My Nuyorican Grilled Chicken
My Puerto Rican grandmother had a metric for the chicken she marinated in the island’s garlicky wet adobo and roasted for Sunday supper: It had to be so saturated with sabor, or flavor, that you’d even nibble at the bones. She’d pound together loads of fresh garlic, salt, black pepper, oregano, and some vinegar and oil; dab the creamy paste onto her pinkie; and stick it in my mouth—her way of weaning me onto its heady bite.
Evidently, it worked, because growing up I’d crave the flavor of that chicken adobo more than any other dish save for one—the version my parents made by translating my grandmother’s formula to the grill. They’d marinate breasts and leg quarters in the same garlicky paste and take them to church barbecues in the park, where they’d throw the pieces over the fire. The rush of chicken-y juices mingling with the smoky flavors from the coals only heightened the adobo’s sting, and I’d nibble at the breast’s ribs to get every shred of
