I have no Majorcan blood and if I consider myself a local lad it's not so much for having been born in Guillem Massot street in Palma or attending the village school, as for having suckled from the same breast as the majority of islanders: the setrill, the olive oil cruet.

If children who share the same wet nurse are known as "brothers in milk", then consider me your "brother in oil". At the age of four, I came down with measles. The first sign of recovery, after a few days in bed, was this plea: "Mother, I want a pa amb oli." At home, we have always taken the question of olive oil fairly seriously. We have more than 50 olive trees, and any casual visitor who drops by the house between October and February is likely to be handed an olive-picking basket.

One year, a group of US students spent a winter in our village on a creative writing course and my father would lecture them while they picked olives for him. While I was studying typographic design at the London College of Printing, on one of those cold February days when not even a squirrel can be seen in Battersea Park, I came down with a case of that homesickness which all of us who have been born on sa roqueta (the little rock) have felt at some time or another, so I decided to perk myself up with a good plate of bread and oil.

No sooner said than done: I popped into the local Sainsbury's to buy bread (sliced), tomatoes (from a greenhouse) and olive oil (with as much colour and character as sewing machine oil). The insipid, colourless result was no more than a plastic parody of the original. It immediately dawned on me that a pa amb oli, like experience itself, is not transferable. That is to say, as a concept, it doesn't "travel well" because its identity depends totally upon having the authentic ingredients at hand.

The term pa amb oli means exactly that: bread and olive oil. It usually includes salt and scrubbed garlic, or sugar instead of salt for kids, if the oil is too strong or rancid. For the majority of today's islanders, the term includes tomato (in slices or scrubbed on to the bread) but most of the older generation still make a distinction: when I was a child, I would ask my mother for a slice of pa amb oli, and she would give it me plain.

If I wanted it with tomato, I'd have to ask for it specially. The tomato, like the potato, is of course a relative newcomer - a question of centuries, not millennia - and neither has yet been granted full citizenship. The Majorcan haute cuisine, or cuina de senyor, served at the tables of the landed gentry, has received a big push lately at the expense of the authentic peasant fare, because today we're all senyors, more interested in satisfying our curiosity and palate than our body and soul. There are plenty of books on sale with full-page, four-colour glossies of Majorcan dishes, each more recherché, sophisticated and aesthetically presented than the last, none of which was ever tasted by 99% of the population. Yet the reader will be lucky to find four lines dedicated to the basis of the diet: bread and oil. Shouldn't we be ashamed of ourselves?

People say to me, incredulously: "You mean to say you're writing a whole book about bread and oil?" as if the subject warranted no more than a paragraph. Yet for centuries it was the pillar of the Balearic survival diet. It was the only thing left between hunger and starvation, feeding generation upon generation of islanders, and without it many would not be here today: it deserves full recognition.

Perhaps this dish has been edited out of the cookery books because it appears too simple and thus unworthy of occupying space reserved for fancier recipes. The way I see it, preparing a plate of bread and oil is like playing good rock 'n' roll; it's so simple that few people can do it properly.

The perfect pa amb oli has two secret ingredients: honesty and appetite. Neither of which is easy to find in the Balearics since we've become a society of abundance, indifference and cynicism, treating our islands as a tourist destination rather than the place in which we live.

Much of today's urban youth in Majorca has grown up outside the domestic bread-and-oil tradition and has only now discovered, through the ever increasing network of pa amb oli cafes, a new way of eating healthily while out on the town.

Most fast-food restaurants are conceptually based upon a battery-hen farm. Everything is thought out - decor, lighting, music, production lines, fodder that can be swallowed without chewing - to stuff the maximum amount of gizzards as fast, cheaply, hygienically and artificially as possible.

The atmosphere is attractive when seen from the street (to capture the customer) but once inside, it is sterile and alienating (so that the customer has no desire to stay once he has finished his food, leaving the seat vacant for the next sucker).

A pa amb oli cafe tends to be conceptually the opposite: relaxed, civilized and cosily welcoming, although not much to look at from the outside. It is decorated on a low budget with natural (or at least unpretentious) materials and discreet lighting; your order is served with proper cutlery, crockery and glassware, and nothing comes in a plastic container. The food is unprocessed and full of vitality, inciting the customer to get to grips with it: not just finger-lickin' good, but palm-wiping delicious.

The youth of any nation, to become true citizens of the world, have to transcend their own culture; but to get to that point they first have to assimilate their own, not only intellectually but with all five senses: their music and language, smells, colours, tastes and textures. Bread and oil gives any young Majorcan a solid sense of his roots: island-dwelling, maritime, Mediterranean roots.

The raw materials for a pa amb oli are, in proportion, immensely more expensive than those used in a pizza or hamburger (as most ethically produced things usually are) but the final price is similar to a fast-food meal.

Several reasons can explain this: there's no expensive trademark one-upmanship, no high-rent prominent locations, and anyone running a pa amb oli cafe is obviously not aiming to get rich quick. The pa amb oli itself, being uncooked, is less open to manipulation in the kitchen (no deep-frying, microwaving, etc) while the ingredients, preserved using traditional techniques, contain few if any E additives: they usually are what they appear to be.

"At today's prices, a pizza will cost you more, but the ingredients for a pa amb oli have to be seen to be of better quality because they aren't disguised beneath a coat of melted cheese," says Xisco Cortes, who runs the Amano Bar. "With this dish, which anyone can make at home, you can't cut corners by buying cheap ingredients; you have to serve a ham or cheese of a higher quality than the customer would usually buy at the supermarket, so that he really enjoys his meal."

Most pa amb oli joints open only in the evenings, combining the social function of a pub or wine bar, the cultural function of a theatre-cafe (music, theatre, debates, poetry), and the practical one of a restaurant. S'Hostal, in Monuiri, began to make spectacular pa amb olis 30 years ago, but, one of the owners points out, "It's only been over the last decade that the partying doesn't stop until well into the wee hours."

This reflects the island's recent trend in decentralisation of night life from the city to the villages, as more young people move back to the rural areas. The bread and oil option allows cafes to offer more than just drinks (and avoid the problem of clients getting drunk on an empty stomach) without having to invest in costly kitchen equipment and space.

"The health authorities don't find much cause for concern when they inspect pa amb oli cafes, as long as the kitchen area is clean, because it's a dish which is bought, prepared and served; they don't need to poke about because you can't camouflage anything, it's all up front," says Xisco Cortes.

"If the bread-and-oil movement goes from strength to strength it's not just on the merits of the food, but because it's served in a very pleasant atmosphere, very much our own. Places like these all have Majorcan character, they offer good company, a good feeling and reasonable prices. I have two regular customers, a five-year-old and an eight-year-old, who prefer to come here than to go out and eat a hamburger."

In the area around the Santa Catalina market, bread and oil is king, especially on a Friday night when it's almost impossible to find a table in any of the dozens of specialised cafes. "A few years ago, this neighbourhood was on the decline," Xisco continues. "It was a demeaning situation that the people who have always lived here didn't deserve. I really put my weight behind this project; others came along, thank God, and stood beside me. What we've achieved is that this area now has a solid future as a centre for bread and oil. This dish is the basis of my business."

I think the time has come to vindicate and exalt this bread-and-oil culture because it sums up the best of our insular and Mediterranean selves. On the one hand, it reflects a simplicity, frugality, honesty and respect for tradition while on the other, the capacity to open up and adapt to outside influences without losing one's own identity. Partaking of a pa amb oli can be a solitary ritual conducive to introspection and withdrawal; but, if shared, it can lead beyond participation, into conversation and even end up as a party.

This article is extracted from Bread & Oil, Majorcan Culture's Last Stand, published by Prospect Books, price £12 (including post and packaging). Telephone Tom Jaine on 01803 712269 for a copy.