Do You Have His Number?

Does this thing even work?  I inherited this grill from a friend who left town.  It’s a nice grill.  It’s big and silver and it sits outside all year.  We’ve had it now for about five years I suppose and it has sat outside for most of that time.  In the spring, we clean it up and bring it back to life.  Every year it’s the same thing, we can’t find the number for the guy who will ride over with a new canister of gas.  It’s the same routine every year: “Don’t you have his number?”  “I do not.”

Some guys love grills. The mind harkens back to the first Eddie Murphy album: “Now that’s a fire!”  I would say I like grills.  I like to grill things out on the grill.  I do a reasonable job of it.  I’ve learned to season and prepare things well enough ahead of time.  But the time spent out there, over the fire, moving things around, wondering if that jet on the far left is really actually aflame and if the veggies have moved beyond tasty to grizzled, and accommodating Chinese tastes, which hate to see meat served up rare and my own, which has no interest in grilling it all to a cinder, I have no particular interest in this. 

Generally if there is a BBQ it means there are guests over.  Outside has mosquitos and no one is overly interested in standing out there and chatting with me as a flip the pieces of meat over.  Tonight, my friend will brave the mosquitos.  We stand out there and chat.  “Hey get me a plate for the cooked pieces, will ya?” “Is it gonna rain?”  “I think so.”  “Dude, I’m going in.” “No worries.  It’s almost done.”   I’d also rather be inside talking, eating. 

I usually cook lamb chops.  These packets of six are not cheap.  But poked with a fork, and softened with olive oil, and the special Xinjiang sauce we have, paprika, and cumin and something I can’t properly name, with a bit of sea salt, well they taste great.  They always seem to come out wonky when we try to “grill” them with our oven during winter time.  What I’ve prepared tonight is anything if not wonky.  Beef with the same oil and salt with a bit of papaya kneaded into the tissue.  Veggies always seem to get hit with soy sauce.  I know the routine.  And the outcome is tasty.  Everyone, politely agrees.  That’s good to hear.  

I return to the rain outside and kneel down low.  My reading Chinese is good enough to recognize the difference at least between “open” and “closed” on the gas canister.  I turn the drill all the way to closed and try to flame up any residual gas that has yet to escape, just in case.  Nothing there.  Next time I will not be so lucky using the dregs of the gas tank.  Where is that guy’s number?

Sunday, 06/18/17