“If you’re invited to a barbecue, have your dinner before you go.” It is the wisest advice my dad has ever given me. Barbecues are one of life’s perennial disappointments. The romance of eating outside quickly degenerates into a recipe for mucky fingers, smelly clothes and more mess than you bargained for, with grills that you can never get clean, uncomfortable seating that makes your back ache or, dafter still, eating while standing up. Worst of all is the true barbecue legacy – the nagging hunger that follows bitty dining, leaving you with the aggrieved sense that you missed a mealtime you’re never getting back.
I grew up in Cornwall, where beach barbecues were a rite of passage. The flame under the sandy grill was blown out by the Atlantic wind, so these gatherings were impractical, unpredictable and interminable. One minute the sausages were raw and looked like they’d never be ready, the next they were hard and black and basically inedible. Rain frequently sent us scrambling to pack up and flee for shelter.
