BBQ, Grilling, Churrasco, Asado... What Are We Even Talking About?

Years ago, a friend who is no longer a friend of mine said something that still makes me laugh and scratch my head.

"Hey, let's BBQ this weekend."

I said, "Absolutely."

In my mind, that meant a trip to the butcher shop. Ribeyes. New York strips. Maybe some skirt steak. Chicken thighs. Then a stop for cilantro, onions, garlic, peppers, limes, and whatever vegetables looked good that day.

I was already mentally building a menu.

She looked at me and said, "No, I meant burgers and hot dogs."

I paused.

"Okay," I said. "But that's still BBQ."

"No," she replied. "I mean a normal BBQ."

Now we were speaking completely different languages.

I explained that in my family and in many places I've lived and traveled, when someone says they're having a BBQ, it doesn't automatically mean burgers and hot dogs. It means fire. It means gathering. It means meat, vegetables, charcoal, conversation, and spending half the day outside.

To me, a BBQ could be ribeyes.

It could be skirt steak.

It could be chicken thighs.

It could be whole fish.

It could be vegetables blistering over coals.

It could be all of the above.

Her response was something along the lines of, "You're such a bougie bitch. You think you're fancy."

Now, for the record, that's not why we're no longer friends. It was simply one item on a very long list.

What bothered me more was the underlying assumption that somehow my version of grilling was less authentic or that I was trying to be something I wasn't.

It reminded me of a line from the movie Couples Retreat:

"I am one-twelfth Latina. And even if I wasn't, I'm one hundred percent human."

Now, I don't know if I'm one-twelfth anything, but the sentiment always made me laugh because there is truth buried in the joke.

I don't appreciate comments like that. I don't make fun of tu la raza, so por favor, please don't make fun of mi la raza.

The funny thing is that there wasn't even anything exotic about what I was describing. Steaks, chicken, vegetables, charcoal, and friends standing around a grill. That's not being fancy. That's just another version of the same tradition that exists all over the world.

Whether you call it a BBQ, a churrasco, an asado, a parrillada, les grillades, or simply grilling, people have been gathering around fire for thousands of years.

The names change.

The ingredients change.

The techniques change.

The purpose never does.

Fire Is Universal

Long before food blogs, television chefs, and social media influencers, people gathered around fire.

Cooking over flame is one of humanity's oldest communal activities.

Across the world, it goes by many names.

In Argentina and Uruguay, it's an asado.

In Brazil, it's a churrasco.

In France, you'll hear les grillades.

In Italy, it's a grigliata.

In Spain, you might hear parrillada.

Throughout Latin America you'll hear cocinar a las brasas — cooking over embers.

In the United States, we argue endlessly about whether it's grilling, barbecuing, smoking, pit cooking, or some other regional variation.

Personally, I'm willing to lump them all together under one giant umbrella.

If you're cooking over fire and sharing food with people you enjoy being around, you're participating in a tradition that's older than written history.

Somewhere, thousands of years ago, a very early human stared into a fire and thought, "I wonder what happens if I put this meat over that."

The rest is culinary history.

The Burger and Dog Debate

Don't get me wrong.

I have absolutely nothing against burgers and hot dogs.

A Fenway Frank at a ballgame?

Perfect.

A Dodger Dog?

Sign me up.

A backyard cheeseburger dripping down your wrist?

That's America.

But I don't understand why some people act as if burgers and hot dogs are the only acceptable answer when someone says BBQ.

If your cookout has burgers and dogs, great.

If it has picanha, even better.

If it has skirt steak and chimichurri, fantastic.

If it has chicken thighs marinated overnight in garlic and citrus, wonderful.

If it has grilled vegetables, fish, lamb, sausages, and corn, even better.

The fire doesn't care.

The charcoal certainly doesn't care.

The Sacred Nature of Cooking Outside

There is something almost sacred about cooking outdoors.

The sounds are different.

The smells are different.

People linger longer.

Nobody rushes.

You stand around talking while occasionally poking at food with tongs like you've suddenly become a world-renowned pitmaster.

The grill becomes a campfire for adults.

Stories get told.

Beverages get consumed.

Neighbors wander over.

Somebody inevitably says, "How much longer?"

Someone else inevitably opens the grill every thirty seconds despite being told not to.

And somehow, even when everything takes longer than expected, nobody seems to mind.

Because the food isn't the entire point.

The gathering is.

The meal is simply the excuse.

Your BBQ Is Your BBQ

Maybe your version is burgers and hot dogs.

Maybe it's a Texas brisket that took fourteen hours.

Maybe it's Brazilian churrasco.

Maybe it's Argentine asado.

Maybe it's Korean barbecue.

Maybe it's grilled vegetables from your garden.

Maybe it's a dozen friends standing around a rusty Weber that's older than some of the guests.

Your grill.

Your rules.

The only thing I ask is this:

Don't tell someone they're doing BBQ wrong just because their menu doesn't look like yours.

The beauty of cooking over fire is that nearly every culture on earth figured out its own version.

And honestly, that's what makes it fun.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy some skirt steak, cilantro, onions, and garlic.

Because somebody just texted me and said they're having a BBQ.