It is from these fertile shores, from this wild land, from this sun-beaten soil. This desert in summer, a mixture of green water and fog in winter. From these stunted woods growing on the banks, from which olive trees sprout. This stained grove, shelter for wild animals, food source for wild boar and mongoose, trail of foxes and lynx. It's from this land of holm oaks, chaparros, executioners. Of these raw trees used by the people of the border in stealth mode, to fish, hunt, rest, escape the fiery heat. This river of submerged boats, hidden from view, preserved from the Swiss wind. It is one of those wastes that are scarce in civilization, rich in everything else. Maltês is from these lands left to God-give for God to give.

Maltês says that great oil is not from an olive grove. It's from many. Nor is it a variety of olives. There are several. That's why he walks along the Guadiana in search of olive trees and wild olives. Chameleon, walker, wanders. Among holm oaks and thimbles.

Back bag. Take it here. Prune there.
Gather the best you can find to make the best olive oil in the world. This isn't it yet. But from land to land, from oil to oil, the taste and the demand are refined.

It became denser through the olive groves and wild forests.

Smelled, pruned, tasted.

It extracted olives of the Arbequina varieties,
Picual and Cobrancosa.

Produced an extra virgin olive oil with a fruity flavor
green and fresh.

A nomadic olive oil with a wild soul that, for many months

and leagues later, he is ready to walk to his

Maltês prepares to wander around your table.

Appetizers, snacks, dishes, main dish,
desserts, Maltês are hungry for everyone.

Season your salads. Cuddle up in your soups.
Touch up your grills. Dress up your fish.
Soak your bread. Drizzle your dark chocolate.
Snake through your masses.

This is not an oil to be left in the kitchen.
Maltês wants a seat at the table.

Let yourself go and taste it.