The BBQ Counselor

Be honest with me, Americans 🇺🇸 Do you actually own a gun? In Japan, I have never seen a real one. Not once. Not at a friend's house. Not in a drawer. Never. But online, every American just goes "oh, mine's in the nightstand" like it's a phone charger 🔌 So now I'm genuinely curious: What's YOUR gun? The very first one you ever got? Is this normal everywhere in the US? Or just some states?

Star Wars from 1983 on Atari. Are you this old?

Which ship is your favorite?

The thing is... the kids probably won't stare at a wall. There'll be an increase in drinking and drug use. There'll be an increase in criminal activity.

Fox is buying Roku in a $22 billion deal.

It was two in the morning, the hour when even the bravest samurai retires to his bedroll, yet here, a fortress of light beckoned me from the darkness. Every castle I have ever known has fallen. Fire, siege, taxes. Eight hundred years of my family learning one lesson: nothing stays open forever. This house has never closed. Not for storms. Not for holidays. Not for the hour when even the moon looks tired. I asked the waitress when they lock the doors. "We don't have locks, hon." No locks. I own walls, moats, and a sword older than this country, and I have never once said anything that powerful. Inside, a cook was scraping the grill at 2 a.m. with the calm of a man guarding something. I asked if he was the night watch. "I'm Darnell." A trucker two stools down raised his coffee. "Place stayed open during the hurricane," he said. "FEMA's got a whole index about it." An index. The government of this nation measures disasters by whether THIS HOUSE is still standing. In Japan, we measured a clan's strength by its castle. Same thing. Theirs serves waffles. I ordered. I ate. I confess what happened next. I did not want to leave. The night outside was large. The booth was warm. I am a grown warrior, and I sat in a yellow fortress at 3 a.m. feeling protected by hash browns. A castle does not promise to stand forever. It simply leaves the lights on. I drive past at night now. Just to check. The lights are always on. Sentries of the griddle — I see you. Hold the line.

USA. A backyard. A man. A grill. Four hours. He never left it once. Everyone else drifted, drank, wandered, laughed. He stood before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable. I knew him at once. The keeper of the sacred fire. I took my place beside him. I said nothing. This is the first rule. You do not speak first to the man at the grill. After a long while, he spoke. "Low and slow," he said, eyes never leaving the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it." I bowed my head. A blade. A tea. A life. None can be rushed. I had crossed four thousand miles of ocean to hear my grandfather's words spoken by a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron. "Everything worth doing is slow," I said. I have never cooked meat in my life. But I said it as if I had said it a thousand times before. He glanced at me. Something passed between us. A current older than language. His voice dropped, low, almost ashamed. "My wife says just use the oven." He shook his head at the fire. "She doesn't get it." "They never do," I said. And this is where the man transformed. For the first time in years, he had been understood. He rose to meet it. His back straightened. His shoulders set. His voice fell half an octave. A teenager reached for the grill. He lifted one hand without even looking. "Not yet." The boy retreated. He did not argue. He could not have argued. A woman asked when the food would be done. He told the flames, not her. "It's ready when it's ready." Three people approached. Three were turned away with a single word each. By the fourth hour, no one questioned him. The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine. Then he turned to me. He held out the fork. "Watch it a sec. I gotta pee." I have stood at the gate of lords with a naked blade in my hand. Nothing has ever weighed as much as that fork. I did not move my eyes from the coals. I did not touch the meat. I did not know how. I would not learn. To learn would be to break the moment. When he returned, I handed back the fork without a word, as one returns a sword to its rightful master. He served everyone before himself. He ate last, standing, still watching the fire. We never traded names. We did not need to. He believed he had finally met a man who took grilling seriously. I believed I had finally met America's last samurai. Neither of us will correct the other. Not now. Not ever. So I have made a vow. Every summer of my life, I will return to this country. I will find a backyard. I will find a man at a grill. I will stand beside him and say nothing until he speaks. And when he says "low and slow," I will bow my head as if my grandfather had spoken. I will die before I tell him I do not know how to cook meat. "KISS THE COOK," his apron commanded. I have obeyed. I will obey again.

Trying to pick the best form of eye/face protection for the absolutely stupid thing I'm getting ready to do is like the Pulp Fiction scene where he's going through the available weapons at the pawn shop...