All the fuss about products made in the Canary Islands and the AIEM tariff protection for nothing. In southern Gran Canaria, the "all-inclusive" rule: 60% of German tourists eat without leaving the hotel. They prefer Italian food, then their own, German cuisine. Local cuisine is relegated to a decorative garnish. Italy wins at the table, the Canary Islands lose on the plate.
In Maspalomas, the smell isn't of fish broth or old stew. It smells of reheated bacon, a soulless omelet, a sterile buffet. The light falls like molten lead on the white walls of Playa del Inglés and Maspalomas. And in that light, the truth is as clear as August sweat: the arriving tourist, especially the German one, hasn't come to have their palates surprised, but to have their digestion spared.
Un report The August 24 issue of Maspalomas2025H, prepared by TUI—that tourist Leviathan fattening half of southern Europe—has had access to a bombshell in a monotone: 46% of tourist spending goes on food and drink. But not in restaurants with linen tablecloths and line-caught fish. No. That 46% stays in the bowels of hotels, in trays of denatured chicken curry, in cardboard sangrias, and in soups that taste like nothing. What's beyond the buffet? The street, the uncertainty, the menu without photos. And that, my friend, is scary.
35% of German tourists choose the all-inclusive package, while another 25% opt for half-board. Translated: 60% don't need to set foot outside to eat even a wrinkled potato. They flit between the scheduled breakfast and the thematically bland dinner, between the obligatory sangria and the dessert pastry that has more preservatives than sugar. The promise of discovering local produce dies in the self-service line.
And when asked which cuisine they prefer, the data is devastating: Italy sweeps the board with 50,1% of their sympathies. Then comes German cuisine (20,3%)—yes, their own food on vacation—followed by Greek (19,3%), Spanish (16,4%), Turkish (10,9%), Portuguese (9,2%), and Asian (8,4%). Spanish cuisine, in fourth place, fails to surpass either pork knuckle or moussaka in the hearts of those walking among the dunes and hotels with wristbands. Not even here, in Spain. Not even here, in the Canary Islands. And this isn't a defeat. It's a mirror.
Meanwhile, chefs in the south sweat in their kitchens with virgin olive oil, adjusting salt content, and fine-tuning dishes with edible flowers. They want to elevate mojo, revive pork, and make gofio foam and poetry. But their dining rooms are often empty of tourists and filled with silence. Haute cuisine strives to shine in a setting that demands repeat dishes without surprises.
Because the paradox here isn't gastronomic, it's existential. A culinary offering has been created that seeks the enlightened diner... and finds itself facing the armored diner. There's talk of "repositioning the destination" as the capital of Atlantic flavor... and it collides with the "all-inclusive" guarantee that no one will go hungry or complain about the spicy food.
The achievement of the south isn't a Michelin star, but rather serving steaks cooked to the exact point of insipidity. The great feat isn't pairing a volcanic wine with seasonal blue fish, but ensuring that no one asks for a complaint form for not finding ketchup. Here, the culinary experience isn't a journey, it's a routine. And the hero is the waiter who serves a 2-degree beer in perfect German, not the chef who infuses limpets in corn broth.
Because, in the end, 60% of German tourists don't leave the hotel to eat. Because Spanish cuisine barely reaches 16,4% preference. Because food here isn't about culture: it's about logistics. Tourism in the south doesn't chew on memories, it chews on certainties. And that's why, perhaps, southern Gran Canaria should stop dreaming of stars and learn to shine with neon lights, those that announce "all inclusive" like someone announcing redemption. Gastronomy can wait. The toaster can't.
