Proper Homemade Coleslaw

The smell of a barbecue carries. You catch it over the fence, through an open window, from three gardens down. Smoke and charcoal and something sweet catching on the grill. But the thing that makes the plate work, the thing nobody talks about, is the coleslaw sitting quietly in a bowl at the end of the table.

I don't know when coleslaw became something to apologize for. Somewhere between the plastic tubs and the all-you-can-eat buffets, it lost its nerve. The shop-bought sort is sweet and flabby, swimming in a dressing that tastes of nothing in particular. It sits on the side of the plate like an afterthought. It deserves better.

Proper coleslaw is a different thing entirely. The cabbage should crunch. The carrot should taste of carrot. The dressing needs sharpness and mustard heat, enough to stand up to a charred sausage or a piece of chicken still hot from the grill. It takes twenty minutes to make, most of that spent shredding, and it is better than anything you will ever unwrap from cling film.

I make this every summer when the barbecue comes out. I make it for the potluck at the village hall and for the plate someone brings round when there's a new baby on the street. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago, just three words: cabbage, mustard, crunch. That's still the whole recipe, really. The rest is just detail.