Xai a la Brasa

Xai a la Brasa isn’t just food—it’s the scent of wood smoke curling into a mountain dusk, the hiss of lamb fat dripping onto coals, the quiet satisfaction of something done slowly and well. In Andorra, where rugged terrain shapes modest lives, this dish offers a reflection of place and patience. Lamb, cut thick and bone-in, is rubbed with garlic, rosemary, thyme, lemon, olive oil, salt, and pepper—nothing exotic, only what’s necessary. It’s left to marinate as the fire builds, not rushed, not forced. There’s a humility in this process, a respect for the animal, for the cook, and for the shared table. Once the grill’s ready—hot but not punishing—the lamb goes on. Three to four minutes per side yields a pink, forgiving center, but those who linger over conversation might let it char a little longer. Either way, it rests afterward, absorbing itself again, just as the cook breathes. Thick bread, torn not sliced, and aioli—the kind with a bitter edge—stand beside it. Grilled vegetables appear too, kissed by the same flame. It’s all eaten outside, if possible. And though it’s simple, Xai a la Brasa remains something remembered—not because it tries to impress, but because it doesn’t.