Since they started to arrive on these shores about 15 years ago, like spaceships from an alien planet of high but precisely controlled temperatures, Big Green Eggs have been the most conspicuous barbecue status symbol. Seeing a dimpled, moss-coloured ceramic dome appear in a neighbour’s garden is enough to inspire seething envy, which we should probably call the big green-eyed monster.
An Egg’s presence announces: “Yes, I have spent more than £2,000 on my barbecue. Care for a banger?” Its owner will be dressed in tailored linen and playing classical music. The food will be showy-offy – think briskets cooked with scientific exactitude – in a way that suggests the chef has spent slightly too long on the online forums, as all BGE owners do.
On the menu: 103-hour brisket, a huge fish, pizza. “Did you know you can do pizza on an Egg?” “Yes. You told us. Twice.”
On the speaker: Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. “I love the smell of Official Big Green Egg charcoal at five in the morning, the time I woke up to get my ‘Boston butt’ on the go. Smells like victory.”
The monstrous gas model