"They're addictive, kid! No virus, no nonsense!": The San Antonio Market, unaffected by swine fever

Barcelona"Me, me!" Marta exclaims. They've called out number 56 at the back stop, and with her ticket in hand, she takes two quick steps to order some legumes. "Who's next?" they call from the deli counter. Marta has to turn around again, running: "Me, yes, yes, number 66, two hamburgers." "Nothing else, sweetheart?" "No, thank you," she replies, still flustered.

"If there weren't the plague, maybe I would have bought pork ones," Marta explains to ARA. It's noon at the Sant Antoni Market in Barcelona, ​​and it will be a while before the Spanish government raises the number of confirmed African swine fever deaths again. "Look, if I can avoid it, I will, but if they ask for it at home..." she says, about her daughter, who occasionally wants sausages. "I have to say I'm not too scared," she adds, stepping slightly away from the Escofet Oliver delicatessen, located amidst the hustle and bustle of a weekday Tuesday.

Despite moving slowly and pulling wheeled carts, the market is bustling with activity: shop windows full, friendly shouts between stallholders, and lots of questions exchanged between customers and vendors... but there's no sign of the viral outbreak that has led part of the army to confine the entire Coll Park a few kilometers further up.

Equally oblivious to the food crisis feared by the Catalan pork sector, two South Korean tourists arrive at the Escofet Oliver delicatessen: "Yes, yes, thank you," he says several times when the African swine fever is mentioned, as he walks away smiling before sitting down. in situ A few shavings of Iberian ham, unaware that her country has just restricted its imports, like the United Kingdom and Serbia, among others. In fact, for now, this is the only impact of the plague: the ban on exporting pork outside the European Union.

Catalan meat companies export 4 billion euros worth of pork worldwide, 1 billion of which goes outside the EU. For consumers here, like Marta, this might translate into lower prices: if pork can't be exported, there will be surplus meat and therefore lower prices. But that doesn't concern or worry stallholders and customers, who haven't noticed any change: "You might think consumption could go down, but even if a bomb falls next door, people go about their business... they live for the day," says Xavier Sendra, who runs a stall bearing his surname. She's already sold Iberian pork secrets, loins, fillets, and cheeks, just like any other day.

Pilar, who bought the select cuts from her shortbreads Philip II explains that perhaps he is beginning to worry about the plague.

Next to the central fishmongers of the market, the Carns Esca butcher shop, run by Esther Bertran, has a smiling miniature pig in the middle of the counter. She cuts chicken and, like every day, sells everything: "I'm not worried," she and Marina, a regular customer, agree. It's almost 2 p.m. and a good number of people are still queuing to buy all kinds of meat.

But at the other end of the display window, a woman with sunglasses is about to leave: she puts a bag full of meat in her cart and, when asked about swine fever, stops for a moment: "You didn't tell me anything about this pork," she says to Jesús, a stallholder. "Me? What should I tell you?" he replies. Quickly, the brief moment of alarmist doubt vanishes when Meri, still wearing her sunglasses, explains what she had in her bag: "Botifarra de foie "With chestnuts. They're addictive, kid! No virus or anything like that! The virus is in your pocket!" he says, before making a path.