Recipes

Lemon, oregano and time — the Greek family-table treatment for the whole cut

Every Greek family has a version of this and none of them are wrong. Garlic, dried oregano and lemon get worked deep into the lamb, potatoes go underneath to catch everything that falls, and the oven runs slow enough that nobody has to watch it. What comes out isn't pink, carve-at-the-table lamb — it's the other thing entirely: golden on top, giving underneath, with lemony potatoes that half the table will fight over harder than the meat. It's Sunday cooking from a country that takes Sundays seriously.

Paprika, brown sugar, patience — American barbecue discipline meets Australian lamb

This is the recipe for the day you've decided the barbecue is the afternoon's entertainment, not just the cooking appliance. No foil, no shortcuts: a paprika and brown sugar rub, a hooded barbecue held low around 140C, and three or so unhurried hours while the fat renders, the spice sets into proper bark and the smell slowly takes over the street. Lamb ribs suit the American low-and-slow treatment better than most people expect — they're smaller and fattier than pork ribs, so you get all the bark in less time. Pour something cold. This one's a sit-outside recipe.

Charred chops over mustardy lentils — the bistro order, made at home

Walk into any honest bistro in France and there'll be lamb with lentils somewhere on the board. It works because the two halves trade favours — earthy lentils soak up the lamb's resting juices, and a sharp Dijon dressing cuts the richness of a properly charred chop. The lentils simmer away on their own for twenty-five minutes while you see to the chops, so the timing looks after itself. Hearty without being heavy, smart enough for guests, and most of it comes from the pantry.

The Sunday roast moves outside — and the kitchen stays cold

Every hooded barbecue in Australia is a wood-panelled oven in disguise, and most of them never get asked to prove it. Here's the job that changes that: the 1.4kg roast from your share, coated in a smoky paprika rub and roasted under the hood with the burners set around it, not under it. You get a burnished, faintly smoky crust the oven can't match, a pink centre, and a January Sunday roast that doesn't heat the house one degree. Beer in hand, hood down, thermometer doing the thinking.

One pot, one afternoon, no separate stock step

Most bone recipes ask you to make broth first and dinner second. This one skips the queue. The bones go straight into the pot with water and a bay leaf, build their own broth over a lazy hour and a half, and then the root vegetables move in and turn the whole thing into dinner. It's the way soup was made before stock came in cartons — the pot just sits there getting better all afternoon while the kitchen windows fog up. Chunky, savoury and honest, with buttered bread doing the mopping.

Ten minutes with a knife buys you the barbecue's best-kept secret

Inside every blade steak there's a flat-iron trying to get out — you just have to remove the seam of gristle running through the middle. It's honestly a ten-minute job with a sharp knife, and what you're left with are trim, even steaks that barbecue beautifully: tender, big-flavoured, and built for high heat. Do it once and you'll never look at blade the same way again. Fire up the barbecue, keep the seasoning simple, and slice it across the grain — that's the whole game.

The Saturday the hooded barbecue finally earns its keep

Fair warning: this is a project, and I won't pretend otherwise. Six hours of low, indirect heat, a rub you made yourself, and a rack of grass-fed ribs slowly turning mahogany under the hood. But here's the thing about proper low-and-slow — almost none of it is work. You set the barbecue to barely ticking over and it does the cooking; your job is a spritz every 45 minutes and the self-control not to lift the lid. What comes off — dark bark, smoke-sweet edges, meat that surrenders at a touch — converts whole households to ribs.

The wok-beef secret hiding in your steak pack

Here's a trick worth knowing: great stir-fry beef isn't about buying the most expensive steak — it's about slicing the one you have properly. Thin, across the grain, into a ripping-hot wok, and the BBQ steak turns out strips with more flavour than fillet at three times the price. Add a packet of hokkien noodles, an onion and a capsicum from the crisper, and a sauce that's mostly the oyster sauce jar doing the work. Twenty minutes, one wok, dinner for four.

Char from the grill, cut from the sauce

A big barbecued T-bone brings the richness all by itself — salsa verde's job is to argue with it. Parsley, basil, capers, anchovies, a little vinegar and good olive oil, all chopped into a rough green sauce with sharp elbows. It's five minutes of knife work while the barbecue heats, and it changes the whole plate: spoon it over rosy slices of grass-fed T-bone and every mouthful finishes bright instead of heavy. It's the fastest way to make steak night feel like you cooked, not just grilled.