Ġbejniet vs. Whey: Malta’s Protein Tale of Tradition, TikTok and Hard Truths

An excellent source of protein: health, hype and hard truths

Monday evening, 18:55. The last rays of sun bounce off the limestone walls of the Għarb parish square while a queue already snakes past the baroque church. At the front, 78-year-old Nanna Rita clutches a reusable bag emblazoned with “Gozo Pride” and waits patiently for her weekly allotment of ġbejniet, the iconic Maltese sheep’s-cheese rounds that have been sustaining islanders since before the Knights. “Protein is protein,” she shrugs, “but this one has the taste of home.”

Behind her, 23-year-old fitness coach Luke Briffa live-streams to 2,400 followers on TikTok, flashing a tub of imported whey isolate. “Fifty grams of protein, zero lactose, bro!” he enthuses, waving the barcode like a trophy. Same village, same nutrient, two Maltese realities separated by four centuries and 200 metres of cobblestone.

Malta’s relationship with protein has always been intimate. Before supermarkets and shipping containers, the archipelago’s rocky terrain meant meat was celebratory, pulses were seasonal, and cheese was currency. Today, the islands import around 90 % of their food, yet local protein still carries cultural weight that no Instagram discount code can touch.

Take the rabbit. Fenkata—the communal rabbit stew—was once a clandestine act of resistance against the hunting ban imposed by the Knights of St John. Now it is the dish Maltese families serve when they want to say “merħba,” “congratulations,” or simply “we have enough to share.” A 2023 survey by the University of Malta’s Institute of Tourism found that 68 % of tourists who tasted fenkata rated it as their most memorable “authentic” experience, beating pastizzi and ftira. Protein here is not just macros; it is memory.

Yet the global protein hype has washed over the islands like a summer sirocco. Walk past any Valletta café and you’ll spot “protein balls” nestled between cannoli. Gyms from Birkirkara to Buġibba sell neon-coloured shakes that promise 30 g of recovery in a plastic cup. The Malta Competition and Consumer Affairs Authority reports a 240 % spike in protein-supplement imports since 2018, with local brands like NutriBox and MacroMalta scrambling to add “Gozitan honey” or “Kinnie flavour” to stand out.

But the hard truths are beginning to surface. Dietitian Claire Vella, who runs a clinic in Mosta, says she now spends half her week undoing online myths. “I see teenage girls drinking three shakes a day because an influencer told them it will ‘tone’ their arms. Meanwhile they’re skipping lentils and fish that provide the same amino acids plus fibre and omega-3s.” The environmental cost is also climbing: Malta’s waste management agency notes that single-use protein pouches accounted for 14 tonnes of landfill last year—about the weight of six blue-fin tuna.

Then there is the question of affordability. A kilo of local chicken breast hovers around €9.50 at the Pitkalija market in Ta’ Qali, while a 2 kg bag of imported whey can set you back €45. For pensioners like Nanna Rita, ġbejniet—still produced by small Gozitan farms—remain the economical choice at €2.50 for four. “I don’t need numbers on a label,” she laughs, tapping her forearm. “I need strength to carry my groceries up the stairs.”

Community leaders are stepping in to bridge the gap. The non-profit FoodWise Malta recently launched “Fenkata Solidali,” where restaurants donate one rabbit stew for every ten ordered, directing surplus to food-bank families. Chef Rafel Sammut, who spearheaded the project, says the goal is “to remind people that protein can be both celebratory and communal, not just a solitary scoop in a shaker.”

Meanwhile, young entrepreneurs are looking backwards to move forwards. At the Kirkop hydroponics hub, 28-year-old Martina Pace is experimenting with lupin-based tempeh, reviving a legume that once thrived in Maltese crop rotation. “We can hit 20 g of protein per 100 g, grow it with 80 % less water than almonds, and still keep the flavour profile Maltese—think lupin-and-pomegranate ftira topping,” she beams.

Back in Għarb, the queue has dwindled. Nanna Rita walks home with her ġbejniet swinging like medals; Luke Briffa finishes his stream and pockets his imported tub. Between them lies the real Maltese protein story: not a battle between old and new, but a negotiation between sustenance and symbolism, between the gram counter and the grandmother, between what builds muscle and what builds identity.

Because in Malta, protein is never just fuel. It is fenkata on a Sunday, ġbejniet in a chapel doorway, and—if we’re wise—the lupin fields of tomorrow. Choose wisely; the islands are watching.