“It Looks Done”

In the White Horse pub in Oxford.

Tom sat nursing a pint of bitter, staring thoughtfully into the middle distance with the expression of an old geezer about to make a life-changing decision. Carl wandered over carrying two packets of crisps and an expression that suggested he’d already heard the news.

“You look worried,” Carl says.

“I’m thinking of having a barbecue.”

Carl winced. “You have read the latest Food Standards Agency and UKHSA guidance?”

Tom blinked. “What guidance?”

Carl looked around the pub to make sure nobody from Environmental Health was listening:

“It’s called ‘It Looks Done: Common BBQ Blunders and How to Avoid Them.’”

Tom frowned. “You mean drinking twelve cans of lager before attempting to light a disposable barbecue?”

“No.”

“Invite Matt to cook?”

“No.” Carl leaned forward, “The ‘It Looks Done’ gamble.”

Tom looked puzzled, “The what?”

“You look at the burger...So you assume it is done.”

Tom considered this, “That’s generally how looking at things works.”

Carl shook his head gravely. “Not according to the guidance.”

Tom took a sip of his pint, “So the nation’s healthcare system has mobilised against optical illusions in beef?”

Carl ignored him. “And then there’s ‘Don’t be a tool.’”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“It means don’t use the same utensils for raw meat and cooked meat.”

Tom nodded, “Fair enough. That’s actually sensible.”

“Yes, but they’ve jazzed it up to ‘don’t be a tool. Apparently, if you give advice a catchy slogan, people remember it.”

Tom looked around the pub. “I’ve got one,” he said, “’Don’t lick the barbecue.’”

“That’s not in the guidance.”

“It should be,” says Tom, taking a slurp of his pint.

Carl continued. “They recommend using more than one utensil.”

Tom stared into his pint again. “I remember when having barbecue equipment consisted of a fork and a bloke called Matt.”

Carl unfolded an imaginary leaflet. “Then there’s ‘The Sunny Side Risk,’” he says.

Tom sighed. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means don’t leave food sitting out in the sun.”

Tom scratched his head.

Carl adopted the voice of a cinema trailer.

“This summer... one family... one barbecue... one undercooked chicken skewer...”

Tom joined in.

“...will face... THE IT LOOKS DONE GAMBLE.”

They both laughed.

Carl wiped a tear from his eye. “Wait, there’s more in the guidance,” he says, “Avoid risky food roulette.”

Tom looked confused. “I didn’t realise people were playing roulette with sausages.”

Carl ignored him. “You know, it’s reassuring,” he says.

“What is?” replies Tom.

“That while the NHS struggles, waiting lists grow, and winter pressures never seem to end......our finest public health minds have ensured Britain’s greatest threat remains an optimistic burger and a confused pair of tongs.”

“So let’s summarise.” Carl held up his fingers.

“Cook food properly,” he says.

“Reasonable.”

“Use separate utensils.”

“Also reasonable.”

“Don’t leave things baking in the sun.”

“Quite sensible.”

“And don’t assume because it looks cooked that it is.”

Tom nodded.

“So mostly advice that our grandmothers delivered without branding.”

“Pretty much.”

A silence settled over the White Horse.

Then Tom frowned. “You know what worries me?”

“What?”

“While we’re all carefully rotating burgers with colour-coded tongs...”

“Yes?”

“...there are still those pesky viruses. They keep popping up everywhere.”

“Good thing we’ve got the UKHSA”, says Carl.

“Indeed.”

“Someone has to keep an eye on the really important stuff. To ensure we remain focused on the issues that really matter.”

“Like tongs”, replies Tom.

“Exactly.”

Tom lifted his pint. “Here’s to another British summer.”

Carl clinked glasses.

“May our burgers be properly cooked...”

The pub fell quiet.

Then a voice from the corner shouted, “Matt’s just put raw chicken on the vegetarian grill!”

Carl sighed: “We’re going to need more guidance.”

The White Horse is an incredibly small Oxford pub tucked beside Blackwell’s, so easy to miss you’ll walk past it unless you’re looking for it. Blink, and you’ve missed it; add more than eight people inside, and it feels gloriously packed. Yet this tiny pub achieves what countless policy papers cannot: students, professors, tradesmen and retired eccentrics happily share the same space, proving that common sense and good conversation need remarkably little room to flourish.