I always thought that any grilled sandwich with at least a 2:1 ratio of cheese to meat/veggies/etc. could be correctly defined as a grilled cheese. Currently 44 percent of voters on Serious Eats disagree. To this majority, grilled cheese is nothing more than bread, cheese and heat. Are they right?

Think of Campanile’s Grilled Cheese Night, and how it might offend this group of purists with it’s weekly nightmare of “grilled cheese” dishes like burrata with capers, both versions of Croque and Ahi tuna. None of these fit the literal meaning of grilled cheese as defined by this group. (I picture the purists huddled in a picketing pack outside of the restaurant, holding signs depicting sandwiches with big red Xs drawn through them.)

If we continue accepting only literal meanings, then many playful spins on certain culinary words wouldn’t quite work. Any reference of the word “steak” that doesn’t apply to actual meat would be wrong (one example that comes to mind is Marcel’s watermelon steak with tomatoes on season 2 of “Top Chef”). I’d also argue that the only true grilled cheese is just the cheese itself, like a grilled Halloumi or queso fundido. Being rigid in definitions takes the fun out of creating new dishes, doesn’t it?

Serious Eats reader Pavlov sums it up best with his comment: “A grilled cheese is whatever I say it is!”

That’s perfect. A grilled cheese is defined by whatever you say it is. It can be classic or have all the bells and whistles of a Campanile grilled cheese.

So today, my definition of grilled cheese has marinated onions, Dijon mustard and skirt steak — a personal homage to my favorite offering on Campanile’s menu. If you’re inclined, you can serve it with watermelon steaks for a truly non-literal meal.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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A lot of us have quite a tailored list to go through before we bestow the “Best” title upon anything having to do with barbecue or pulled meat.

For one, the best barbecue has to come from the hands of people who travel to county fairs by Mack Trucks packed with logs, iron smokers and grills the size of sedans. If it doesn’t come from a vehicle that beeps while backing up, we don’t want it.

If we have it at a restaurant, it has to be served by a burly dude in overalls and a shirt that looks like it was snatched from a picnic table. Better still if his fingers are perpetually curled into a loose fist, even when he’s not holding an iron pitchfork. And his smokehouse has to be no smaller than your two-car garage.

In other words, if it ain’t dirty or country, we don’t want none. Please turn your non-beeping vehicle around and go back whence you came.

It’s a similar story when we’re barbecuing at home. There are rituals up the wazoo, making it more of an event rather than a cuisine or cooking method. Many of us prep for days, marinating and coaxing any and all flavor into the meat. We won’t even look at our grills unless they can be filled with a pricy sack of (soaked) wood chips. No meat will touch anyone’s lips until you’ve stealthily added the “secret ingredient” to it, either. Modesty? Forget about it. “This is the absolute best (insert slow-cooked meat here) that you’ll ever know,” you say, as you plunk a heaping pile of charred and sauced animal onto a tablecloth resembling the ‘cue waiter’s shirt. “It’s the best. I’m the best. You will never have it better than this. Ever.”  (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for more)

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After writing this post on weird food laws, I was left with a hunk of Roquefort and not a single idea what to do with it.

When you don’t have a hunk of Roquefort, you can think of tens of recipes to use it in – I mean, crumble it over a salad at the very least, right? But when you have a little Roquefort wedge nestled between your palms, it’s an entirely different story. You’re nervous. It’s like a femme fatale, the Roquefort, taunting with all of its sultry. You have me now, but whatever will you do with me? And then there’s you, the bumbling man who should have been careful with what he wished for, questioning his manhood with a worried look to boot. Gulp. What will I do with you?

So there I was in my kitchen, with a pungent hunk of Roquefort, a head full of imagined silver-screen romance scenarios between me and the cheese, and an inexplicable, massive brain fart. Reluctantly, I put it back in my fridge. My little mademoiselle, it’s not you, it’s me, I said. I need more time.

For the next week, the Roquefort lingered patiently in my fridge while I plotted out some smooth moves. I wanted something substantial, yet something that would also use the Roquefort in a subtle way, without letting it overpower the other ingredients. The week finally yielded what I had been waiting for: A rough recipe sketch of pork with apples and Roquefort. It would be a roulade, to marry everything into a single, unified dish. After a seemingly endless period of debate, there would be a happy ending for the Roquefort and I after all. Don’t they always say that good things come to those who wait?

For this recipe, you’ll need some kitchen twine, a meat mallet and a thermometer. The apple butter sauce is a spinoff of beurre blanc, which is usually a light butter sauce reserved for seafood. The addition of chicken stock or broth beefs up the sauce – so it can stand up to a the Roquefort and protein. I serve the roulade over a pile of roasted yams with sea salt, which add a little more salt and sweet to the dish. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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