Casablanca

Barcelona’s Eixample is a grid of ambition—grand boulevards, modernist facades, and enough high-end concept bars to make your head spin. But on Carrer de Villarroel, tucked away from the architectural peacocking, sits Casablanca. It’s a small, unassuming room that smells like the kind of place you’d find in a back alley of the Marrakech Medina, where the air is thick with the scent of toasted cumin, cinnamon, and slow-simmering meat. This isn't a 'fusion' experiment or a sanitized tourist version of North Africa. This is the real deal, a halal restaurant in Eixample that prioritizes the soul over the scenery.

When you walk in, the first thing you notice isn't the decor—though the traditional tiles and warm lighting do their job—it’s the hospitality. In a city where service can sometimes feel like a transaction you’re losing, the welcome here is genuine. It’s the kind of place where you’re treated like a guest in someone’s home rather than a table number. It’s cramped, sure. It’s busy. But that’s because the word is out: if you want the best Moroccan restaurant Barcelona has to offer without the white tablecloth pretension, you come here.

You start with the Harira. It’s a soup that acts as a litmus test for any Moroccan kitchen. Here, it’s a deep, velvet-red bowl of comfort, pulsing with lentils, chickpeas, and a spice profile that wakes up parts of your brain you forgot existed. Then comes the Pastilla. This is the dish that defines Casablanca. It’s layers of flaky, buttery phyllo dough, dusted with a scandalous amount of powdered sugar and cinnamon, hiding a savory, saffron-heavy chicken filling. It’s a confusing, beautiful collision of flavors that shouldn't work but absolutely does. I could sit over this in silence, just nodding at the sheer audacity of putting sugar on poultry.

The tagines arrive at the table still steaming. The lamb with prunes and apricots is the gold standard for slow-cooking; the meat doesn't just fall off the bone, it practically surrenders. There is a weight to the food here—a generosity of spirit reflected in the portions. The 'quantity' mentioned in every review isn't just about filling you up; it’s about the Moroccan philosophy of abundance. You don't leave Casablanca hungry. You leave wondering why you ever bothered with those tiny, overpriced tapas down the street.

Is it perfect? No. The wine list is non-existent because it’s a halal establishment, so don't come looking for a Rioja. Come for the mint tea, poured from a height until the foam is just right. The space is tight, and on a Friday night, you might be elbow-to-elbow with a regular who’s been coming here since the doors opened. But that’s why it works. It’s a slice of the Maghreb transplanted into the heart of Catalonia. It’s honest, it’s affordable, and it’s a reminder that the best meals aren't found in the glossy pages of a travel brochure, but in the small, steam-filled rooms where people actually give a damn about what they’re putting on the plate.