It’s the late May bank holiday weekend and the weather gods are smiling. In addition to being stuck at airports, or laughing at tear-stricken fans of football clubs who are getting relegated or losing finals, another British tradition is emerging from hibernation.
Across the land, sweaty, boozy men (it’s nearly always men) are scraping, fire-lighting and stoking that damn barbecue grill into life. Not to mention, marinating the poor dead cow, bird and pig parts that just might be on offer alongside burnt burger and the remains of a British sausage.
Usually these flaming artisans perform one-handedly, while the other holds a once ice-cold bottle of Corona. Invariably, they make a complete hash of it.
Let’s be honest: barbecuing – like golf, F1 and real ale – is right up there among the most over-rated male interests. It usually results in frazzled food that would have been a whole lot less incinerated in our increasingly fancy kitchens. Only, we don’t want to hurt his feelings.
Some women might not like the rigmarole; others welcome a kitchen breather. But, before indignant female grillers cancel me for sexism, the statistics support me. Regardless of the reason, 82 per cent of men claim to do the work and be in charge – at least until it comes to cleaning the damn things afterwards. Make no mistake, it’s big business too. The UK barbecue grill market alone is worth some $3.5bn – never mind the tongs, brushes, aprons, and of course meat and marinades, that are also de rigeur.
Of course, I understand the attraction of cooking and eating outside. The al fresco meal is an intrinsic part of Italian family food culture, but we never owned a “BBQ”. That’s what a grill is for, Ma would say. And who else remembers the rotisserie (for chicken) being an essential element of early 1980s cooker design? We would rather eat food that was al forno rather than al barbie: “The Engleesh, they only burn their food to hide how bad it tastes.”
The tools have increased immeasurably (as have the prices). Whether you have a Weber or a Big Green Egg is one of the latest opportunities for middle-class neighbourly one-upmanship, right up there with Ninja air fryers. My lovely neighbour, whose handiwork is drifting over my garden fence as I type, is South African. Being a very clever professor, he has embraced the “smart” barbie. In fact he has three, two electric ones and an electric smoker (for duck and fish) all linked to his iPad controller.
In the right hands, the result can be memorable. I dream of my annual barbecued bunny at “Visions” in Ibiza almost from the minute I get home. I’ve had magnificent pork in Spain and ribs in Texas, but… even that lovely neighbour George (not his real name) managed to overcook the eye-watering expensive steaks he bought for our “smart” meal, despite all his timers beeping.
To a South African man, the “braai” is life. He was almost in tears. Which is usually how I feel, confronted with the blitzed burgers, scorched sausages and chicken cinders that pass for the average barbie fare, plus that horrid, soggy coleslaw. And, for the record, no amount of Nando’s peri-peri sauce will make it taste any better.
