There is something engagingly primitive about a barbecue: the open air, a blazing fire and a plate overflowing with raw flesh. Wikipedia (probably) tells us that the first known barbecue was held 485,000 years ago, outside a cave in what is now suburban New Jersey. Mrs Cave Man had just dramatically thrown herself down on a pile of wolf skins and declared she was "not in the mood for cooking". Mr Cave Man then stormed out into the night with his club, battered a woolly mammoth to death, hacked off a couple of bloody steaks and chucked them on the fire pit. And so a great tradition was born.
Mankind has been grilling ever since. It is something that has particular appeal for the male of the species, perhaps because it a) involves a lot of meat, and b) is not particularly complicated. In America, barbecuing is practically enshrined in the US Constitution. In South Africa they call it a braaivleis and consume great coils of sausage on the veld. Australians have the "barbie" and are famous for chucking prawns on it.
There is a Korean barbecue, which sits, alarmingly, in the middle of the dining table, and a Mongolian version which turns out to be Taiwanese. In northern India and Pakistan, they have the tandoor oven, while the Iranians love nothing better than a chelow chicken kebab cooked over charcoal. Even the English like to cook outdoors, despite the obvious climatic shortcomings. Last spring, the UK official weather forecast of a "barbecue summer" ended with a million overcooked hamburgers and charred sausages drowned in the wettest July on record. Yet still they grilled.
And then someone told the French. We are standing to attention, six of us, in the demonstration kitchen of L'atelier des Chefs, the international cooking school that has its roots in France, but a local branch at Le Meridien hotel in Dubai. In front of each of us, on the gleaming stainless steel counter, is a vast chopping board and two knives, each with the edge of a Samurai sword. Small plastic pots contain fresh herbs and fat cloves of garlic. To the right are dishes of lamb steaks, breasts of guinea fowl still on the bone and gigantic fresh prawns that look more than capable of sinking your average fishing boat. There are buttery yellow slices of brioche loaf, fresh grated Parmesan, a jug of fresh cream and gallons of iridescent extra virgin olive oil. This is not just a barbecue. This is haute barbecue.
All eyes, though, are drawn to the middle of the room and Chef Gregory Khellouf, immaculate in his kitchen whites. Chef Gregory is obviously not a man you would ever find in a "kiss the cook" apron while tossing a few hot-dogs on to the grill. Indeed, it is doubtful if Chef Gregory would recognise a hot dog even if it were garnished with a squirt of balsamic cream. Tonight our ambitions are much loftier. On the menu is a classic Caesar's salad with Parmigiano reggiano and three dishes: chargrilled guinea fowl, chargrilled prawns and chargrilled lamb steaks with tapenade and aubergine caviar. We have two hours to prepare and cook everything and then scoff it down.
First up are the herbs. Rosemary, thyme and parsley. All must be chopped. But first every leaf must be removed from the stalks. Have you ever looked at a leaf of thyme? Without a magnifying glass? "The stalks have a bitter taste," explains Khellouf. So off they come, into a neat green heap. Then, chop, chop, chop. "More finely," Khellouf urges. He demonstrates with a neat, swift rocking motion of the blade. There are three French students on the course and their hands are a blur. It must be in the blood (which is what would spill if I attempted to copy them).
Now the garlic. Off with the papery skin and then bisect it with a single stroke of the knife. Khellouf examines the interior with a beady eye and removes the inner core with the tip of his blade. "If it is yellow, or green with a shoot, it will be bitter," he explains. A useful tip to remember. We chop it up. "More finely." Of course. Then a bowl of aubergines, polished and purple. We cut them in half, score them with a crosshatch and season them generously with oil ("the aubergine is like a sponge," Khellouf explains), then dust the cut surface with salt, pepper and a mix of the rosemary and thyme before laying them on a baking tray.
At this point something that has until now been a nagging concern becomes glaringly obvious. We are in a kitchen. There is a roof over our heads. This is not an obvious place for a barbecue. But the double doors slide open, and there in the inner courtyard of the hotel, tucked behind the swimming pool, all is revealed. Three large Weber grills are fired up and ready to go. Nearby is a tent and inside it a table. And the table is set for dinner.
We troop out to the grills. Two are gas-fired, the third is filled with charcoal ready to be lighted. One of the gas grills is set up for indirect heat, two blue lines of flame flickering at the edges. The other, a monster, is also shimmering with heat. The aubergine is set to roast on the indirect heat. We troop back to the kitchen. Now it is time for the Caesar salad. Culinary legend says this dish was created in 1924 by the restaurateur Caesar Cardini in Tijuana, Mexico. I have a version from the Dean and Deluca cookbook that involves a lightly coddled egg, a good glug of olive oil, some lemon juice and a dollop of Worcestershire sauce. This is not how they do it at L'atelier des chefs.
We start with the croutons. The crusts are removed from the brioche loaf and each slice is cubed. Everyone admires the soft open crumb and wonders where Khellouf bought it. "I baked it myself," comes the reply. There's no answer to that. Next, the cubes are tossed in olive oil, the finely chopped garlic and plenty of grated Parmesan before being put in the oven to roast. The dressing begins with marinated anchovy fillets being pulverised in a hand blender with capers, and ends with a reduction of cream, parsley and homemade chicken stock. Finally, freshly squeezed lemon juice is added. In America, they buy Caesar salad dressing in a bottle. In France, clearly, they do not.
The salad will be accompanied by grilled guinea foul. You can buy guinea fowl at the Gourmet Station at the Oasis Centre on Sheikh Zayed Road, apparently. If you feel like slumming it, chicken might do. Now we deal with the giant shrimp, cracking off the outer armour and de-veining the tail. The heads stay on because that's where the flavour is. The lamb steaks are marinated with a little olive oil and the remaining chopped herbs. Somewhere along the line, we also concocted a tapenade of black olives. The pace is so furious, the details are a little hazy,
Finally we head in procession back to the barbecue, bearing platters of food for the grills. The aubergines are just ready, soft and aromatic. Out they come, to be replaced by the guinea fowl. The shrimps go on the charcoal grill, the lamb steaks on the gas giant. "Sear on both sides, leave it for a few minutes and then finish cooking," Khellouf suggests. "It helps the fibres of the meat relax. It will be much more tender."
The lids go down to keep in the heat (technically, barbecuing is when you cover the food. If you leave it open, it's just grilling). The elements of the salad have been laid out next to the dining table. Everyone gets to toss a generous ladle of dressing with a portion of chopped hearts of romaine (sorry, forget to mention the lettuce; also the cherry tomatoes brushed with olive oil and also roasting under the grill to accompany the lamb - it's complicated stuff, this haute barbecue).
Then finally, phew, it's knife and fork time. If you can't stand the heat, sit down at the white linen-covered dining table under the stars and pour yourself a glass of cold San Pellegrino mineral water. The French members of the class fill their glasses with what you would expect from the French at mealtimes and the food is brought from the grill to the table by a newly materialised waiter. And it's all fantastic. The dressing on the salad has layers of flavour and perfectly complements the crisp skin and juicy flesh of the guinea fowl.
It's almost a meal in itself, except who could resist the prawns, now pink and slightly caramelised, or the lamb, oozing juices next to a mound of a savoury tapenade and a cluster of cherry tomatoes burst by the searing heat. Before we head home, we are told the recipes will be emailed to us the next day. Driving back to Jumeirah, I think of the barbecue gathering dust in a corner of the garden and recall that there is a pack of chicken breasts in the freezer. Now where did I put the fresh cream and homebaked brioche?
For further details of the Webber barbecue class at L' Atelier des Chefs, call 056 6900 480 or visit www.atelierdeschefsdubai.com.