Far from the romantic vision of a baker kneading with calm and serenity, there was Josep Maria, the fourth generation of a trade woven from sleepless nights and solitude. While the village slept, he was already in front of the oven, facing the harsh reality of a craft that does not wait for the sun to rise. His hands, worn by flour and fire, shaped a bread that needed no embellishments.

Casa Dalmau made no concessions to modernity or trends. Just real bread. Just the silence of the night, broken only by the sound of the yeast at work, the crackle of the dough as it rose, the mechanical gestures of someone who knows their craft with their eyes closed.

The smell of bread drifted through the streets at dawn, announcing a new day before the first light touched the rooftops. And when you stepped into the bakery, the world seemed to slow down. There was no rush. Just the steady rhythm of baking, the warm steam wrapping the air, the crunch of freshly baked loaves. And the sweet flatbread, with just the right touch of anise, melting in the mouth with an ancient sweetness, the kind that lingers in memory.

Casa Dalmau was a journey through time. A place where past and present met in a piece of still-warm bread, in the perfect simplicity of a trade from another era. A memory that endures, like a scent that lingers on the skin and in the mind, reminding us that, almost always, less turns out to be more.