Team America

“But come on, I just need a half liter of gasoline to get the bbq going, we’re trying to make burgers.” I can’t even believe these words have come out of my mouth. The Indian gas station attendant smiles, wobbles his head and pushes the empty, plastic bottle of coke back at me.

His manager walks in, assesses the situation and says, “You need a metal bottle, which you can have for 300 rupees.” Damien, my French counterpart, quickly responds, “Do you have any smaller bottles?” The manger nods, and 150 rupees later I’m walking out of a Shell station with a half liter of gasoline that will be my “lighter fluid” for the stubborn charcoal that has been preventing me from having my first cheeseburger in an impossibly long time.

For the three weeks I have been in India I have tortured anyone who cares to listen with an exhaustive description of a true American burger. Luckily for me, I have become friends with a group of Indians and ex-pats that have a taste for beef.

While I will never be able to repay the people who have done so, so much to welcome me here, I figured firing up the grill and making a few burgers might be a start.

So there I am, standing in front of the grill, eyeing the two plates of patties that are covered in salt, pepper, Worchestire and bbq sauce, as Al Green’s “Love and Happiness,” blares over a speaker to my right. For a half a second I close my eyes, take a swig of my beer, breath in the smell of smoking charcoal and disappear home.

Damien’s laugh snaps me back to reality. He is pouring gasoline into the top of the metal bottle and in his thick French accent says, “Oh zis is going to be so Team Americaaa, no?” His arm flicks forward and the gasoline falls onto a few red embers buried in the charcoal. A miniature fireball erupts from the grill and we both let out a “wooohhhh” as Al Green whales through a broken heart. I turn to Damien and say, “America, fuck yeah!”