There's something absolutely honest and primal about the smell of wood and fire. Just the sight of it creates a special kind of magic, the way flames and smoke move, the almost dream like smell and all that anticipation.
And once the heat builds and fat from the beast starts to render, falling onto the hot embers, then i'm held in its swirling, eye smarting grip.
I reckon it must be hard wired into our DNA, the fire+smoke+meat code probably sits deep in our bone marrow.
I am in short, in awe of it.
But i'm happy with that, so happy that i'm planning to hit the streets with our own Wood Fired Grill.
The Woodman's Curative is a Street Food project, that i'm working hard to deliver to our great capital. We are creating a range of smoked and tasty wood fired foods, to sell at street markets and events in and around London.
But there's also an emphasis on other good things. Vegetables, Pulses, Squash, Roots, fresh Coleslaws and salads. Hot sauces, mustards, sharp vinegars and sweet smokey Catsup's will all feature large.
And i'm lucky to have spent some of my formative years living up in the Ardennes region of Belgium, a place where food is a near religion and its close proximity to Germany offering up all sorts of treats.
I still dream of the long and winding roads, through heavy forest in remote back country. I remember days out on road trips with my father, our Volvo thick inside with his pipe smoke, him oblivious and happy as we lost our selves on the way to somewhere, roughly in the direction of the German border. Though what made this all the more exciting, was the joy of happening upon a little silver caravan, parked in a stoney lay-by at the bottom of a craggy out crop, is etched into my memory.
These tiny boxes-on-wheels sold two things essentially- thin golden Frites and pale thick Bratwurst style sausages, all served in a white hand rolled paper cone, along with a squirt of mustard and a thick dollop of mayonaise. I so loved those days, the sheer simplicity of it all, and the bravery of the vendor to sell just two items, in the middle of nowhere. Him his van, his crisp white coat, it was heaven to a 12 year old.
The Winters in that region could be bone achingly cold, but the sight of a Wild Boar on a spit, across a huge open fire, roasting away in the restaurant of a German hotel, was a sight to behold. Eating it was a near spiritual experience.
If you've overlooked a visit to that region, then I urge you to go, the food is magnificent. They bake like the French, cook like no one else and brew beer of such startling strength, that you're inclined to join the very monastic order that created it. It's a treat indeed.
