The question comes up sooner or later: are we what we eat or do we eat like we are? From there, we explore some of the most representative dishes of Catalan cuisine, from their origins to their essence, to understand what we eat and, along the way, who we are.
When the going gets tough, keep your chin up and when bread is stale, add tomato. Or put another way, the Catalan way of being goes beyond mindset and becomes a dish in its own right.
Ask ten people in Catalonia what defines them and you’ll almost certainly hear the same idea: a knack for turning necessity into something better. Nowhere is this clearer than in pa amb tomàquet, born of rural ingenuity to make stale bread edible at a time when bread was often dry and resources were scarce. It’s where this very Catalan way of dealing with hardship finds its clearest expression, turning a simple fix into something close to a culinary identity.
Simple as it is, the dish comes down to just four basics: bread, tomato, olive oil and salt. That’s it. Want to add a bit more? Cheese, anchovies or cured meats all work perfectly well. Butifarra sausage, escalivada, anchovies? Go ahead. Pa amb tomàquet goes with almost anything and almost anything goes with it.
Maybe it’s not really a side dish at all. Maybe no other food captures quite so clearly who we are. Either way, if you want to taste this land, this is where to start.
There are good desserts. Everyone has them and most people like them. But there are also desserts that don’t really follow the usual rules of what makes something appealing. Like, for example… burning them. Crema catalana clearly falls into this second category.
Partly because if you don’t take risks you don’t get anywhere and if you don’t burn things, in this case, you certainly don’t get anywhere either. You do have to be brave to do it, maybe even a little daring. And crema catalana captures that exact touch of rauxa – an impulsive streak – that runs through Catalan life.
Made with milk, egg yolk, sugar and a hint of lemon and cinnamon, the recipe sounds simple enough. But it’s at the end, when the sugar turns into a thin caramel crust, that something magical happens. The secret? Burning it.
Maybe that’s why it’s so loved. It’s a reminder that things often get better when someone dares to go a bit further and adds a touch of boldness to keep life from becoming too predictable.
There are dishes that are a starter. There are dishes that are a main course. And then there’s our most emblematic Christmas dish, which is both at once.
We had one icon. We ended up with two. Because in this case, more really is more, and if escudella and carn d’olla come from the same pot, why choose between them?
Often described as the great national dish of Catalonia, its strength doesn’t lie in any special ingredient but in the combination of very ordinary ones. Vegetables, pulses, different cuts of meat and bones all simmer together for hours to produce two results: first the escudella, the broth, warm and generous; then the carn d’olla, the meat and ingredients from the broth, hearty and plentiful, enough to satisfy even the biggest appetites.
And maybe that’s the point. That’s why it has lasted for centuries and is considered the oldest documented soup in Europe: because we want it whole. Because we can’t quite separate its two parts, which in the end are one.
Some places celebrate Christmas. And then there’s us, where one day of celebration simply isn’t enough. We needed three. Sant Esteve, on 26 December, is the third act in the story and cannelloni its real star.
If you don’t keep something back, there’s nothing left when you come to need it. In Catalonia, Christmas Day is followed by another big meal. But it only works if there is plenty left over from the main family feast. Plenty.
Its origin is simple and clever: using the meat left from the previous day’s escudella. Chop it, mix it, roll it, cover it with béchamel and bake it until it becomes something new, with its own identity, able to hold its own at the Christmas table, risen from what came before.
Perhaps that is why cannelloni suit us so well. They reflect a distinctly Catalan way of living based on seny (common sense and good judgement), yes, but also on celebration. Knowing when to save and when to share. Some things deserve a second chance. And cannelloni are proof that sometimes the second, or even the third, time round can be as good or better than the first.
Some recipes ask for technique. Others for exceptional ingredients. Escalivada asks for just one thing, and it is the most valuable of all: time.
It is a dish that defines us, perhaps a little too literally. Escalivada is served cold, but as its name suggests, it comes from the heat of the embers – caliu in Catalan. Like Catalans ourselves, who can seem cold or distant at first, but get closer and you will usually find warmth.
Aubergines, peppers and onions are left in the embers until the fire slowly turns what seems ordinary into something else entirely. The longer they stay, the better. There is no rushing it. Then they are peeled, gently pulled apart and dressed with olive oil. Nothing more.
But make no mistake: behind the simplicity there is complete trust in the product, in time and in letting things happen when they are ready. As with people, it is often when you pay a little more attention that you notice what sits beneath the surface.
Catalans can turn stale bread into something delicious, or transform a humble everyday onion into one of the most beloved dishes in Catalan cooking. And it all comes down to a sauce. A very special sauce.
Sauces usually accompany dishes. That’s how it works. Unless you’re dealing with calçots, because calçot sauce is reason enough for the whole meal. Also known as salvitxada, it’s made with nuts, roasted tomato, garlic, olive oil and ñora pepper, using one of the oldest and most essential techniques in Catalan cooking: picada, a traditional method of pounding ingredients together.
In theory its job is simple: to flavour the calçots. But anyone who has been to a calçotada knows that isn’t really the point. The sauce is the centre of everything. It is what leaves us covered from head to toe and slightly less dignified than when we arrived. Always, of course, in the unofficial uniform: a bib.
Today, salvitxada has two main roles: to turn a humble onion – calçat (grown under layers of earth as it develops) – into a shared celebration, and to remind us of a simple truth: there are good things in life. And above all of them are the ones you can dip in a good sauce.