Glendi

Eixample is a neighborhood of grand ambitions and rigid geometry. It is the architectural equivalent of a well-tailored suit—elegant, expensive, and sometimes a little bit suffocating. Ildefons Cerdà’s grid system was designed for light and air, but in the modern era, it often feels like a stage for high-end boutiques and restaurants that care more about their Instagram lighting than the salt content of their sauces. You walk these streets and you start to crave a puncture wound in all that perfection. You want something loud, something messy, something that smells like a fire that’s been burning since the Bronze Age.

That’s where Glendi comes in. Located on Carrer de Roger de Llúria, this isn't another 'concept' restaurant dreamed up by a marketing firm. It’s a Greek rotisserie and meze bar that understands a fundamental truth: the best things in life are usually charred, wrapped in bread, and dripping with fat. The name 'Glendi' translates to a celebration or a party, but don't expect streamers and balloons. This is a celebration of the spit, the grill, and the kind of honest Mediterranean cooking that doesn't need a garnish of micro-greens to justify its existence.

The first thing that hits you when you cross the threshold isn't the decor—which is clean, modern, and thankfully devoid of kitschy blue-and-white Santorini cliches—it’s the scent. It’s the primal perfume of the kontosouvli. If you haven't had it, imagine large chunks of pork or chicken, marinated in a bath of oregano, garlic, and lemon, then threaded onto a spit and rotated slowly over the heat until the exterior reaches a state of tectonic crunch while the inside remains obscenely juicy. This is the best Greek food in Barcelona for anyone who believes that 'vegetarian' is just an old word for 'bad hunter.'

But it’s not just a meat-fest. The mezedes here are the real deal. The fava is creamy and earthy, topped with red onion and capers that cut through the richness like a knife. The tzatziki doesn't play nice; it’s loaded with enough garlic to keep the vampires of the Gothic Quarter at bay for a century. And the pita—dear god, the pita. It’s pillowy, warm, and bears the char marks of a kitchen that knows exactly how much heat a piece of dough can take before it surrenders.

What makes Glendi a genuine culinary attraction in Eixample is its refusal to be 'fusion.' In a city where every second menu is trying to marry kimchi with croquetas, Glendi stays in its lane. It’s Greek street food elevated just enough to sit comfortably in one of Europe’s most beautiful neighborhoods without losing its street-level soul. You sit at the bar, you watch the kitchen crew move with the frantic grace of a line under pressure, and you realize that this is what’s been missing from the local dining scene: a place that values the drip of the grease over the drape of the linen.

Is it perfect? No. It’s small, it can get deafeningly loud when the post-work crowd descends, and if you’re looking for a quiet place to discuss your divorce or a corporate merger, you’re in the wrong zip code. The service is fast and functional, more Athenian taverna than Michelin-starred ceremony. But that’s the charm. It’s a reminder that food is supposed to be a communal, slightly chaotic experience. You come here to tear bread, to drink cold beer or a sharp Greek white, and to remember that the best way to understand a culture isn't through a museum—it's through the bottom of a shared plate of grilled octopus.