They say Valletta is dead – it’s not. New restaurants and old favourites still make it the capital of wining, dining or simply living the cafe life. And if your stomach wakes you up in the middle of the night, there’s always the neighbourhood baker. Paul Roberts indulges in a midnight snack.

It’s 1.30am on a Sunday and I’m slowly making my way back home through the straight and narrow streets of Valletta after what has been an extremely merry evening. Not only am I tired, but hunger is also elbowing me in the stomach with a keen, January sales shopper’s insistence. The bad news is that I’m hungry. The worse news is that I know that my fridge is empty except for a carton of supermarket sangria and one Maltese sausage – not even the most imaginative of chefs could cook up a meal with those ingredients.

The light that hangs above my front door is getting closer and I’m sort of making peace with the fact that a lack of household planning is going to send me to bed hungry. Then suddenly, a whiff of hope hits my nose, like fresh rain after a heatwave. It’s an addictive, life-embracing smell of smouldering wood and warm dough and it reminds me that there’s a bakery a few steps down from my home. Would they be open at this hour? And more importantly, would they serve me.

As I approach I can see that Joe Frendo and his son Michael are still in full swing, baking the bread that will feed the Sunday morning rush. As soon as the two see me, they’re happy with my unexpected company and they offer to solve my hunger problems with one of their famous pizzas – I’m safe. Valletta was once full of bakeries but now, Joe’s bakery in Old Mint Street is one of the few left. It’s a traditional bakery – Joe and Michael prepare and bake bread the old school way.

The stone oven is the size of a small apartment and normally gets fired only once a day. Early morning, the bakers stoke the fire until it’s roaring at 500°C – once this temperature is reached, Joe and Michael can bake all day without the need to refuel.

With a schedule of seven days a week, 365 days a year, the oven hardly ever gets the chance to cool down. And neither do Joe and Michael – for them, it’s a backbreaking schedule. Every day, local café and restaurant owners arrive with empty hands but leave with crates full of fresh ftajjar and rolls – so do the neighbours. Moreover, the two offer door to door deliveries, using a rustic motorbike that can only be described as an extremely well-worked classic.

But back to my hunger. I order a Maltese pizza and while it’s crisping up in the oven, I chat to Joe and Michael, who tell me how they have been baking bread for three generations. Someone had told me that in the old days, families also used to take their Sunday meal to the bakery.

“Not just on Sundays,” Joe says. “We used to do it every day. Gas is expensive but the heat from the oven is free as it uses residual heat to cook.”

This must have been a life saver for those struggling to make ends meet. But it’s not just about cost-cutting – it’s also a matter of taste.

“Food cooked or roasted in a wood-burning oven tastes heavenly,” Joe says. “I can cook anything in that oven.”

Then suddenly, he grabs me like nothing else matters except what he is about to say. As I wait for him to speak, his eyes remind me of Marlon Brando in The Godfather – serious but reflecting deep knowledge. “When I cook,” he tells me, pausing for effect while he brings his fingers together and touches his lips, “I cook.” The man is serious about his food and it’s a statement that will always stay with me.

There must be more gems like this in Malta – but to have one so close to home is a score in my food book.