The great secrets are those that are never told or written, and so must be enduring, and legendary, also in the world of small pleasures and remembered sensations.
How is the whipped cream and the meringue or the pasta of the quartos and quemullars of Can Fresquet and Cas Nét (radical total extinctions of Palma) linked? The closed nuns who really put on the ‘blows’ and ‘farts’ congresses and carobs of the Pope?
Did the lobster stew from Can Burdó de Ciutadella have a chocolate or just almond capolada, a place that no longer exists but that was a myth? Do they put an orange clove in the fish rice broth from the Cala bar?
What woods and sugars did the ‘cane’ Valls de can Pansa have another ex-place? How are Artà cookies made – and not shown? How big and how does the roast of the Fontanet coffee end?
Why didn’t the balls of the three ‘Jaliscas’ sisters in the Concos case cling to (repeat from the belly)? The gin is from Menorca, what is it, finally, what does it carry? Are the capers used to make pesto or just the green pestuc to the Italians of the 60-year-old trattorias?
What does the dried fish need formentment from Formentera or crusts from Ibiza or thick hard biscuit? What are the minimum details of the recipe for the foie gras pâté Munar by godmother Rosita Massot? The poet’s grandson carries the ‘will’, the minimum note, on top of his wallet but does not let it be read.
How did your savior omelette souflé go up, bake and last 92 years? What herb or herbs did the three Guiem Mateu put in the wild rice of the sanctuary? Do the sighs of Manacor go awry? And was Llucmajor’s ‘stick’ made of carob?
In some cases there are coverbos and two, not denied, kinds of neighboring villages but the food master formulas or details of the process of a product are not all said on the mandatory label or bar code. Nor are they usually in the recipe books, nor do they materialize when advertising and commercial oral fable is done to customers.
The undoubted quality, the singularity and the exclusive rarity, the force that carries the (healthy) dependence, are to the details that endure the survival of a triumph, also part of the word-of-mouth and the attraction of the unknown circumstances. .
The magnified mystery to the rest of humans, built the expiration fame and credit of a product, dishes, drinks, cakes, places, brands or corners without a public name. They are the lateral circumstances that adorn social history, they move the empathy of the dependent consumer.
In a way private secrets are places of the bloodsuckers (rovellons, pebrassos), the milestones of the fisheries were exceptional .. before GPS. universal, unknowingly, for fun or vanity. Or all of it.
In contemporary times a secret is almost impossible, probably if they are never told or written. Your secret is them, the others who scrutinize and search, and they don’t have to be from China or Russia.
Mysteries and gastronomic daring are mythologized but they are certainties, not legends. Or they are daring, copies, versions or appropriations. The cardinal was born and is born in Vienna and is not “from” Lloseta. Who invented or has the virgin lobster recipe with fried eggs?
In the four islands – look at the funds on the IB3 network – there are those who claim to be pioneers, inventors, innovators ?, to make the alliance of fame. The chronicler has bet on this time of plague, he made a pilgrimage by sea to Ciutadella, ate it and made it after having defeated it. Put the mac on the ground. Out battles. The dish is simple and has no more secrets than the good kind: lobster, eggs, oil and potatoes and little fury on the fire.
The formulation the virginal sublimation, the secrecy is a bit of comedy, adventure has a relative game the omertà, family secret, imposed silence. The privilege exists if the capital of success is not socialized which is exclusive cross.
Power floats in the memory of a person, of two blood relatives, perhaps. They serve with mystery, like a power that comes from a root that is untransferable and mythicized. Pep Pansa was the last liquor player at Destil·leries Valls to lead Colau, a sports patron of basketball and football, a godfather and eternal companion, a Mercedes, black glasses, a mustache and a cloak with glitter.
Pep Valls ‘Pansa’ -sympathetic, beat and high school student of the Convent- was the one who secretly made the mixes to make and cure the magical ‘cane’, strong dry or blond ‘juice’. He was the only one, the last one, left in the house who knew how to make this secularity of colonial echoes, a local rarity for making ‘scratches’ (bursts, ‘carajillos’).
The micro-company Valls merged with other distilleries and took the production of the village to the polygonal plant, and Pep Pansa, strong and do not move, refused, days and months to transfer the secret to the new partners, to his family indirectly. “Mun paret told me to never tell anyone the secret, that no one is going to tell me.” In the end the sister and the logic of the facts, after spying on him a little, made him surrender to avoid the death of the cane and the gains.
Lay and monastery drinks, the holy and miraculous juices and spirits, had vital codes of pleasure, of curious power, just business. Aromas or choose. Inheritances in blows, at the foot of the deathbed. Or lost in the mist and ashes of the secretary.