The empanada: a global history

SardiniaIs the empanada a pie? An empanada? It seems simple, but it isn't. Because when you try to define it, you understand that it's not just a dish: it's a world. On the Mediterranean islands —from the Balearics, with Mallorca and Menorca, to Sardinia— each place seems to know perfectly what an empanada is... until the discussion begins. From Palma to Maó, from Assemini, in southern Sardinia, to Cuglieri, in the province of Oristano, to Oschiri, in Gallura, each community defends theirs as the most authentic. And they are all right.

I understood it while sitting at the table of a refined restaurant in Europe. After a measured wait, the dish arrived: finely cut vegetables, high-quality slices of meat, all enclosed between two discs of dough halfway between puff pastry and brisée, as if wanting to imitate a panada. Sacrilege, I thought. It was excellent... but it wasn't sa panada*. That wasn't pasta violada, made in Sardinia with semolina, lard, and water: almost a sacrament. It is not discussed, it is not replaced. I simply said: this is not a panada. It was then that I understood something fundamental: there is no universal definition, only the journey to follow its tracks.

Are two discs of dough enough to call it a panada? Then I thought of London, where they would probably transform it into a pork pie under jelly. And from here the step is short: beef and kidney pie, egg and bacon pie, even squabpie. A whole family of pies where the filling is organized, classified, and almost domesticated. The Cornish pasty, born as a miner's food, also follows this logic: a solid and functional wrapper, designed more to withstand work than interpretation.

And here lies the miracle of the empanada: it crosses seas and centuries, changes shape and context, yet remains recognizable as a gesture and a story, a small epic enclosed in a crust. It is not just a pastry. Like other similar preparations —the Maltese pastizzi, Iberian empanadas, or English pasties— it expresses a system of oppositions that spans the Mediterranean: sweet/savory, land/sea, meat/fish, inside/outside. The filling is never casual: it indicates territory, season, and social class. If we go back in time, the empanada reveals ancient roots. As the Iraqi culinary historian Nawal Nasrallah, a true pioneer in rescuing Middle Eastern gastronomy, collaborating with scholars from Harvard and curator of Babylonian tablets at Yale University, has shown us in her studies, Mesopotamian cuneiform tablets already described ancient hunting "pastries" wrapped in a double layer of dough, more than 4,000 years ago.

The idea of sealing food in an edible wrapper is a universal technology, an invisible thread with a thousand names and a single intuition. More than a list of recipes, what emerges is a cultural map: each empanada is born from a territory, uses what that territory offers, and seals it in a dough that preserves and explains it.

Traveling through Mallorca and Menorca, stopping at markets, village bakeries, restaurants, and private homes, I discovered one constant: each kitchen has its own empanada. Each grandmother defends hers as the true one. And each chef tries to reinterpret it as a small work of art. In Mallorca, this gesture is multiplied into infinite variations. Meat empanadas so tender they verge on a mousse texture; llampuga with pepper; pork with angel hair; seafood. Fish ones, perfumed with citrus, reign on platters like little jewels. The cuttlefish ones are reminiscent of Sicilian m'panate, but with a local twist: raisins, pine nuts, and a touch of cognac, as if the entire Mediterranean were toasting in the kitchen. Or the rabbit ones, with tender peas and a hidden piece of sobrasada, which turn each bite into a family story.

There are also sweet versions—almost absent in Sardinia—and an infinity of small pies with hare, red crab, or lobster: tiny chests that concentrate the purest essence of the island. In the Balearics, the Mallorcan empanada and the Menorcan formatjadas are more a ritual than a recipe. Calling them "stuffed pastries" provokes a silent rebellion.

But in Mallorca, something unique happens during Holy Week: the empanada becomes the absolute protagonist. The aromas wafting from the kitchens invade the streets, while visitors and curious onlookers follow these rituals like chroniclers of taste. It is then that a popular pilgrimage appears, linked to the so-called "Virgin of the Empanada," where community, memory, and tradition intertwine. Jordi Llabrés i Sans, a gentleman and custodian of this Mallorcan tradition, explains:

Every year we organize the feast of the Virgin of the Empanada, driven by the enthusiasm of people who know and appreciate this devotion. Its popularity continues to grow in Mallorca and, in our culture, the empanada is the most typical Easter dish. The highlight will be on April 19, the third Sunday of Easter, at the hermitage of Sant Honorat, in Puig de Randa, where Mass, songs, music, dances, and the island's Easter gastronomy will be celebrated.

The echo of this rite also reaches Sardinia. In places like Assemini, Cuglierio, Oschiri, the empanada is part of life: births, weddings, parties, and celebrations. It is always present. Every gesture —kneading, filling, closing— transmits memory. Each empanada is a declaration of identity. Saying they are all the same can unleash small flavor wars. Today, as yesterday, making empanadas is a celebration: a collective moment that strengthens bonds, amid laughter and shared work. At the end of the journey, it becomes clear: the empanada is a living archive. It speaks of territories, economies, migrations, and faith. A code that transmits the history of those who prepare it. It remains alive all year round, in homes and restaurants.

But its deepest meaning remains in the collective gesture: kneading together, closing together, eating together. "In the end," Rita Fenu and her daughter Sonia Angotzi, from Le Dolci Noti, where they preserve the figure of the Virgen de la Panada, tell me in Cuglieri, Sardinia: "the panada is just an excuse." An excuse to gather, recognize each other, and be together. And perhaps here lies its true secret. Our dear friend from Sencelles also recalls it: "Without a doubt, the taste of Sardinian panadas seemed familiar to me. The one from Cuglieri was a delight: it tasted of the Mediterranean, of deeply rooted culture, of shared history... I was surprised that it contained dried tomato and olives, very Mediterranean products, but that we don't use in Mallorcan ones. This whole combination of ingredients tasted like a delight. And visually, also a pleasure. Aesthetically, your panadas and ours are sisters. There is no doubt about our historical and cultural ties."

Filling Mallorcan empanadas. Photo: Facebook- Porreres is local product

Thus, between a Mallorcan empanada and a Sardinian one, between a bite and a shared laugh, the Mediterranean reminds us that the islands are not so far away: an excuse called panada, a shared gesture, is enough, and immediately the bond of a fraternity that crosses seas and recipes is felt.

Sa panada, with the salted article, is the name given to the panada in Sardinia.