Working on a piece for a magazine (let’s call it Voyages + Relaxation) I procured a deal with a hotel that involved a butler specifically assigned to help guests barbecue during their stay. Have we, as a society, come to that? Is this an Americanized take on palm fronds and peeled grapes?
I question the BBQ Butler (or BBQB) as someone who, last month, melted the driveway of his family home during a first ever attempt at using a charcoal grill. And that was after I exploded the stone walkway leading to the house. Yes, when I cook, explosions, rubble and craters are all possibilities. Hence my nom de grill: Rolling Thunder. But clearly, if anyone needs help with their Weber, it’s me.
Even I was surprised about the idea of a BBQB, which evokes the image of a man in white tie attire sweating over a grill, possibly catching his tails on fire. Ultimately, isn’t part of the fun of grilling the fact that it often ends in disaster? Charred meats are eventually polished off if you’ve got friends who are classy drunks, and it’s an easy way to feel a sense of accomplishment.
Give me a sedan chair over a BBQB any day of the week.
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