The Secret to a Great BBQ Might Not Be the Food

When It Was Easy

There was a time when hosting a summer barbecue did not require much thinking. You bought what you always bought. Burgers, chicken, maybe corn if you were feeling ambitious. Someone showed up with a salad in a foil tray. Drinks went into a cooler. The ice melted faster than expected. It always did. No one asked what was in anything. No one explained what they were not eating. People showed up, grabbed a plate, ate or did not, and that was that. It did not mean anything.

I think about that sometimes when I go back home to Lindsay, Ontario, usually with my buddy Shane, or knowing I will end up sitting around a fire with him before the night is over. Back then, we did not call it hosting. No one organized it. People just showed up. You would walk into a backyard or wander toward a fire and be folded in almost immediately.

People were just happy to see you. No subtle probing. No quiet sizing you up. Just a quick “how have you been,” the kind where you knew the answer did not have to be impressive. Someone would hand you a drink, ask if you were hungry, and within a few minutes you were back in it.

Old friends. New ones who, by the end of the night, did not feel new anymore.

There was always a fire. There still is. With Shane, it is almost guaranteed. We somehow end up around one without even planning it, often tied to something that carries its own meaning now, like the annual memorial golf tournament he organizes to honor his dad, Kelly Doyle. It brings people back together in a way that feels familiar, even if everything around it has changed.

What Changed

Back then, the rest was easy. A few drinks. Whatever food happened to be nearby. You would take a bite of something, forget what it was, go back later and grab more if it was still there. The food did not anchor the night. It barely registered. The rhythm did. You would laugh. Bust each other’s chops. Pick up conversations mid sentence like no time had passed. No one was thinking about ingredients, or timing, or whether the meal worked. You were just there. Fully there.

That is the part that stands out now. Not because it is gone, but because it has been layered over.

These days, the meal starts earlier. Before anyone arrives, you are already running through the list in your head. Who is not eating meat anymore. Who has cut back on alcohol. Who is avoiding gluten, sugar, seed oils, anything processed. Who is trying something new that may or may not stick. It is not hard, exactly. You can accommodate almost anything now. There is a version of everything.

But what has changed is not the menu. It is what the menu carries with it.

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The Table Is Not Neutral

Food has become expressive. That is probably the best word for it. Not in a showy way. In a quieter way. What someone eats, or does not, says something now. About how they think. How they take care of themselves. What they believe. What they are trying to move toward or away from.

You notice it in small moments. Someone hovering for a second before grabbing a plate. A question that sounds casual but is not really about the food. A quick explanation offered almost as a side note, but not entirely.

No one is making a big deal out of it. But something is being said.

And if you are the one hosting, you feel it. Not as pressure, exactly. More like a low hum in the background. A sense that the table is not neutral anymore.

For a long time, getting together worked because it did not ask much of anyone. You showed up as you were. The food met you there. End of transaction. Now, people arrive carrying more. More information. More preferences. More awareness. And the table, whether you mean it to or not, reflects all of it back.

So you adjust. You add options. You think it through a little more. You try to make sure everyone feels comfortable. But comfortable has become a more complicated thing, because it is not always just about the food. Sometimes it is about being seen, or at least not misunderstood.

You catch yourself wondering, at some point, am I hosting a meal, or managing a set of expectations?

And then, if you are being honest, you realize you are not just thinking about everyone else. You are thinking about yourself too.

What It Became

The table has a way of reflecting that back. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice.

And yet, when I go back home now, that original feeling is still there. It has not disappeared. It has just changed shape a bit. The fire is still there. The conversations still fall into place like they always did.

But now, somewhere along the way, my friends Kevin and Dee Dee have taken on a role we probably would not have predicted back then. They care about the food. Not in a look what I made kind of way. Not performative. They just genuinely enjoy putting something together. There is always something unexpected. Something they have been working on, or experimenting with.

You try it, pause for a second, and then go back for more. Usually with a comment that does not quite do it justice. Something like, “that is so damn good,” which, in this context, is about as high praise as it gets.

It is not complicated. But it is thoughtful. And people notice. You see it in the reactions. The raised eyebrow. The second helping. The quiet nod that says more than whatever gets said out loud.

Maybe That Is the Point

It becomes part of the rhythm now. Not just gathering, but a bit of surprise. A bit of care. A little discovery folded into the night.

The table is not simpler. But it is not heavier either. It just asks a little more awareness, from everyone. And at this stage, that does not feel like a loss. If anything, it feels like we have just shifted what we pay attention to.

We still show up. We still laugh. We still sit around the fire longer than we planned. We just do it now with slightly better food, and a little more appreciation for the people who took the time to make it.

Which, at this stage, might be exactly the point.