The third and final installment of the great afternoon of grilling with Jamie Purviance triptych was the one I was looking forward to the least. Not because I was tired of Jamie. (But, boy, was I tired—just look at what 10 hours of shooting can do to a guy’s hair and the bags under his eyes.) No, I was dreading it because the subject matter is the bane of almost every skilled griller I know: fish.
Historically, whenever I grilled fish, most of it ended up dropping through the grates and getting incinerated—each piece slowly shriveling up as it turned a blacker shade of charred. After these marine Joan of Arc moments grew too numerous—I mean how many patio autos-da-fé must a man witness before he gets the hint as to his lack of affinity to fire and fish?—I simply walked away from anything aquatic. I figured if I were to singe anything, at least let it be something solid that I could chase around the grill with a pair of tongs, like grilled steak or fire-rostissere chicken.