Bbq'ing in the UK is not something generally to be proud of. At the first sight of Spring sunshine, Johnny Brit will don a pair of (rather too long) shorts and a silly hat, head down to the supermarket and fill his basket full of cheap sausages, burgers and plastic buns. Back home, out comes the kettle bbq and the bag of charcoal briquettes that has been lurking in the shed for half a decade. After half a box of matches, the liberal application of very dubious petroleum products, and a fair amount of swearing the thing is alight. Wives look on with that knowing look in their eyes and kids jump around in joy at the spectacle as meat product after meat product is reduced to charcoal before getting stuffed into the plastic buns. "This is what fun looks like", declares dad, as the family chomp away, the realisation dawning that this is why we don't do bbq's very often.
Well, last night I cooked some ribeye steak on a £2.50 disposable bbq, and it was rather good. My plan is to work my way up to fish. Somewhere in the bottom of the freezer lurks a whole red mullet, scaled and gutted and ready to be charcoal'd. What could possibly go wrong?