Bolets1

The Catalan soul isn't found in the polished marble of the Eixample or the neon-lit traps of the Rambla. It’s found in the dirt. Specifically, the damp, loamy soil of the Pyrenees, clinging to the roots of a freshly unearthed rovelló. In Barcelona, mushrooms—or bolets—aren't just food; they are a collective mania, a deep-seated cultural ritual, and a seasonal madness that grips the city every time the first autumn rains hit the mountains. Bolets1, situated in the working-class heart of Sants-Montjuïc on Carrer de la Creu Coberta, is where that obsession gets real.

Forget the symphonic displays of the Boqueria where tourists snap photos of truffles they’ll never buy. This part of Sants doesn't care about your Instagram feed. Creu Coberta is one of the longest shopping streets in Europe, but it’s a street for locals—people who live here, breathe here, and most importantly, cook here. When you walk toward Bolets1, the air changes. It’s the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves, a sharp contrast to the city's exhaust.

Inside, the place is functional, almost austere, like a high-stakes trading floor for fungi. There are wooden crates stacked high, overflowing with the spoils of the forest: the bright orange, milk-bleeding rovellons, the dark and mysterious trompetes de la mort, and the meaty ceps that look like they belong in a fairytale. The staff are experts, men and women who look like they’ve spent more time in the woods than under fluorescent lights. They’ll tell you exactly how to handle a delicate camagroc or why this year’s moixernons are particularly potent. There’s no pretense here—just the product, the price, and the shared understanding that a good mushroom is worth more than its weight in gold. You aren't just buying ingredients; you're buying a piece of the mountain, delivered straight to the gritty heart of the city.