Lorraine Williamson
Before sunrise, the scent of freshly baked bread drifts through Mallorca’s villages — a warm, nutty aroma that speaks of centuries of island life. Step into a bakery in Algaida, Sóller, or Campos and you’ll notice something unique: the bread here, unlike almost anywhere else, contains no salt.
What began as a necessity during the Middle Ages became a defining feature of Mallorcan identity.
When taxes changed the recipe
The origins of this curious custom trace back to the 15th century. In 1425, the Crown introduced the gabela de la sal — a salt tax that made this everyday mineral an expensive luxury. Salt was state-controlled, its sale restricted by royal monopoly, and its price soared beyond the reach of ordinary bakers. To survive, they simply left it out.
It was a pragmatic act rather than a culinary one. Yet from this hardship grew something lasting. The result was a bread perfectly suited to a diet already rich in salted foods — olives, anchovies, sobrasada, and cheeses. Over time, the island’s saltless loaves became not just an adaptation, but a symbol of resilience.
The baker’s secret ingredient
Historian Miquel Garí discovered a curious detail hidden in old baker records. Salt did exist in Mallorcan bakeries — just not in the dough. Instead, it was mixed with sand and tiles beneath the ovens, used to retain heat and ensure even baking. Thus, salt still shaped the bread — indirectly, from below.
Smugglers and the white gold of Mallorca
Centuries later, salt remained a controlled commodity, giving rise to a thriving smuggling trade. Under moonlight, men carried heavy sacks of contraband salt over the Serra de Tramuntana’s rugged peaks. For them, salt was “white gold,” as poet Blai Bonet later wrote — precious, perilous, and essential.
One such smuggler, Antonio Fontanet, went on to found a milling business. Even decades later, he visited his village bakery every morning, leaving with the same round, saltless loaf — a quiet tribute to the life that had shaped him.
Bread of earth and fire
In Mallorca, breadmaking was never cloaked in mystique. There were no sacred rituals, just skill, repetition, and respect for the ingredients. Bakers learned by feel rather than formula, kneading dough by hand and firing stone ovens with wood. Each loaf was tapped lightly on the base before baking — a small gesture that gave the bread its distinct texture.
Mallorcan pastries charged extra to take on Ryanair flights
A loaf built to last
Traditional Mallorcan loaves, round and dense, were made to endure. Families baked once a week, wrapping loaves in linen to keep them fresh. As they aged, the bread found new life as sopas mallorquinas — slices soaked in broth with vegetables and meat — or as the twice-baked bescuit found on neighbouring islands, used in summer salads. Long before sustainability became a buzzword, nothing was wasted.
The modern oven still burns
Today, artisan bakers across the island continue to preserve the saltless tradition even as modern tastes evolve. New bakeries experiment with seeds, sourdough, or gluten-free doughs, yet the classic round loaf remains the island’s quiet staple — served pa amb oli style, rubbed with tomato and olive oil.
In Campos or Sineu, you can still find families queuing for their weekly bread, just as they did generations ago. The rhythm of baking — mixing, rising, resting, firing — connects past to present.
Joan Miró and his weekly loaf
Even the surrealist painter Joan Miró, who settled in Mallorca in his later years, shared this ritual. Each week, he would visit a small bakery in Bunyola, buying a two-kilo loaf from Na Fillola. He once described watching the ashen oven, the loaves fermenting and rising — “a ritual of earth and fire.” In that simple act, Miró saw the same artistic balance he sought in his canvases.
A taste of the island’s soul
Mallorcan bread without salt tells a story of endurance, ingenuity, and belonging. Born from a tax and shaped by poverty, it has outlasted empires and fashions. Its rough crust and soft crumb hold the memory of generations who learned to make much from little.
In every loaf lies the quiet flavour of Mallorca itself — humble, enduring, and utterly unique.
Source: El País