In a semi-approximation of the French way of making potatoes, which is to bathe the roasted potatoes in the chicken fat as it drips off the roasting chicken in a rotisserie, I put my potatoes under my chicken on the grill.
I started with a vat of herbs from my garden and then marinated the chicken overnight in that pesto, or whatever you want to call it. Parboiled the potatoes and pregrilled the chicken and married the two. But after an hour on the grill everything was cooked and I had the potatoes swimming in grease. It’s hard, when you’re entertaining, to gracefully pour scalding hot grease off of whatever it is you’re about to serve and pretend it’s exactly the way you planned it, all a part of the process. Bien sûr.
I took the chicken out of the grill pan, off of the potatoes and then the potatoes out of the pan, poured off most of the grease and then put the potatoes back into the pan and onto the grill for a little extra browning. Seemed like a natural part of the process. I don’t think my guests even noticed what was going on. Although that may have more to do with the 13 empty wine bottles than my skills of deception. The food was exquisite, I seem to recall.