Embracing Tradition, One Grocery Store Coca at a Time
Unexpected Joy of Tradition
The "revetlla de Sant Joan" in Barcelona is an explosion of fire, light, and a very particular sweet scent that permeates the humid June air: that of the coca de Sant Joan. I had observed this annual spectacle from a polite distance, admiring the elaborate displays in patisserie windows, hearing the excited chatter about "which bakery has the best one this year," and watching families gather to share their prized pastries. Despite living amidst this vibrant tradition, I had always remained an outsider to the coca itself, never quite feeling the urge to partake. This year, however, something shifted.
Perhaps it was the cumulative effect of countless Sant Joan eves, the subtle pull of a tradition that felt increasingly ingrained in the city's very soul. Or maybe it was a simpler, more mundane curiosity. Whatever the reason, as June approached its climax, a quiet determination solidified: this would be the year I finally tried a coca de Sant Joan. My initial thoughts gravitated towards the renowned, often highly-priced, creations from the city’s celebrated bakeries. I imagined a pilgrimage, a carefully chosen masterpiece. But as the festive bustle intensified, a different path presented itself – one far more pragmatic and, as it turned out, equally rewarding.
Instead of queuing at a famous pastelería, my chosen coca came from the unassuming shelves of my local grocery store. It wasn't presented on a silver platter, nor did it boast an artisanal pedigree. It was simply there, nestled among other seasonal treats, wrapped in plastic, its candied fruits glistening under the fluorescent lights. There was no grand narrative behind its creation, no master baker's signature. It was just a coca, readily available, a democratic slice of tradition for anyone who desired it. The simplicity of the purchase felt oddly liberating, stripping away any pretence and making the experience feel truly my own.
Later that evening, amidst the distant crackle of firecrackers and the faint scent of bonfires, I unwrapped my grocery store coca. It was a classic candied fruit version, golden and inviting. I cut a generous slice, taking in the slightly chewy texture and the vibrant colours. The first bite was a revelation. The dough was soft, almost brioche-like, with a delicate sweetness that wasn't cloying. The candied fruits, far from being overly sugary, offered a pleasant chewiness and bursts of concentrated flavour, complemented by the subtle crunch of pine nuts. It wasn't overly complex, nor did it need to be. It was, quite simply, good. Comforting, traditional, and utterly satisfying.
That simple, unpretentious coca from the grocery store taught me a valuable lesson. While the artisanal masterpieces undoubtedly hold their own charm and craftsmanship, the true spirit of Sant Joan, and indeed many cultural traditions, lies not necessarily in exclusivity or high art, but in accessibility and shared experience. My first coca de Sant Joan wasn't a gourmet indulgence, but it was an authentic embrace of a local custom, a delicious taste of summer, and a reminder that sometimes, the most genuine joys are found in the simplest of packages. And yes, it was truly, wonderfully good.