Where Flavour Begins

It starts in the soil, in the salt, and in the hands of the people who grow, gather and raise what we work with. Before anything is tied, cured, smoked or sliced, it already carries a place with it.

In my own raised beds, I grow the herbs I keep coming back to. Rosemary, thyme, oregano, chillies, and whatever else seems to settle well in the soil. It is not a large garden, and it is not perfect, but it has become part of the way I think about flavour.

I like being able to step outside, see what is growing, take care of it, and imagine where it might belong.

Sometimes it ends up in a cure. Sometimes it changes a blend I thought was already finished. Sometimes it simply reminds me not to overcomplicate things.

We also lean on people close to us who care about the same things. My friend Stephan takes care of a field in Gozo, where he grows and experiments with different herbs and plants. He is always trying something new, seeing what takes well to the land, what survives, and what carries flavour in a way that makes sense for curing.

There is something very honest about that kind of work. It is soil, weather, patience and a fair bit of trial and error. Some things take well to the land. Others do not. But when something grows as it should, there is a quiet satisfaction in knowing exactly where it came from.

That matters to me.

The same goes for the sea salt we use from the Xwejni Salt Pans, the local meat we choose carefully, and the small decisions that happen quietly before anything reaches the table. These things are not there to decorate the story.

They are the story.

Once the ingredients come in, the rest is about paying attention.

A little more thyme. A different drying time. A touch of chilli. A gentler smoke. A cure that needs more patience than expected.

None of it is about forcing flavour. It is about understanding what the meat already has and helping it become more itself.

That is why I try not to season too loudly. The herbs, salt and smoke should support the meat, not hide it. If the ingredient is good, the work is in knowing when to step in and when to leave it alone.

Curing teaches you that.

It teaches you to wait, to smell, to taste, to adjust, and sometimes to accept that nature has the final say. The weather changes. The herbs change. The meat changes. Every batch asks for attention in its own way.

For me, this is what makes Nelli’s personal.

It is not just about making cured meats. It is about working with what is around us, with people we trust, and with ingredients that carry a bit of Gozo before they ever reach the curing room.

The raised beds, the field, the salt pans, the farmers, the hands behind the work.

That is where flavour begins.

— Notes from Max