Dinner at Ca N’ignasi was a parade of delicious oddities. An empanada that looked liked a tribal crown got its earthen color from cuttlefish ink in the dough. A coca, a type of flat bread normally topped with roasted vegetables, was capped by strands of briny whitebait.
By the time I got to the pork loin, stuffed with crumbs made from a coiled pastry called an ensaimada, I was thrilled: If this was what the Spanish island’s cuisine was like, I was in for a few excellent days.
But Ignasi Coli Planas, the plumber moonlighting as an amateur chef who had prepared all these dishes, dashed my hopes. “Oh no,” he said in a tone somewhere between mournful and defiant. “You’re not going to eat this anywhere else in Majorca.”