The BBQ Club

Living in what city folk would call “upstate” (but in actuality is only an hour outside of the city), has its benefits. The main one: BBQ Bizatches! Since I have become the owner of a deck, I am using my BBQ day and night, thrilled to have easy meals, no mess in the kitchen, and that nice smoked flavor. You name it, I’ve been barbecuing it: clams, salmon, chicken, corn on the cob, brussel sprouts. (I could go on a la “Bubba” from Forest Gump, but I will spare you the details.)

I can also now revel in the selection of marinades at my disposal. It seems like every cook on the Food Network has their own sauce, from Bobby Flay to Guy Fieri. My current favorite: Stubs. (As I told my BFF last weekend after a day of gardening and home depot visiting, these are the simple pleasures of the (close to) middle-age suburbanites. Oh how things have changed!)

This weekend, I went to my local gourmet shop to get me some Stubs, and to go out on a limb and try a product recommended to me by my friend called Soy Vay, a kosher marinade that she claims is to die for. I admit I was slightly reluctant to ask for it, as it sounded funny to say ‘Soy Vay.’ What if they’d never heard of it? What if they thought I was just saying “Oy Vey!” But as soon as I inquired, the shop owner started raving, telling me he puts it on everything. He said he was practically all sold out. There was but one bottle left, and he told me to guard it with my life.

As I went to pay, a large man with a scruffy beard, a U.S. flag bandana around his head, and a motor cycle jacket who looked like a character out of Sons of Anarchy commented on my Soy Vay, saying he, too, slops that shi-at on everything.

“Man, I am barbecuing practically every day,” I said, trying to be friendly. “I’m so glad it’s summer.”

“What the hell does summer have to do with anything,” My Duck Dynasty-esque companion said in a gravelly voice. “I barbecue ALL year round.”

“True,” I said, wishing I hadn’t struck up the convo after all. “And I have a covered deck, so . . .”

“Covered, shmovered!” he shouted. “I’m out there rain and shine, 365 days a year.”

I hurried to pay when he whipped out his cell phone. “Take a look at this!” The photo showed about a foot of snow, with a small, black weber grill looking lonely and cold in the center; a circle of flattened snow had been shovelled around it.

“Made sirloin on that bad boy. That was New Year’s Day! That’s what I call barbecuing, bitcheeess!”

Slightly disturbed, I hugged my precious Soy Veh to my chest and exited. Apparently I was not cool enough to ride with the big BBQ boys. Yet. But I will be . . . mark my words, readers, this winter I WILL BE.

“Happy grillin!” I heard him call as the door shut behind me.