June 29 2004, 03:48 PM There Is Smoke

Charcoal is an old thing; far older than the smell of lighter fluid, or hideous newly-rusting engine-red lidless grills, or buzz haircuts and a strange urge to warp the backyard into some sterile cathedral ceiling'd auxiliary dining room. Charcoal is old enough that people would spend days with absolute minimal sleep, tending a huge smoking sodded hill of gently cooking wood. They did this so they could eat. I follow them, somewhat, to go to similar places, though my straits are far fairer than theirs.

I've looked into making charcoal myself. It's easier these days; we have better tools, and better tools to make them with. My present deficits are land and time, so I have not tried it yet. I mean to. Elsewhile, I get natural lump charcoal when I can. It burns faster; it burns hotter. The heat is worth the trade. I think it tastes better, but I am uncomfortable in saying so, for I think that I sound stupid when I do in ways akin to stereophiles who obsess over placing lumps of dense wood around the listening area in positively perfect places.

I don't use lighter fluid. That I can smell and taste, and disrecommend. What we used to do is forage dry kindling from the yard and pile it up in the kettle grill, starting it going with a little bit of paper, and flicking lumps of charcoal into the flames with quick fingers. These days I use a charcoal chimney, which is a wonder of ease and use. I have two for slogging through winter grilling. Should you use them, have a good place to set them: they generate tremendous amounts of heat, and it's surprising how melty some things can be. Every time I see an infomercial for a gas grill begin with obviously bad actors attempting to incompetently start a charcoal grill, I shake my head and smile sadly before I throw a brick through the television.

I like kettle grills. Get a kettle grill. There is no better way to cook a chicken. Get a good bird for roasting; pull the giblets and rinse the bird well. Pat it dry with a paper towel or three. Smash a clove of garlic, and rub it all over the chicken. Smash another clove of garlic, then toss both into the cavity, with a stem or two of rosemary from the garden. Oil the bird lightly with a good olive oil, and drop on a hot, oiled grill over a drip pan surrounded by happy ash-faced coals. Put the lid on and cook it until it's done.

We cheat a little there; we have a thermometer with an alarm and a remote probe, and it was a spectacular investment. Another good trick is brining the thing before cooking; that works especially well for larger pieces of meat. Simple experience plays here, too. After time in the kettle, the bird should turn a brown somewhere between gold and mahogany with crisp, smoky skin and meltingly juicy meat, laced with hints of rosemary. The meat may be a little pink near the skin; this is an artifact of the cooking process, and is fine.

Let it rest before cutting, then eat. A bit of good bread and some pepper, perhaps, is all that needs to stand beside it. Eat it outside in the good weather, as the setting sun sets fire to the sky.