The flavors must be clean and clear, identifiable or suggestive, be they strong, soft, complex on the plate or tender in taste. The identity of food, ephemeral on the table, in the mouth, can never be the daughter or erroneous fruit of an exaggerated, forceful, effective, surely selfish, insecure gesture. Making / feeding should be generosity and humility. The kitchen daughter of populism or the bar theater of misunderstanding modernity, perhaps sins of excess, of a little too much. Nothing too much and little fury in the fire, induce the abstract family historical dogmas. Mistakes, irreparable failures, are usually due to overacting, added scenery and automation in the kitchen. Possibly the mistake stems from distrust of the end product. Mistakes are crucial: with grease and salt, and especially by artifices and artifacts to try to add, accentuate, sign, pretend and surprise. Set a mosaic taste, made of many details, make a break and / or disguise, it is an impossible; popular, domestic, simple and varied cuisine has already said it all, it is backed by centuries and millions of failed attempts. No variations, readings or archaeological rescue or rediscovery operations are required.
It’s good to make ‘succeed’ with a rice using too much oil, abusing salt and the fashion of scattering too many spices of colors, chromatic exoticism or over-cooking. The wrapper taste of fat – salt and sugar – is addictive, sticky, sticky. , prawns, cockroaches, carabinieri, crab legs, mussels … a couple of slices of boiled egg, toasted red pretzels and four slices of lemon .. The nets are a carousel of Rococo decorations more not able).
What is good, minimal, rare, subtle and also concrete and recognizable surely triumphs on the palate, belly, bed and the next day does not remind the chef, cook or restaurant responsible for the offense. Vindicating simplicity does not have to be commercial or gastronomically popular. A rare, minimal, unusual food, almost impossible to make and find now, are thrush butzetes, or thrush ‘volcanic’ rice, a broth and a bite of nature , with all the flavor of the forest and ephemeral life. The thrush butzetes caught with yarn, without thunder or exaggerated violence, is an offering dish that lies a woman on the way to 100 years, Margalida Moyà, daughter of the doctor of Lloseta Baltasar Moyà – and sister of the doctor of Lloseta, also Baltasar Moyà. Local bourgeoisie, professional class, lady but not classist, Moyà was an internal servant in the nuns’ house and is therefore anti-nuns and free. On Joan Cabot’s Aire program on IB3 radio, he gave a lesson in social, cultural and gastronomic intelligence in short. Feeling it was like listening to Josep Pla’s pages, the clear look a simple one on such a complex century. The fame of the butzetes is given by the legend, the mythification of the impossible, the finesse of the work beyond the hunting, unless you are Xisco Moranta from Sa Pobla, Miquel Cifre from Santa Margalida, ‘Hassan’ Lladó from Valldemossa, Joan Escalís, from Es Port, Miquel Julià from Cas Concos, Joan Punyet from Palma, Pep Zaforteza from the middle of Mallorca. ..various men on the island, traditional hunters, different and unknown to each other who challenge the fleeting nature of autumn: thrushes, blinds, partridges..The blind words big and little meat, the pots big apotheosis of all feather meat and magmatic broth made in Hot, almost an essential oil. Dirty rice without metaphors are rare volcanic images, powerful, indisputable, not forced by other people’s condiments to find a taste. The butzetes, seem even better, for sure, because of the fleeting exceptionality of the bite (mos). Guts, belly, viscera … almost a finger smeared on a slice of fried bread. A pâté that they said they made in Can Marió de Valldemossa, a cuisine that belonged to the 19th century. ripe olive and lavender insects and grains after doing 3,500 kilometers and hoped to return to the cold European ice cream. No one will find in a restaurant, nor is it possible to search the market, this bite micro food without description or canonical cataloging possible. Butzes are a finesse, rarity, miniature delicacy. To taste it twice in a lifetime and remember it forever, where and with whom it was made, the party. On wet days, when the calendar breaks and it’s cold, those clear childhood skies return to blows and the foggy mornings of the time when massacres were taking place. When the wind inks the sunsets but no longer disturbs, someone knows that the thrushes fly low, tuning, solitary.At dawn or just before dusk and the entrance of darkness, (in the early hours), some last primitive islanders go to the ‘necks’ of the mountain or the thick scrub, steps marked like a crack between olive groves, alcines and pines. Open the yarns, the nets, and hope to crush the thrush, if it passes through that void. A gesture of centuries without fire or thunder.