This year, reservations for the barbecue pavilion can be made online. Address information and hours for barbecue areas and gazebos are available in every city. You can even place online orders for taxi rides, groceries, a companion for hire, a dog sitter, or a manicure—now there are barbecue spaces to book as well. It feels like a long-awaited convergence of convenience and tradition, all arriving at once.
But why does this make me feel a touch melancholic?
To borrow a line from the classics, we might paraphrase: “My God, how dull our routines have become! The spirit of adventure is quieted inside us. We stopped seeking new places to grill with the people we love. We stopped doing big, cheerful, risky things.”
Online booking for gazebos isn’t the pinnacle of the digital age; it signals a closing chapter for the era of “barbecue romance.”
May kebabs aim to carry the same social thread as Olivier salad for New Year’s gatherings or a summer voyage. Barbecues aren’t just about hanging out with friends; they’re a deeper ritual. They symbolize unity across diverse beliefs and backgrounds. It doesn’t matter which faith one holds—the key is to turn the skewers on time. In spring, barbecues remind us that we endured winter, that we survived, and that summer will bring sun and brightness again.
In many cultural contexts, barbecuing carried spontaneity, immediacy, and a touch of recklessness. It’s striking to consider that in the 21st century people still gather outdoors to cook meat over charcoal. Then there’s the joke—“What kind of bathhouse? There’s a bathroom in your apartment!”—yet choosing a perch in nature to grill, rather than dining in a restaurant with comforts, keeps a stubborn, honest difference alive. A kebab made by hand in the open air carries a soul that a chef-made version, served in a restaurant, can hardly capture.
What exactly is kebab? It’s not merely about finding decent meat in a store and marinating it at home. It’s about gathering brushwood, starting a fire with care, and keeping well-made skewers and grills as treasured tools. This image—our parents’ kebabs celebrated in cinema—embodies a tradition that once required a certain masculinity in men and a simple, generous spirit in women. The line spoken by a beloved character—“the barbecue does not tolerate female hands”—echoed a time when roles felt more rigid, even if the sentiment was controversial and outdated.
Yet the world shifted toward plastic and convenience. Barbecues and skewers became disposable offerings, and coal and vinegar-marinated meat appeared in mass markets and on “Six” channels of consumer culture. The romance of long gatherings gradually gave way to quick, packaged experiences.
For a long while, forest clearings, riversides, and village glades remained the heart of the ritual, but less often with each passing year. Why travel when the city offers everything? People tap an app, reserve a table, arrive to find fire pits, coal, sand, trash bins, and safety boards—all coordinated by city authorities as a promise of order. Whether this is the same everywhere remains to be seen, but it suggests a future where urban spaces host the tradition that once blossomed in the wilds. A worthy question lingers: will songs, dances, and that sense of brotherhood—central to the cultural fabric of barbecues—still emerge after a modern, structured experience? If yes, perhaps winter will feel distant, and summer will arrive with its full promise of warmth and community.
Ultimately, the author’s reflections are personal and may differ from editorial positions. The commentary invites readers to consider how technologies and conveniences shape our shared rituals and what remains essential about gathering, feasting, and belonging.