Bella Venezia

Barcelona is a city of grids, a relentless march of octagonal blocks and modernist ambition. But sometimes, the Eixample feels a little too calculated, a little too clean. That’s when you head to Carrer de Roger de Llúria and look for Le Romane. It isn’t trying to reinvent the wheel or deconstruct the tomato. It’s doing something much harder: being a real-deal Italian trattoria in a city that often settles for tourist-grade pasta.

Let’s talk about the carbonara. It is the litmus test for any Italian kitchen, and here, it’s a revelation. There is no cream. If you’re looking for that gloopy, white-sauce travesty found in airport lounges, keep walking. This is the holy trinity of egg yolk, pecorino romano, and guanciale. The fat from the cured pork cheek renders down into a salty, funky nectar that emulsifies with the egg to coat the pasta in a glossy, golden sheen. It’s heavy, it’s visceral, and it’s exactly what you want when the Mediterranean wind starts to bite. It’s a protein-heavy punch to the gut that reminds you why simple food is the hardest to get right.

The room itself feels like a sanctuary. Exposed brick, warm wood, and the kind of lighting that makes everyone look like they’re in a 1970s neo-realist film. It’s tight, it’s often loud, and the air is thick with the smell of yeast and roasting garlic. This isn't a place for a quiet, contemplative salad. It’s a place for breaking bread, literally, and getting olive oil on your shirt. The service is efficient in that way only Italians can manage—brusque enough to let you know they’re busy, but warm enough to make you feel like a regular by the time the second bottle of red hits the table.

Beyond the pasta, the burrata is a mandatory play. It arrives looking like a soft, white grenade of cream. When you break the skin, the stracciatella spills out, demanding to be mopped up with their crusty bread. It’s fresh, lactic, and unapologetic. Then there’s the pizza. In a city currently obsessed with sourdough and high-concept toppings, Le Romane keeps it grounded. The crust has that essential char, the leopard-spotting of a hot oven, and the toppings are restrained. They know that if the dough and the sauce are good, you don't need to bury them under a mountain of truffle oil.

Is it perfect? No. It’s popular, which means you’re going to be rubbing elbows with the table next to you, and if you haven't booked, you’re likely staring at the sidewalk for forty minutes. The wine list doesn't try to win awards; it provides the necessary fuel for the meal. But that’s the point. Le Romane is an honest restaurant. It’s not a 'concept.' It’s a place where the cooks clearly give a damn about the traditions they’re upholding.

In a neighborhood filled with overpriced fusion and 'gastronomic experiences' that leave you hungry, this is the real thing. It’s the best Italian restaurant in Barcelona for people who actually like to eat. You come here when you’re tired of being a tourist, when you’re tired of small plates, and when you just want a bowl of pasta that tastes like someone’s grandmother is in the back, making sure you don't leave until you're full. Finish with the panna cotta—it has the perfect wobble, a silent testament to a kitchen that knows exactly when to stop messing with a good thing.