The dictionary defines a xuixo as a more or less cylindrical sweet filled with cream, fried and coated with cream. This is true. But the failure of the attempt to capture its essence in such a generic context, in which both surrogate and true xuixos of Girona can be identified, is also true.
This sweet, this authentic explosion of flavour and native resonances, this gustatory exaggeration, hangs by a thread. I mean that the difference between an acceptable xuixo and a memorable xuixo (leaving aside the oily monsters filled with whipped cream and cardboard dough) is very subtle. It depends on the slightest factors, such as the quality of the filling, which must be spongy and liable to burst in the mouth, or the degree of cooking, or the appearance of the wrapping, or the sugar. Minimal and almost imperceptible factors which, as occurs in poetry, must be combined with a few others in such a craftsmanslike, masterly manner that they descend upon the palate in a sublime experience.