Benditto Vermutteria Italiana

Barcelona has a long-standing, borderline religious obsession with vermut. It’s the Sunday ritual, the social lubricant of the masses. But usually, it’s the local stuff—sweet, herbaceous, served with a siphon and a couple of olives. Benditto Vermutteria Italiana, tucked away on Carrer de Bailèn, decides to flip the script. It’s a handshake between the Catalan tradition of the 'hora del vermut' and the sophisticated, bitter-edged soul of the Italian aperitivo. This isn't a place for tourists looking for a sangria pitcher; it’s a place for people who want to drink like they’re in a back alley in Trastevere while standing firmly in the heart of Eixample.

When you walk into Benditto, you aren't greeted by a PR-friendly hostess with a headset. You’re greeted by the sound of Italian accents, the hiss of a professional-grade slicer turning out translucent sheets of mortadella, and a wall of bottles that would make a botanist weep. The space is intimate—which is a polite way of saying it’s small—but that’s the point. It’s a neighborhood joint. The lighting is low, the shelves are packed with imported tins and bottles, and the atmosphere is thick with the kind of casual confidence that only comes from people who know exactly what they’re doing.

Let’s talk about the liquid. While the rest of the city is pouring the local house red, Benditto is curating a list of Italian heavyweights. We’re talking Carpano, Cocchi, and small-batch amari that pack a botanical punch to the solar plexus. If you’re tired of the sugary stuff, order a Negroni here. It’s balanced, cold as a dead man’s heart, and served without the unnecessary garnishes that clutter up lesser bars. It’s a drink for grown-ups.

Then there’s the food. This is a 'vermutteria,' so don’t come expecting a sixteen-course tasting menu. Come for the 'tagliere'—charcuterie boards that actually mean business. The mortadella is dotted with pistachios and carries that beautiful, funky fat that coats the tongue. The cheeses are aged, sharp, and served at the right temperature, not pulled shivering from a fridge five minutes ago. But the real star is the Pinsa Romana. It’s the lighter, airier, more sophisticated cousin of the pizza. The dough is fermented long enough to develop a complex tang and a crunch that echoes in your skull, topped with things like creamy burrata, spicy nduja, or earthy truffles. It’s the kind of food that demands you use your hands and get a little grease on your chin.

Is it perfect? No. If you’re looking for a quiet, spacious place to have a business meeting, go somewhere else. It gets loud. It gets crowded. The service is 'Italian'—which means it’s passionate, knowledgeable, and entirely on its own timeline. If they’re busy talking about the merits of a specific gorgonzola, you’re going to wait for your check. But that’s the trade-off for authenticity. You’re in their house now.

Benditto is a reminder that Eixample isn't just a grid of expensive boutiques and Gaudí-obsessed crowds. It’s a neighborhood where, if you walk a few blocks away from the main drags, you can find a small room filled with people who give a damn about the difference between a good vermouth and a great one. It’s honest, it’s reasonably priced for the quality of the imports, and it’s one of the best Italian restaurants in Barcelona for anyone who values soul over ceremony. Go there, order a bitter vermouth, tear into a pinsa, and forget that you’re a tourist for an hour.