Fresh-from-the-garden shares a plate with grilled-perfection. (Well, actually Dad would have called for more searing time.)
Happy Father’s Day, Dad, This Steak’s for You!
Here’s to the Dad who relinquished his grill to a second grader, to the man who trusted the family’s ribeyes to a boy. As barbequer and mentor, he kept it simple: a shot of salt, a dash of pepper, then throw the slabs of meat on the hibachi, a very hot hibachi. (For the uninitiated, it’s a grill as big as a bread box, not a Mini-Cooper) “Remember, coals aren’t ready until covered in white ash,” he’d say, handing me a long-handled spatula and disappearing right after my final instruction, “Call me when they’re ready.”
In his book, the key to a good steak was searing the outside. As for the inside, you knew it was ready when the juice just reached the surface. (And cutting a steak to determine doneness was for amateurs.) So here’s to the Dad who never relegated his kids to hot dogs, unless he (and my mother) found it on their plates as well. From the art of grilling to mastering the marinade, to finessing the flank steak and surmounting the smoker, I’ve come a long way on the barbeque path. The only thing different is I like my steak rare, a state of being handily shared by this grill master’s father.
For ribs, a few briquets to start, then it’s cherry wood all the way