(From the July 2006 issue)
There’s an e-mail joke going around the internet mocking men and their grills. According to this e-mail, women do everything (buy the food, make the salad, prepare the vegetables, marinate the meat, organize the plates and cutlery, etc.), and all men do is put the meat on the grill and take the credit.
There may be a glimmer of truth to that e-mail, but it doesn’t begin to explain why a man has such a personal relationship with his grill. It’s not just because it’s so easy to grill meat. It’s not just because a man can feel the glow of praise caveman hunters must have felt after they provided meat for a whole family or neighborhood.
It’s much deeper than that.
A grill has everything a man loves--fire, heat, smoke and meat--plus it lacks something a man needs to escape every now and then. It’s a natural woman repellant; more powerful than a cigar. A backyard grill is more than just the place where the meat cooks. It’s the place where men congregate, and women stay away. It’s a place where, if you’re willing to endure a little coughing and sweat pouring from your brow, a man can be a man.
Without women around, we can tell jokes. No one groans when the joke begins. No one rolls their eyes before, during, or after a joke...even with smoke pouring into them. If the joke isn’t funny, we still offer a polite laugh, followed by “That’s a good one.” That’s proper joke etiquette. And the only place we’re certain to experience it is near a grill.What else can men do while grilling? We can talk about the local sports teams and players without stopping to provide translations (“They call it a field goal in basketball too”) or answering questions that shouldn’t be asked like: “Are you talking about the cute one with the big arms?” We can emit bodily functions without being punched. We can use bad language without offending anyone. We can ask someone to fetch us a beer without getting that glare in return—because the cooler is never more than five feet away. Instead, we’ll hear the correct response.
Bob: “What kind you want?”
Chuck: “How bout a Heineken.”
Bob: “You got it. Coming right up.”
If we don’t have anything to say, that’s fine too. There’s no pressure. We can just stare at the meat together in silence. We don’t mind silence. When we want to talk again, we have a guaranteed topic of conversation. The meat.
Bob: “You might want to flip that one.”
Chuck: “You may be right.”
Bob: “What kind of sausage is that?”
Chuck: “Not sure. The little lady bought it.”
We can use terms like “the little lady” or “the little woman” or “the old lady” freely and openly. We can pretend like it’s our world, like we have some say in what we do, and when the little lady comes to check on the progress of the meat and says something like “it’s not supposed to be black, you know” we can look at each other knowingly.
Then we can wait for her to return with a plate, sipping our beers, stabbing at the blackened chicken or sausage or steak or burger; enjoying our last few moments of male-bonding seclusion. We know that once the meat is done, our little world will be snatched away from us. Our perfect little escape hatch will be closed, and we’ll be forced to return to a discussion of curtains and carpets and imaginary paint colors.
If you pay attention, it’s not the women giving us “too much credit” for our grilling prowess upon our return to the party. It’s the other men—the ones who weren’t lucky or savvy enough to escape to the grill. An overly-enthusiastic trapped male will praise us the second he sees the tray of meat. The conversation will go something like this...
Woman #1: “Is your living room coral or salmon?”
Woman #2: “Would you believe it’s really more of a muted Navajo?”
(Meat tray arrives)
Trapped Guy: “HEY! There they are! Great job on the meat, Chuck! It looks perfect.”
Chuck: “Bob helped me.”
Bob: “Yup.”
(The women all roll their eyes.)
Don’t get us wrong. It’s not that we don’t like women—we really, really, really do. It’s just that every now and then we like to pretend that we aren’t completely controlled by them. Unfortunately, one of the few remaining places to do that is really hot and smoky, but we’ve learned to find the positives in that too.
Chuck: “Why don’t you squirt some more lighter-fluid on the fire.”Bob: “You mean it?”
Chuck: (evil smile) “Yup.”
(Lighter fluid is squirted.)
Bob & Chuck: “Ooooh!”
Bob: “Now that’s a fire.”
Chuck: (evil smile) “Yup.”
We may be simple creatures, but look on the bright side. We’re very easy to please. Just give us some fire, some heat, some smoke, and some meat, and we’ll let the ladies talk about imaginary paint colors all day long.
We even promise not to roll our eyes.
