“Cooking a perfect steak is really easy,” he said, holding out a big hand and sticking out a finger. “First, you got to get Annette to marinade the steak—never try to cook a good steak without Annette. Then get some beer from the basement.” He showed the beer he was holding in his right hand, to make sure the French understood that part. “Use wet wood.” He pointed to the wood and a pitcher of water, gesturing with his hands to indicate combining the two ingredients. “Start the steaks on the grill, and when the fire goes out, put ’em over on the smoker and add more wood. Then get some more beer from the basement.” He held out his beer as exhibit A again. “Set the steaks on a clay pot next to the smoker and start the propane grill. When the propane grill goes out, cuss, then get another beer. Go split more wood and put it on the fire, then listen to Daddy awhile and calm down. Take the empty propane grill off and put it in the back of the pickup truck. DO NOT tell your wife, ‘Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out, honey,’ when she walks in with an attitude because the steaks are not done yet and because she got the rest of the meal done half an hour too early.”

Annette, who had just delivered a tray to one of the tables, put her hands on her hips and looked at David. Crisp and clean despite the heat, in a pale blue shirt and shorts, she showed no signs of stress from preparing an enormous banquet; but she did narrow her eyes at her husband.

He held up a hand. “That is,” he corrected himself, “DO NOT be smart with your wife when she very sweetly, politely, tactfully comes out and asks you why in the hell the steaks aren’t done yet. . . .”

Annette started toward him, and David ran to hide behind his friend the sheriff.

The French men all grinned.