Cargols a la Llauna

In the high folds of the Pyrenees, where the winds carry scents of wild thyme and stone, Cargols a la Llauna endures—not as a trend, but as a ritual. It is Andorra on a tray, both literal and metaphoric, its name translating plainly to “snails on a tray.” Yet nothing about this dish feels plain. Roasted in their own shells, the snails are parboiled first, scrubbed clean of their journey through earth, then laid out in tight formation like pilgrims returning home. What follows is a procession of scent: minced garlic crushed with the heel of a hand, dried thyme and oregano whispering of mountain ledges, smoked paprika lending a trace of woodsmoke, olive oil sinking slowly into the spiraled hollows. Salt, pepper, and—if one is inclined—white wine vinegar, cut the fat with a sharp edge. The tray slides into a 200°C oven, and time takes over. They roast for 20, maybe 25 minutes, turned gently to ensure fairness among them. When finished, lemon wedges glint alongside, a counterpoint of brightness. It’s a dish built not for spectacle but for intimacy—meant for hands, for silence broken by laughter, for moments when food returns us to something older than appetite.