Bar La Principal

The corner of Sepúlveda and Muntaner is a crossroads of the real Barcelona, a place where the grid of the Eixample starts to bleed into the scruffier, more urgent energy of Sant Antoni. This is where you find Bar La Principal. It’s not a 'concept' restaurant. It’s not a 'gastropub' designed by a committee of people who wear expensive glasses. It’s a bar. A big, echoing, high-ceilinged, marble-topped anchor of the neighborhood that has seen it all and remains unimpressed.

Walking in, you’re hit with the immediate, comforting cacophony of a place that knows exactly what it is. There’s the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of glass on stone, and the low-frequency hum of people who have been drinking here since before the internet made everything precious. The light pours in through massive windows, illuminating the dust motes and the worn edges of the woodwork. It’s beautiful in the way that only things that are actually used every day can be beautiful.

Let’s talk about the pastrami. In a city that usually treats sandwiches as an afterthought—a dry piece of jamón slapped between two halves of a baguette—the pastrami sandwich at Bar La Principal is an act of defiance. It is a stack of cured, smoked beef that defies the dainty logic of the traditional tapa. It’s fatty, it’s peppery, it’s served on bread that actually has the structural integrity to hold the mess together, and it’s slathered with just enough mustard to make your sinuses wake up. It’s one of the best sandwiches in the city, period. If you’re looking for a 'best pastrami sandwich Barcelona' search result that actually delivers, this is the end of your quest.

But you don’t just come for the meat. You come for the ritual of the vermut. The vermut de la casa here is served the way God intended: cold, with a splash of siphon, an olive, and maybe a slice of orange if the bartender is feeling generous. It’s the ultimate equalizer. You’ll see old men in flat caps nursing a glass next to university students with tattoos and laptops, all of them united by the need for something bitter and cold before lunch. It’s a tapas bar in Eixample that hasn't lost its soul to the tourist hordes.

When the sun goes down, the energy shifts. The screens come on, and if there’s a match, the place becomes a cathedral of anxiety. This is one of the premier football bars in Barcelona, but without the plastic, manufactured feel of the Irish pubs on the Rambla. When Barça scores, the roar is physical. When they lose, the silence is heavy enough to drown in. It’s honest. It’s visceral.

Is it perfect? No. The service can be frantic, bordering on indifferent when the house is full. The acoustics are such that a table of four sounds like a riot. The nachos, while popular, are a weird concession to modern tastes that feel slightly out of place next to the classic croquetas. But these are the flaws that make it real. It’s a place for people who like their bars with a bit of grit and a lot of history. It’s a reminder that despite the creeping tide of brunch spots and avocado toast, the heart of Barcelona still beats in places like this—loud, crowded, and smelling faintly of fried potatoes and vermut.