I don't recommend wearing white jeans for grilling--just for photo shoots
When I was in Paris for work a few years ago, I got a call from my wife. She was frantic--something about having to up the bid immediately or we'd lose the apartment. Problem was... well, actually there were a couple of problems. First, it was 9:30 p.m. my time, and I was two glasses of Burgundy into dinner at a tiny seafood restaurant in the Sixth called Le 21; I wasn't exactly in a transatlantic-phone-call state of mind. Second, I had no idea what apartment she was talking about.
And what did she mean by up the bid? She'd already put a bid in on this place?
She let fly about how one-of-a-kind it was (uh-huh) and how it hadn't even gone on the market yet (uh-huh), how it was prewar blah blah blah (uh-huh) and how it had this huge backyard and... (I'm sorry, what was that?)
In New York City, outdoor space is like a rent-stabilized penthouse: You kill for it. You ignore your dining companions and your grilled langoustines and you start talking numbers. You go for it.
To make a lawyer-filled story short, about six months later we got the apartment. And I got my backyard. Which, in my book, meant one thing: summers full of grilling.
There are few things I love more than a thick-cut dry-aged rib eye that's been charred to perfection, its ribbons of fat demanding that I devour the thing at once (for a recipe, click here). And come summer, I crave the vibrant, bracing slaws we detail here.
But what I treasure most about this time of year is the grilling itself.
Standing outside on a summer night over an open fire with a drink in hand, waiting for the fiery coals to recede to a dusty-orange glow, is about as good as it gets. So is having friends over and, instead of spending an hour stressing over labor-intensive hors d'oeuvres, just handing them our favorite summery cocktail.
And, mostly, I love hanging out by the grill with my wife as we watch our three-and-a-half-year-old son use his Tonka Digger to excavate the backyard--the one we spent so much time, money, and energy trying to secure. Maybe it's the rib eye talking, but nothing could make us happier.