruction. That knowledge—how to salt it, how long to let it mature, what temperature matters—that passed to his children and grandchildren. It's not written down anywhere. It lives in the family.
Why does it have to be grass-fed cattle from that specific region?
Because the animal's diet shapes the meat. A feedlot animal, confined and grain-fed, produces frescal that tastes different. The family is clear about this. The native pasture of the Serra catarinense, even in winter when they supplement with improved grasses, produces something specific. You can taste the difference.
The younger generation left engineering to do this. That's a big choice. What made them stay?
They wanted to own something that was theirs. They wanted to carry forward something tied to where they came from. And they wanted the outcome to depend on their own work, not on a salary or a corporation. That matters to people more than we sometimes admit.
Now that they have the Artisanal Seal, what changes?
They can sell across state lines. Before, they were locked into Santa Catarina because the processing plant only had state inspection. Now they can reach Curitiba, Paraná, potentially anywhere in Brazil. But the family says the real work is making sure people understand what frescal is. Expansion is secondary to that.