With some dismay, I observe these days a premature legal traffic in Sant Joan coques, many of which correspond to the “industrial” category and not because they were made in the Nervión basin. They are edible, showy – here’s the drama – and waiting for the rat brother-in-law.
And what do you do with a coke days before the party, apart from eating it? The doubt lies in whether they keep it in the fridge or the freezer, the spiritual reserve of the West, where in my house, ice cubes aside, there are Findus peas and three ridges from the East.
The good cakes, I imagine, are in the clouds and require queuing on Friday the 23rd itself, a day of rushes, nerves and strange bedfellows. The work piles up for people and, instead of stopping, tempering and commanding, there reigns a maddened frenzy – lots of cars in double rows and not conciliatory – of the one who wants to achieve too many things and faces the stress of the night.
I can already imagine that the fate of many of these industrial cokes are mass parties that grant impunity to taxpayers and where, in the absence of good coke, people throw themselves into the cava or the first one they find. Communities of semi-detached houses, firecrackers and firecrackers without a partner but with a backpack, parents greeted by the school or the street party of third sector organizations where they toast to a more sustainable world.
Saint John’s Eve is so vital that it can do anything and I don’t remember any news about food poisoning from the consumption of cakes of bread soaked in oil, not even among those retards – my idols – that the Urban Guard of Barcelona is dumbfounded to vacate the beach at the crack of dawn and all so that someone can swim with a cap at those hours and appear on television as an example of civility.
For a day that people can sleep on the beach!
The advance sale of cakes, without grace or pastry mastery, is progress and a curse, the symbol of a practical mentality that burdens spontaneity, the excuses of forgetful husbands and the rebellious, incorrect and uncanny spirit of women bonfires on the night of Sant Joan.
