The Meatless BBQ Fiasco

 

I showed up to a backyard cookout without meat, didn’t know

what BYOB meant, and nearly passed out before dessert.

 

“Barb’s throwing a thing tonight. If you’re not doing anything — and I know you’re not — swing by around five. It’s a BYOM-BTOB thingy.”

 

Greg was never one for clarity. His motto is: if you have no idea what he said, he said it right.

 

What I deduced from him was that I was invited to his house for dinner and that I should show up at five, which I found to be an odd time to have dinner… but whatever.

 

I never like to be the first to arrive at a party so I arrived fifteen minutes late. Since I didn’t recognize any of the other people I figured they belonged to Barb.

 

Greg motioned toward what looked like a medieval torture rack belching smoke in the corner of the yard.

 

“Where’s your meat? I’ll throw it on the grill for you,” Greg said.

 

“You didn’t tell me to bring meat.”

 

“Yes I did. I said this is one of those BYOM type things – bring your own meat?!? Honestly you listen like you putt. I’ll go get you a hot dog or something but just know you’re stealing from my kids.”

 

I’d been here less than 30 minutes and I’d already violated two acronyms, a primal male ritual and now I was a suspected hot dog thief.

 

I made small talk with the other guys gathered around the grill. Turns out they – or their wives – work with Barb.

 

While Greg was gone one of the other guys took responsibility for the BBQ – flipping burgers, rolling hot dogs, slathering sauce on ribs. I don’t know how to do any of that. I’m middle aged and I can count the number of matches I’ve lit in my life (four) and the number of times I’ve been anywhere near a BBQ (zero).

 

The guys all acted as if they understood this BBQing thing. They talked about grill marks, how long you cook a tri tip, and how not to burn a chicken thigh. My contribution to this conversation was: “I live in a condo community that doesn’t allow BBQs so it’s been a long time.”

 

This wasn’t at all true but it was the best excuse I could come up with given the enormous pressure to be one of the guys.

 

Barb invited me over to meet her friends. Everyone had a glass of something and a plate of munchies in their hands. Barb asked, “What did you bring to drink? I’ll get a glass for you.”

 

Greg yelled out, “He didn’t know what BYOM meant, you think he knows what BYOB means?”

 

Without missing a beat but showing disgust she said, “You don’t drink so it’s water or Coke, right?”

 

“Water please. Coke has sugar….”

 

“….and you’re a diabetic. Got it.”

 

All of the meat finished at the same time and people began staking out their area for the tribe’s feast. Everyone shared ribs, chicken, and hamburgers.

 

I had salad and water. Not only did I feel like an idiot but I also worried about my blood sugar. No protein, no carbs could mean a sugar crash.

 

At some point during dinner I excused myself and headed to the restroom. In the kitchen were some serious desserts. If I could hang on another hour or two, salvation would be served.

 

I contemplated stealing a brownie but thought that would be rude. So I did what any unprepared guest would do – I suffered through a pounding headache.

 

After the tribe finished off half of Old McDonald’s farm they sat around and talked shop. There’s only one thing worse than talking shop at a party and that’s talking about someone else’s shop and you don’t know the players.

 

I was starting to feel ill. I wanted a brownie.

 

The guys circled Greg’s grilling toy to watch him clean it. From what I could gather there’s a certain way to move the wire brush thing over the grill to get the stuff off. That’s as much as I was able to understand.

 

Nearly two full hours after dinner Barb announced it was time for dessert. Thank god, I’m going to live.

 

I had to calculate how much dessert I could take without looking like a pig. I decided to go for a piece of carrot cake. I threw a compliment into the air to see where it would land.

 

“This is really good carrot cake.”

 

Someone barked back, “It’s peanut butter chocolate lava cake.” I looked down and realized that cake had betrayed me too. “I can’t believe I play golf with this guy every week,” said Greg. “You BBQ like you putt.”