Most barbecue tragics have begun to haul the barbecue from the shed getting the jump on Spring. My neighbourhood “barbie king” is always the first. Most social groups have a resident char-grill wizard. You know them; they have the latest machines with all possible attachments, including a kitchen sink, and cost as much as a weekender on the coast.
The local pundits know his zeal by the smoke signals wafting in the air. Sadly, so many of these masters of the rotisserie are deficient in what really matters—fine taste.
Rituals of the BBQ are akin to man’s rite of passage, they hark way back to Neanderthal times. Perhaps it’s the freedom of outdoor cooking (they are banned from the family kitchen) where barbie bosses first pit their culinary expertise and costly cuts of meat against nature’s most powerful and destructive element—fire. Unfortunately, the fat and fur blaze that caused all to flee their ancient caves is not genetically imprinted on today’s grill masters.
A subjective view of the barbecue scene surely casts doubt upon man’s ability to see things clearly. Flies, smoke, paper plates, charred food, scorched fingers and oozing grease are just some of the attractions that seem to provide a peculiar enjoyment.
Old Harry down the street decided to stage the season’s last barbecue and promised to teach us the secrets of heat. Harry’s a good bloke, we’ve known him for years so the gang turned up hoping to at least get lunch—this time.
It was Saturday, 1:45 PM, time to light the barbecue. The players were getting hungry. Their appetites had been honed to fever pitch by the rather potent sangria and jugs of home-brewed, extra-strength beer. Boldness from booze is the usual trait of a barbecue master.
Harry is a purist and scoffs at the gas barbecue. His 44 gallon drum with chicken wire is the best. It’s better regulated, he reckons.
“Bringing the coals to perfect point is paramount,” he advised while applying a liberal dose of lighter fluid. A second soaking and a lit match sent a lethargic flame ambling across the briquettes. Within minutes a fierce orange flame equalling man’s height threatened the tree above. Perhaps it was the billowing, black smoke that caught everyone’s attention, especially the neighbours.
“The coals must be white,” yelled Harry. This can take an eternity when you’re hungry, or never if the briquettes are damp; as they were. Meanwhile, the flies were gorging heartily on the awaiting feast as the guests passed from tiddly to tottery with Harry leading the way, exhorting wimps to, “bottoms up.”
Some coals became white, some were still black and many had crumbled to useless ash. Things were not well.
“Quick! Send out for more charcoal, and get me another beer,” yelled Harry. Nobody moved.
Meanwhile, puddles of ooze now leaching from the meat whipped the fly population to a feeding frenzy.
“Bloody-hell,” and worse shocked the ladies as Harry seared his digits while adding more briquettes to a failing fire, “and for God’s sake, someone bring me another beer.”
The coals remained black. Harry screamed for another beer, also the lighter fluid. Either culinary pride, embarrassment or inebriation drove poor Harry to an act of gross pyromania. Sloshing more fuel over the coals and more beer over himself he leapt back. Nothing happened, except a spewing petroleum vapour that drifted through the hungry gathering. Flash-point was reached with a muffled, “WHOOMPF” which unleashed a fireball that seemed to envelop our chef. His hair and beard crackled and his plastic apron smouldered.
Menfolk gasped, women screamed and dogs fled as Harry swore violently, jumped up and down on his apron and shrieked for another beer. The flies had now gorged themselves to death and were floating in the meat juice and marinade.
“Can’t trust these damn briquettes,” Harry announced, as he heaved meat, flies and all onto the chicken wire above oily flames. The grog had clearly made its mark. The group now took on a concerted mood. With that, Harry then launched into a medley of bawdy sea shanties at hysterical pitch. The coals were now titanium white and set about voraciously consuming the food. The whole mess became a dreadful conflagration that buckled the glowing barbecue and melted the chicken wire.
Concerned neighbours began peering over the fence as the chef chanted on like a man possessed. The flames were alarming.
“I’ll fix that in two seconds, just like the pro’s do—water’s the secret,” Harry yelled, and snatched a tumbler from the table dashing its contents, ice cubes and all into the blaze.
The Vodka ignited like napalm with flames licking the balcony above. As we gasped and scrambled in fear, Harry’s wife sprang forward and hit the barbecue with an ear-spitting blast from a fire extinguisher.
Beneath a blanket of white extinguisher powder the fire was dead as was the food. Harry, not to be beaten by a minor setback downed yet another beer and declared he would make pizza for all.
“The secret to good pizza,” he bragged, “is to get the oven very hot.” Harry was severely chastised by his Missus and I decided to go home and watch the pizza event on the six o’clock news. I saw him mowing the lawn the other day and waved as I drove by.
Thought for the week: Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish, and he’ll sit in a boat and drink beer all day.
It's probably safer than letting him be in charge of barbeque and his name is Harry.
Chaucer
