The Tong Master, or Les Barbares au Gril

The invaluable Simon World excerpts a well-done post entitled The Tong Master (or Les Barbares au Gril). Not just for Aussies. Cheeseheads may also identify. Here's a morsel.

Five men, lots of sausages. Jonesy was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed lots of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing.

P.J. was shaking his head; he said "I reckon they cook better if you don't poke them". There was a long silence, you could have heard a chipolata drop; this new-comer was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the "Tong-Master", Then the "Sausage-Layer", then the "Fork-Pronger" –and everyone below was just a watcher.

Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now - don't rock the Weber.

Dianne popped her head in; hmmm, smells good, she said. She was trying to jostle into the circle; we closed ranks, pulling our heads down and our shoulders in, mumbling yeah yeah yeah, but making no room for her. She was keen, going round to the far side of the barbecue, heading for the only available space.... "THE GAP" in the circle where all the smoke and ashes blew. Nobody could survive "THE GAP"; Dianne was going to try.

She stood there stubbornly, smoke blinding her eyes, ashes filling her nostrils, sausage fat spattering all over her arms and face. Until she couldn't take it anymore, she gave up, backed off.

Kevin waited till she was gone and sipped his beer. We sipped our beer; yeah.