I should mention that our sunset dinner a few days ago almost didn’t happen.

Graham said he brought charcoal for the grill, but when he threw in the briquets into the pit and lit them with a match, flames shot up to the sky and we all jumped back so not to singe off our eyebrows. “Maybe I got firestarter instead of actual briquets,” he said.

We spotted an entire bag of charcoal sitting next to a guy and his now cool grill. “I’ll see if I can borrow some,” Graham said. I watched him walk over and chat with the bespectacled chap at the table. Two blinks later, we had charcoal. Brooklyn’s the kind of friendly place you can bum charcoal off of the guy at the next table—so long as you pay him $8 for his half of a bag of Kingsford.

Once we had briquets, we got the meat going. Steak, like milkshakes, brings all the boys the yard (right, Kelis?). I also wanted to try my hand at chimichurri sauce, only so I could repeat the word over and over—chim-me choor-ee, chim-me choor-ee. Just kidding—it just went perfectly with the steak. The boys—who left barely enough steak for me to have my own sandwich—agreed.

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