4 AM Start at London’s Largest BBQ Event
It’s my favorite part of any cook, those silent, sacred hours before the crowd arrives.
Sometimes it feels like my days are playing on a loop. A pitmaster’s version of Groundhog Day, same fire, same setup, same rhythm. But then I remind myself: Kobe Bryant didn’t become great because he did a million things differently. He became great because he did the same things over and over, deliberately, obsessively, until he sharpened each move like a blade. Fire is no different. You treat it like a sport. And if you’re serious about it, the work starts long before anyone else wakes up.
That’s exactly how Day One of service at Meatopia London 2025 began: at 4:00 a.m., while the city was still deep in sleep, or, in some cases, still out from the night before. As I made my way to start the fire, clubgoers were piling into Ubers, wrapping up their night while I was just beginning mine.
It’s my favorite part of any cook, those silent, sacred hours before the crowd arrives. Well, silent except for Correy playing old-school hits in the background, like he always does. It’s become a bit of a tradition, laughing, dancing, and shaking off the pre-service nerves while the fire gets to work.
I was using a 500-gallon straight-flow smoker, brought in by John, the owner and pitmaster of Smoke on the Waters. This was my first time using his rig, so I started the way I always do when I’m cooking on something new: fire first. Get the pit up to temp. Learn how it breathes.
While the fire climbed, I gathered the beef ribs we had trimmed and marinated days earlier, soaked in my homemade jerk seasoning. The rig wasn’t holding heat quite the way I wanted, and I quickly learned it was one of those smokers that doesn’t just need fire, it needs an inferno. Once we fed it what it craved, the temperature locked in, and the smoke rolled out steady and sweet.
That’s the thing about this craft: you never stop learning. You can be thousands of miles from home, working with different wood, different meat, different air, and the fire still teaches you something. You just have to be willing to listen.
With the ribs rolling, I started prepping the tallow. We’d saved the fat trimmings from earlier in the week, and I rendered them down into a deep, flavorful beef tallow. I mixed it with a bit of the jerk seasoning for an extra pop. That would be the final touch during service, brushed on hot, just before slicing.
Midway through the cook, John and Jim arrived. We set up our tables, checked our gear, and that’s when I saw the line. At least 50, maybe 60 people deep. I had completely forgotten about VIP early access. These weren’t just attendees; they were fans, supporters, people who had come specifically to see what we were bringing to the pit.
To say I was humbled would be an understatement.
Service began, and we moved fast, stacking, slicing, serving. Between bites, people told me how long they’d followed my work. Some said they came to Meatopia just to try my food. Others had stories about how barbecue helped them reconnect with family or heritage. I even handed out the occasional spare rib, bone-heavy, meat-light, but full of flavor and enough to keep people smiling in line.
At one point, I stepped out from behind the counter and just walked the line, rib bones in hand, dapping people up, laughing, soaking it all in. The line wrapped the length of the event space and bent around the corner toward the main entrance. You never forget a moment like that.
But you know how it goes: hours of prep, days of trimming, and in just over two hours, gone. Our serving station looked like something out of Jurassic Park, nothing left but bones and the ghost of beef ribs past. Just like that, we were sold out. That’s barbecue. It’s a grind. You pour yourself into it, and it disappears fast. But if you’re lucky, and prepared, it leaves a mark on more than just the meat.
The upside to selling out early? We had time to clean up, reset, and start prepping for Day Two. Because when you’re at Meatopia, the fire doesn’t wait. It just resets.
I walked away from that first day at Meatopia with sore hands, a full heart, and the quiet knowledge that all the repetition, all those Groundhog Days, had led to this moment. It didn’t feel like routine anymore. It felt like an arrival.