“The smell of gas was there, and of burning chops when he opened the door. He said, “I’ve got some chops going.” ~ Patrick White, The Eye of the Storm.
What do I miss most in Manila? From our 32 floor apartment without even a balcony, never mind a back garden, it would have to be our barbecue.
Although the barbecue was not invented by Australians, we have made it our own, and it is now an ubiquitous part of the Aussie landscape. The tripod, the gas barbecue, the built-in brick Barbie, the kettle or Weber that is perfect for cooking the Christmas roast without heating up the kitchen to 100’C.
The most sophisticated barbecue we have ever owned was aptly named ‘The Australian’, which we acquired in the UK, and would drag out onto the patio, rain or shine, balancing under umbrellas if we had to – which was actually quite often in not-so-sunny Kent. My sorely tested One & Only had to cook his own 40th birthday dinner on the Australian in the middle of a damp and chilly December night.
The Australian
In her book about Australian Gastronomic Heritage, Barbara Santich calls the versatile barbecue ‘a national symbol’. And in all its shapes and forms, I would have to agree. According to Barbara, ‘to barbecue’ originally meant to roast an entire animal outdoors, usually for a grand public event. By the 70s it has become synonymous with the Australian lifestyle: the convivial gathering of friends and relations in the back yard, cooking sausages and chops on the Barbie and eating them off paper plates loaded with coleslaw and tomato sauce. The menu may have got more sophisticated over the years, but the laid-back simplicity of this informal dining experience is paramount.
A short story by a Filipino writer that I read recently amused me with its description of the barbecue as if it were some solemn religious rite. It rang bells. Certainly, in my world, it is an opportunity for the Australian male to pose, dressed in either a sturdy, masculine apron or a tasteless novelty number, armed with tongs and a beer, making an event out of cooking a few chops, the High Priest of the Barbecue. It is a Boy Thing, far more significant and important than merely grilling a snag on the stove.
The Tripod
When we were kids, my own father owned a small tripod barbecue that had at some stage lost a leg, and was precariously balanced on a broomstick or some such thing for years. Heaven forbid he should invest in a new one, this one was ‘perfectly alright!’
Dad never really got to grips with that barbecue – he would fill it with a huge pyramid of wood, and flames would soar to the sky like a bonfire. A lack of patience – or possibly the whinging of four hungry kids – meant that he always threw the meat on before the flames had died down, and we would end up with charcoaled chops. For years, I never realized there was any other way, particularly as my mother’s regular contretemps with the grill inevitably produced similar results in the kitchen.
I remember relating this story to my sister-in-law, teasing Dad as we sipped wine by the sea, and he battled with the gas barbecue on the deck. He was getting decidedly huffy at the insult to his barbecuing prowess, as Ann and I giggled into our glasses.
The Weber
“Lucky this one’s gas! No charcoal chops tonight!” Hahaha, snort…
Dad grumpily pushed the perfectly cooked steak to one side and humphed off in search of another beer. As he wombled away, his back to the barbecue, the fat dripped onto the open flame. A sudden flair shot up the sides of the grill and cremated the steaks. Ann and I shrieked and wept with laughter. Charcoal chops again!
* With thanks to Google Images – because somehow the barbecue is never quite in the picture!