Best Chimichurri Chicken — Smoke, Tongs, and the Table That Belongs to All of Us

Memorial Day. I grilled for the neighborhood — not the whole neighborhood, but the block party our street throws every year, where everyone brings something and nobody coordinates, which means you end up with nine kinds of potato salad and no napkins. I brought carne asada and a cooler full of bottled water and sodas. Lisa brought a fruit salad because someone has to balance out the Medina contribution, and that someone is always Lisa.

There's a moment during every Memorial Day when someone thanks me for my service, and I have to say I didn't serve. My brother did. Ruben. Three tours in Afghanistan, a Marine, the real thing. I played football. I coached football. I've never carried anything heavier than a game plan. This year it was our neighbor Dave, a good guy, Vietnam-era Navy, who shook my hand and said, "Thank your brother for me." I said I would. Ruben's in Helmand Province right now, his third tour, and I don't know when I'll talk to him next, but when I do, I'll tell him Dave from down the street says thanks. Ruben will laugh. Ruben laughs at everything, which is how you survive, I think — you laugh, or you don't come home whole.

I called Gloria after the party. She and Hector went to the cemetery to visit Hector's father's grave — my grandfather, killed in Korea, 1951. Two Medina men in uniform in two different wars, two different centuries. Gloria puts flowers on the grave every Memorial Day and says a prayer and tells Hector's father that his grandson turned out fine, despite the diabetes and the stubbornness. She tells him about Ruben. I don't know what she says exactly. She doesn't share. But I know she prays for Ruben every single day, and I know it costs her something every single day, and I know she'd never say so.

Diego asked me at dinner why we have Memorial Day. I told him it's for the people who died serving the country. He asked if Uncle Ruben died. I said no. He said, "Good." Just like that — "Good" — and went back to his corn on the cob. Nine years old. No idea how heavy that word was. No idea that I sat on the patio after bedtime and held that "good" like a talisman.

The carne asada was the same as always — skirt steak, lime, garlic, cumin — but I grilled it slower this time, standing in the smoke, thinking about men who carry rifles and men who carry tongs, and how this holiday belongs to the first group and I'm just borrowing it. Feed your people. The game is won at the table.

That Memorial Day smoke never really left me — the slower grilling, the weight of that one word from Diego, the way my mom’s silence about Ruben says more than anything she could speak out loud. The following weekend I wanted something bright and alive on the grill, something that felt less like borrowing and more like belonging, and chimichurri chicken gave me exactly that: herbs sharp enough to cut through the heaviness, a marinade that asks you to slow down and let it work. Here’s how I made it.

Best Chimichurri Chicken

Prep Time: 20 min (plus 1 hr marinating) | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 1 hr 35 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

• For the chimichurri:
• 1 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley, tightly packed
• 1/4 cup fresh cilantro leaves
• 4 cloves garlic, roughly chopped
• 1/4 cup red wine vinegar
• 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 tsp dried oregano
• 1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
• 3/4 tsp kosher salt
• 1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper
• For the chicken:
• 3 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs
• Juice of 1 large lime
• 2 tbsp olive oil
• 1 tsp ground cumin
• 1 tsp smoked paprika
• 1 tsp kosher salt
• 1/2 tsp garlic powder
• 1/2 tsp black pepper

Instructions

1. Make the chimichurri. Combine the parsley, cilantro, garlic, red wine vinegar, oregano, red pepper flakes, salt, and black pepper in a food processor. Pulse 8–10 times until finely chopped but not pureed. With the processor running, drizzle in the olive oil until just combined. Taste and adjust salt. Set aside half the chimichurri for serving.
2. Marinate the chicken. In a large bowl or zip-top bag, combine the chicken thighs with lime juice, olive oil, cumin, smoked paprika, salt, garlic powder, and black pepper. Add the remaining half of the chimichurri. Toss to coat thoroughly. Marinate in the refrigerator for at least 1 hour, or up to overnight.
3. Prepare the grill. Heat a gas or charcoal grill to medium-high (about 400°F). Clean and oil the grates well. If using charcoal, let the coals turn fully ash-white before grilling.
4. Grill the chicken. Remove the thighs from the marinade and shake off any excess. Place on the hot grill and cook for 6–7 minutes per side, until deeply charred at the edges and cooked through to an internal temperature of 165°F. Do not press down on the chicken — let the grill do the work.
5. Rest and serve. Transfer the chicken to a cutting board and let rest for 5 minutes. Slice against the grain or serve thighs whole. Spoon the reserved chimichurri generously over the top just before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 415 | Protein: 38g | Fat: 27g | Carbs: 3g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 510mg