By seven-thirty the fish are laid out — gilthead, hake, octopus the color of a bruise, a single swordfish on a slab of ice that looks like it's still moving.
By nine the stalls in the back are open: a glass of vermouth, a plate of tomato bread rubbed with garlic, a slice of sobrassada that melts before you can swallow it.
By noon the chefs have taken everything good. Come early.
"The Mallorcan light is its own substance — denser, somehow, than anywhere else."
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