Well done, old grill

Sam Morris, Las Vegas Sun

Friday, July 27, 2007 | 7:26 a.m.

ILLUSTRATION BY CHRIS MORRIS

I grew up in a normal, middle-class household, where Mom ran the kitchen and Dad was commander of the back yard grill - a shiny black Weber kettle balanced atop three spindly legs. He was always a Weber man.

Thirty years ago, that rotund, black pit of fire and smoke held a certain fascination for a boy developing an interest in gastronomy. By watching Dad, I discovered that grilling went beyond just following a recipe. Cooking a piece of meat over flame was part art, part science. I was intrigued.

Fast-forward to college - and years of frustration as I tried to replicate my father's cooking over fire. Try as I might to grill, smoke and char food for friends and roommates, I was shackled by my tiny hibachi.

And then my time arrived. On a rare sunny day in the Bay Area, I literally skipped out of Cole Hardware singing, "I have a grill, I have a grill." I had secured the go-ahead from my future wife to spend what little money we had on a real grill - my own Weber with nearly 400 square inches of cooking surface. Little did I know when I jammed that box into the back of my '88 Escort, I was beginning a love affair with an inanimate object.

My Weber was christened with some thick pork loin chops - with a light finishing smoke at the end, courtesy of some rosemary pinched from our landlord's garden. The following hundreds of meals are a blur.

From steaks to pizza to ribs to flatbreads to chops, with a few smoked turkeys thrown into the mix around the holidays, my Weber was my therapy, my escape. I could even dodge problems inside the house. "Sorry honey, you have to deal with it," I would say sympathetically. "I need to check on the meat."

I should have seen it coming - the end of my relationship with my Weber - when the lid handle started to wiggle a month ago.

Last night, as I pulled the top off to move lamb chops from direct heat to make room for lightly smoked shrimp destined for garlic-lemon butter, the wooden handle broke off and the hot lid fell on my flip-flop shod foot. After the pain wore off, shock gave way to despair. This was the end for my back yard buddy.

It will be difficult to toss it on the trash heap this weekend. But I'll head to the local Lowe's and get the grill/smoker I have had my eye on since spring.

No, it won't be a Weber. Call me a traitor, or call me adventuresome, but I'm intrigued by this small version of a 55-gallon barrel, sliced in half. It looks more serious, more appropriate for someone who has been trying to grill and smoke on too small a surface.

It's called the Char-Griller.

Yeah, she's got a different name than Weber. Looks different, too. But I'm pretty sure I'll be able to kindle a new love affair.

Got a match?