I have yet to utter the words, “summer is here!” I’m afraid I might jinx it. But there was a barbecue last weekend, and rain did not come to put out the fire — that’s got to be proof, right?
There are a few things that are different at French barbecues. The sausages they grill are thinner, and they go in pieces of chewy baguette, not the soft buns I’m used to. The grills are adorably tiny. And they can’t be held in the city, so you must find friends with homes in the suburbs. Preferably with gardens.
Turns out the ends of French barbecues are very much like the ends of American barbecues, though, or at least the barbecues I like best: with lots of drunken singing and dancing. And writing on passed-out dudes with permanent marker.