Dirty cooks at the barbecue
If you are what you eat, I’m now a ‘dirty’ steak basted in a Simon & Garfunkel lyric of parsley, rosemary and thyme nestled on a bed of coals with a few whisky-smoked wood chips and looking forward to a dry rub.
I am in the back garden of a cottage hidden amid the bucolic bustle of a mid-Devon hamlet. But this is no ordinary garden. The wardrobe in Marcus Bawdon’s house takes you not to Narnia but to barbecue nirvana.
This is my first day at UK BBQ School; actually it’s my only day and I have signed up to the beginner’s course. Rather late in life I have decided to attempt to wrest the tongs from my Australian wife, Kelly, who won’t let a Pom near anything that combines fire and food al fresco.
It is safe to assume the first barbecue was lit back when cavemen rubbed sticks together, unaware their ‘can’t start a fire without a spark’ Neanderthal mumble would be used by Bruce
You’re reading a preview, subscribe to read more.
Start your free 30 days