Bar Galicia

Avinguda del Paral·lel is a street of ghosts. It was once the Broadway of Barcelona, a chaotic neon-lit stretch of theaters, cabarets, and dens of iniquity where the city’s working class and its artistic fringe collided in a haze of cheap gin and ambition. Most of that is gone now, replaced by the creeping beige of gentrification, but Bar Galicia remains. It sits at number 131 like a stubborn anchor, refusing to acknowledge that the world outside has traded soul for aesthetics. This is not a 'concept' restaurant. It is a bar. It is a place where you go to eat protein, drink cold beer, and remember that Barcelona used to have teeth.

When you walk into Bar Galicia, don't expect a greeting from a host with a tablet. Expect the hiss of the espresso machine, the rhythmic thud of a knife hitting a wooden board, and the indifferent gaze of a waiter who has seen everything and isn't particularly impressed by you. The decor is 'Late-Century Functional'—stainless steel counters, bright lights that don't hide a single wrinkle, and a floor that’s seen decades of sawdust and stories. It’s beautiful in its honesty. There are no Edison bulbs here, no reclaimed wood, and absolutely no avocado toast.

The reason you are here, the reason anyone with a lick of sense is here, is the pulpo a la gallega (or pulpo a feira). In a city where 'octopus' often means rubbery rings salvaged from a freezer bag, Bar Galicia treats the cephalopod with the respect it deserves. It’s boiled until it yields to the tooth, sliced into thick coins, doused in high-quality olive oil, and dusted with a heavy hand of pimentón—the smoky, red soul of Spanish cooking. Served on the traditional wooden plate that soaks up the juices, it is a primal, essential experience. Pair it with a plate of pimientos de Padrón—those small green peppers where every tenth one hits you like a lightning bolt of heat—and you’re doing it right.

This is one of the best cheap eats in Barcelona, specifically in the Sants-Montjuïc area, but 'cheap' is the wrong word. It’s affordable, yes, but the value is in the lack of pretension. The menu is a roll call of the classics: lacón (Galician ham), croquetas that actually taste like the Iberian ham they’re stuffed with, and bocadillos that could fuel a dockworker for a double shift. The house wine is served in a way that suggests it was made by someone’s uncle in a village where they still don't have reliable internet. It’s sharp, it’s cold, and it cuts through the fat of the chorizo perfectly.

Who eats here? Everyone. You’ll see old men arguing over the sports pages, theater techs grabbing a quick bite before the curtain rises at the nearby Condal or Victoria, and the occasional savvy traveler who realized that the tapas bars in the Gothic Quarter are mostly a lie. It’s a neighborhood lens into Poble Sec and Sants, a place where the language spoken is a mix of Catalan, Spanish, and the universal dialect of people who just want a decent meal without the theater.

Is it perfect? No. The service can be brusque if they’re busy. It’s loud. It’s not romantic in any conventional sense. But if you find yourself wandering Paral·lel, tired of the tourist traps and the curated 'experiences,' pull up a stool at Bar Galicia. Order the octopus. Drink the beer. This is the real Barcelona—the one that doesn't care if you like it or not, which is exactly why you should love it.