Dal Presidente

Walk down Carrer de Calàbria, away from the neon-lit tourist traps of the Gothic Quarter, and you’ll find Dal Presidente. It doesn’t look like much from the outside—just another storefront in the grid of Eixample. But the moment you cross the threshold, the smell hits you. It’s the scent of fat rendering, of rosemary and garlic, of dough fermenting slowly. This isn't the 'Italian-themed' nonsense served in airport lounges. This is the real, unapologetic soul of Rome transplanted into a Barcelona neighborhood.

Let’s talk about the porchetta. In a world of dry, over-processed deli meats, the porchetta here is a revelation. It’s slow-roasted, herb-rubbed, and fatty in all the right ways. They slice it thick and serve it with a level of pride that borders on arrogance, and frankly, they’ve earned it. It’s the kind of protein hit that makes you want to cancel your afternoon meetings and find a dark corner to nap in. It’s honest food for people who actually like to eat.

Then there’s the pinsa. Don’t call it pizza unless you want to look like a clueless amateur. Pinsa Romana is the older, more sophisticated cousin. The dough is a blend of flours, hydrated to within an inch of its life and left to rise for a long, long time. The result is a crust that is impossibly light, airy, and possesses a crunch that you can hear three tables away. Whether it’s topped with simple mortadella and pistachio or something more aggressive, the base remains the star. It’s a masterclass in what happens when you don't rush the process. This is easily some of the best Italian food Barcelona has to offer, hidden in plain sight.

The atmosphere is chaotic in that specifically Italian way that feels like a warm hug and a slap in the face at the same time. The staff move with a frantic energy, shouting orders and pouring Aperol Spritzes that actually taste like something, rather than the watered-down orange syrup you find on La Rambla. You’ll see locals from the Sant Antoni neighborhood rubbing elbows with Italian expats who come here because they’re homesick for a taste of something that hasn't been sterilized for a mass audience.

If you’re looking for white tablecloths, hushed whispers, and a waiter who bows when he brings the check, go somewhere else. Dal Presidente is cramped. It’s loud. The service is direct and doesn't have time for your indecision. But that’s the point. You come here for the taglieri—those massive wooden boards piled high with cheeses that bite back and cured meats that melt on the tongue. You come here to drink too much wine and remember that food is supposed to be a visceral experience, not a social media trophy.

Is it perfect? No. The acoustics are a nightmare and you might have to wait for a stool. But in a city that is increasingly being hollowed out by global chains, Dal Presidente feels like a fortress of authenticity. It’s a reminder that the best things in life are usually simple, salty, and served with a side of attitude. If you find yourself in Eixample and you’re actually hungry—not just looking for a snack, but truly, hollow-legged hungry—this is where you go to get right with the world.