Galú Italian Restaurant

Barcelona’s Eixample is a grid of ambition, a sprawling testament to 19th-century urban planning where every corner looks like the last until you find a door that actually leads somewhere. Galú is one of those doors. It doesn’t scream for your attention with neon signs or guys out front waving laminated menus. It doesn't have to. It’s a Sicilian enclave sitting quietly on Carrer del Rosselló, serving up the kind of uncompromising, visceral cooking that makes you realize most 'Italian' food in this city is just a pale, watered-down imitation.

Walking into Galú, you leave the breezy, wide-avenue pretension of the Dreta de l'Eixample behind. The vibe is warm, centered around brick, wood, and the kind of lighting that makes everyone look like they’re in a mid-century Italian film. It’s elegant, sure, but it’s the elegance of a well-tailored suit, not a costume. You’re here because you want the real thing—the funk of the Mediterranean, the sharp kick of vinegar, and the heavy, golden pour of olive oil that actually tastes like the earth it came from.

Let’s talk about the carciofi—the artichokes. In the wrong hands, an artichoke is a chore. Here, they are a revelation. Whether they’re fried to a delicate, golden crisp or braised until they surrender, they are the undisputed stars of the show. There’s a reason people talk about them in hushed, obsessed tones. Then there’s the caponata. It’s a dish that defines Sicily—sweet, sour, earthy, and complex. At Galú, it’s not a side dish; it’s a statement of intent. It tells you that the kitchen isn't interested in shortcuts. They’re interested in the slow, patient alchemy of traditional Sicilian flavors.

The pasta is where the heavy lifting happens. We’re talking about busiate—those twisted, corkscrew strands that catch every drop of pesto trapanese or seafood ragu. It’s the kind of texture that demands your full attention, a firm, toothsome resistance that reminds you why we eat wheat in the first place. This is authentic Italian food in Barcelona that refuses to play the hits for the sake of a quick buck. You won't find a generic carbonara here; you’ll find the salt-spray intensity of sardines, the crunch of toasted breadcrumbs, and the aromatic lift of wild fennel.

Service is professional, bordering on the formal, but with a pulse. They know the menu, they know the wine, and they know that a Sicilian meal isn't something you rush through. It’s a slow burn. You’re sitting in a room that feels like a hard-won discovery, surrounded by locals who know exactly what they’ve found. It’s a place for a long, wine-soaked lunch or a dinner that stretches into the late hours, fueled by Nero d'Avola and conversation.

Is it cheap? No. Is it worth the hit to your wallet? Absolutely. In a city where 'Italian' often means frozen pizza and overcooked penne for the tourist masses, Galú is a necessary correction. It’s a reminder that Sicily is an island with its own rules, its own history, and its own fierce, beautiful culinary identity. You finish with a cannolo—crisp, filled to order with ricotta that hasn't been beaten into submission by sugar—and a shot of espresso that could jumpstart a dead Fiat. You walk back out into the Eixample grid feeling a little heavier, a little poorer, and infinitely better for the experience. This is the real thing, the kind of cooking that makes the rest of the city's Italian scene feel like a rehearsal, minus the bullshit.