GALLIOLI BISTROT

The smell hits you before you even cross the threshold of Ronda del General Mitre. It’s the scent of rendered fat, rosemary, and the kind of slow-burn patience you don’t find in the tourist-clogged arteries of the Gothic Quarter. This is Sarrià-Sant Gervasi, a neighborhood where people actually live, work, and harbor very strong opinions about what constitutes a proper Sunday lunch. Gallioli Bistrot isn’t trying to reinvent the wheel; they’re just making the wheel better than everyone else.

In Catalonia, 'pollastre a l’ast'—roast chicken—is more than a meal; it’s a cultural cornerstone. Usually, it’s a greasy affair picked up from a corner shop in a foil bag. Gallioli takes that humble tradition, gives it a shot of adrenaline, and serves it in a space that feels like a neighborhood sanctuary. It’s a bistrot in the truest sense: unpretentious, focused, and dangerously efficient at making you forget your diet. The room is tight, the energy is local, and the focus is squarely on the fire.

Let’s talk about the bird. This isn’t some mass-produced, water-injected specimen. It’s a chicken that lived a decent life before meeting its end on the spit. The skin is a landscape of salt and herbs, blistered to a perfect, translucent crunch that gives way to meat so succulent it practically falls off the bone in a fit of surrender. It’s the kind of protein high that makes you want to abandon cutlery and use your hands, dignity be damned. You pair it with their potatoes—slow-cooked in the drippings until they’ve absorbed every ounce of soul the chicken had to give.

But the supporting cast here is just as vital. The croquetas are a revelation—none of that frozen, breaded-cardboard nonsense. Whether it’s the roast chicken or the jamón, the interior is a molten, béchamel-heavy dream that requires a moment of silence. Then there’s the 'berenjena a la flama.' They take an eggplant, subject it to the flame until the skin is charred and the flesh is smoky and soft, then dress it up with miso or honey in a way that feels sophisticated without being precious. It’s a dish that respects the vegetable while making it taste like something much more primal.

And then there are the cannelloni. In Barcelona, canelones are the litmus test for any kitchen claiming to respect tradition. Gallioli’s version—the 'canelones de la abuela'—tastes like a grandmother’s hug, if your grandmother was a secret Michelin-starred chef who didn’t skimp on the truffle or the rich, velvety sauce. It’s heavy, it’s decadent, and it’s exactly what you want on a rainy Tuesday or a hungover Sunday.

You finish with the cheesecake. Everyone in this city is obsessed with the 'Basque-style' creamy cheesecake right now, but Gallioli’s version actually earns the hype. It’s got that charred top and a center that’s just on the edge of structural integrity, oozing onto the plate in a way that demands you scrape up every last smear.

Is it fancy? No. Is it the 'best roast chicken Barcelona' has to offer? Very likely. It’s honest food for people who tired of the foam and the tweezers long ago. It’s a reminder that if you start with a good bird, some salt, and a lot of heat, you don’t need much else to be happy. Just show up, order the chicken, and leave the pretense at the door.