Why Are Local Farmers Dropping Organic Certification as the Trend Takes Hold?
“Whenever I travel to a new place, the first thing I do upon arrival is ask the locals where the market is.”
In June, much as food writer Han Liangyi describes in *Wandering Through Markets Around the World*, I embarked on a market tour of Barcelona, Spain. Rather than the trendy, social-media-famous La Boqueria and Sant Antoni markets, what captivated me most was a modest community market: the Barcelona Slow Food market (Mercat de la Terra, which translates literally as ‘Market of the Earth’).
Despite studying at Italy’s University of Gastronomic Sciences, widely regarded as a Slow Food stronghold, I always felt the movement’s idealised vision hovered somewhat untethered from reality. Beyond the university gates, how many Europeans actually know of, let alone embrace, Slow Food?
1. Why the Market Matters
Adjacent to the Slow Food market lies one of Barcelona’s key street art hubs. The area features a spacious open plaza and a raised stage for festivals and performances, alongside dedicated play zones for children. The atmosphere is lively and convivial, making it an ideal spot to grab some produce from the market and settle on a bench for a spontaneous picnic.
By 11am, traders were setting out their stalls with seasonal fruit and vegetables, organic cured meats and sausages, cheeses, naturally leavened bread, olive oil and more. During one of the market’s promotional showcases for local produce, we sampled distinctive regional varieties of white asparagus and tomatoes, and managed to join a tasting workshop for Garrotxa, a traditional goat cheese from Catalonia.
Garrotxa, a local goat cheese, was on the verge of disappearing in the 1980s before making a remarkable comeback thanks to young affineurs and goat farming co-operatives. I’ve traditionally been put off by the pronounced, gamey tang of goat cheese, but Garrotxa is remarkably smooth and fine-textured. Its rich, aromatic profile carries not a hint of that familiar gaminess, and each of the market’s cheesemakers brings its own distinctive character to the wheel.
The proprietor of Formatgeria de Clua explained that they experimented with several techniques to achieve a softer texture in their goat cheese. Rather than battling mould outright—a common risk with soft-ripened cheeses—they deliberately introduced a specific benign mould strain to guide the ripening process. The result is a cheese with a delicate protective rind and a sweet, creamy interior.
Meanwhile, the proprietor of Formatgeria de Tòrrec offered us a taste of their most sought-after product: Blanch de Tòrrec, a lacticoagulated cheese crafted from unpasteurised goat’s milk. It melts smoothly on the palate with a subtle undertone of crème fraîche. According to the cheesemaker, this delicate flavour profile stems from their flock, composed of Spain’s finest Murcia breed. Each doe yields roughly 500 litres of milk annually, boasting a rich composition of 5.6% fat and 3.6% protein.
It struck me then how truly essential it is to immerse oneself in the market when studying food culture; learning about it from a lecture hall simply can’t compare.
He tells me he previously worked as a barista in Australia before returning to Barcelona to open a café. After it eventually closed its doors, he pivoted to this coffee cart venture, which has proved remarkably popular. Market-goers gather around the cart to enjoy their coffee and chat at their leisure; it has become a staple of their routine. In turn, he has seamlessly woven himself into the fabric of their daily lives.
Why do I love browsing markets? Perhaps it is because there are always stories unfolding in the present. A market is a wondrous space, brimming with a raw, vibrant sense of place and the warmth of human connection. Through the authentic tales of the traders, it allows me to rediscover, understand, and imagine the countless possibilities life has to offer.
II. “Organic” Is No Big Deal
It turns out the market’s most distinctive feature is carving out a viable space for small producers who have been left behind by the mainstream organic certification system.
Over the past few decades, as organic production and consumption have expanded, so too has the number of third-party certification bodies tasked with setting standards and verifying compliance. However, organic certification standards focus exclusively on the regulatory compliance of the production process itself. They take no account of whether farm labour relations are fair, whether monoculture cropping is restricted, or how local products are safeguarded. Consequently, small producers who excel in these very areas find themselves barred by the certification threshold.
The stallholder at Apitintegral, an organic fruit stall, told us that after maintaining organic certification for three years, he decided to let it lapse, citing the cumbersome paperwork that made his work inefficient.
“The organic label doesn’t convey information we consider important, such as whether the produce has been treated with artificial additives or intensive processing methods, or what proportion of a company’s total output is genuinely organic. The time and energy we small farmers spend untangling increasingly complex paperwork are simply unsustainable.” Having navigated the Italian bureaucratic system myself, I completely sympathise.
Another stallholder, Silenta, who sells salami, also stepped away from organic certification due to the rigorous certification process and the fees, which can run into hundreds or even thousands of euros. Silenta runs a small family slaughterhouse, sourcing meat locally and crafting sausages using traditional methods that fully align with Slow Food principles.
She feels that certifications and labels are “not worth the fuss”. Whether pursuing organic status or a geographical indication (IGP), the regulations invariably include stipulations that small producers simply cannot meet.
For instance, a friend of hers runs a slaughterhouse right on the border between two towns. His shop is in Town A, but the farm where he sources his meat is in Town B, just a ten-minute drive away. Because the meat originates from a different town, his products cannot qualify for IGP or organic certification, even though they meet every other requirement.
Clark, an American classmate travelling with us, mentioned that small-scale farmers in the US face similar headaches.
Clark previously ran a small organic-certified farm in California. Although he only needed an annual inspection from the US Department of Agriculture, he had to keep meticulous daily records for it, covering everything from irrigation schedules to the time spent weeding. The greater the crop diversity, the more convoluted the paperwork became—which felt overwhelming when he was already struggling to manage diversified cropping with over 100 seed varieties.
III. Participatory Guarantee Systems
The Slow Food Market uses the Participatory Guarantee System (PGS), a framework initiated by the Slow Food Association. Provided farmers adhere to this system—refraining from chemical inputs such as fertilisers and pesticides in production, and growing only local, seasonal crops—they are welcome to promote and sell their own produce at the market.
The market regularly organises farm visits, allowing consumers to see exactly how food is produced at source. Farmers running stalls at the market also welcome customers to visit their farms personally to inspect cultivation methods, workflows, and the raw materials used in processing, as well as to check supplier lists and certificates for procured ingredients.
Yet what truly enables them to put down long-term roots at the Slow Food Market is the trust between the farmers and the consumers.
The Cal Sileta stall, which sells olive oil, almonds, and lamb, caught my eye. It displayed numerous photographs of olive groves and oil production. The stallholders proudly told us that their family has been tending the olive trees left by their ancestors a century ago. They continue to purchase abandoned groves, as young people uninterested in farming have moved to the cities.
Their lambs are raised entirely by the ewes, and their grazing comes from the olive groves and apricot orchards. In summer they feed on wild grasses, while in spring and autumn they forage on the leaves and fruit of the apricot and olive trees. However, last winter brought exceptional drought to Catalonia, making it difficult to provide sufficient feed for the flock. The farm had to buy hay from other pastures, and the olive harvest suffered too.
“Wild boars are desperate; they only venture into the peach grove because they can’t find food in the forest. Can you even grasp the impact of drought-stricken climates?” I was momentarily at a loss for words.
In Europe, where organic consumption is highly visible, recognising organic certification labels is straightforward. Yet those labels never tell you about the specific hurdles farmers face during production. By contrast, meeting producers face-to-face at Slow Food markets is not only a way to build trust, but also an opportunity for consumers to learn about their food and educate themselves.
4. Giving Back to the Community
All stallholders can use the market’s communal kitchen for cooking and storage. A particularly tasty bakery within the market bakes its loaves here. It’s just a ten-minute walk to the market to sell them, which cuts transport costs and preserves the bread’s fresh flavour.
Furthermore, the Slow Food market operates on a zero-waste model. Customers bring their own containers and tote bags, while food waste generated by stallholders during setup is collected and transported to the local AbonoKm0 association. Members of the association turn it into worm compost, which is then returned to city residents for growing vegetables on their balconies.
Barcelona is home to over 200 Slow Food restaurants. Alongside the markets, they form part of the broader Slow Food movement, a structure that naturally facilitates cooperation and mutual support.
By regulation, Slow Food restaurants must source at least 40% of their ingredients locally (the remaining 60% must be Slow Food Association-certified products), and they must purchase from a minimum of eight local producers. Produce from the Slow Food markets naturally becomes their first choice.
Each of these Slow Food restaurants also has its own character. Restaurante Somorrostro specialises in lesser-known methods for preparing fish. Its menu is rotated weekly, depending on what’s in season, while other ingredients are sourced primarily from the Slow Food market or its own organic kitchen garden.
On that day, we also visited spaimescladis. This Slow Food restaurant is dedicated to creating jobs for immigrants and serves as the editorial base for el convit/e, a magazine that discusses immigrant rights and the decolonisation of food.
After leaving behind my migrant days in Beijing, where I was surrounded by Meituan deliveries and Hema supermarkets, I unexpectedly found a sense of home in the Slow Food markets and restaurants. From farms and family-run workshops to markets, and on to diverse consumers and eateries, this network is woven through with different supply chains and stories, brimming with fascinating variables at every turn.
Unlike the standardised logistics and sales of supermarkets or online shopping, these small markets are highly adaptable, possessing a resilience that is both soft and steadfast, much like the steady, adjusting breaths of a yoga practice.
Whether it’s fruit and vegetable supplies that shift with the seasons, a journey from a difficult start to becoming a micro-community woven into local life, or the exploration of eco-friendly models beyond organic certification, stallholders at the Slow Food markets continuously innovate and adapt to keep things vibrant. This little market has become a space where all sorts of imaginations and possibilities can take root, offering a vantage point to observe whether a city is open and progressive.
Edited by: Zain