Barbecue

He stood before the iron plate, where smoke slowly rose.
The sizzling sound was like the heartbeat of this city.
In the morning, the smell of grilling meat mixed with the people on their way to work,
and in the evening, fat melted away on the fire as if washing away the fatigue of the day.

Fire was not special here.
It was ordinary heat that anyone could light and anyone could look at.
But the sense of touch that handled the heat was different for each person.
The moment the meat was placed on the grill,
some flipped it in a hurry,
while others waited silently.

Only those who know how to wait know.
The subtle stillness before the surface becomes crispy,
the fleeting moment when the juice boils inside and stops.
If it goes too far, it burns,
if it's not enough, it's undercooked.
The perfect moment always passes by briefly.

He grilled the same meat countless times to not miss that short moment.
Thickness, color, aroma, sound, even the vibration felt in the hand.
The grill was no longer a tool,
but felt like a partner to have a conversation with.

The sound of flipping the meat is heard.
Once, and only once.
With a sizzling sound,
the surface turns brown.
Smoke disperses upwards,
and the surroundings become quiet for a moment.

A brief pause.
The meat rests, and the person rests too.
In the few seconds before picking up the knife without rushing,
the result of fire, time, and patience intertwined
is slowly completed.

The well-grilled meat has no words.
It only explains everything with the juice that flows when cut
and the spreading aroma.
In this city, people do so
with fire instead of words,
with time instead of skill,
and with results instead of competition, they evaluate each other.

And today, on a grill somewhere,
someone is putting the meat on for the first time,
someone is completing the last piece.