Horizon Park Restaurant-Pizzeria

The Carretera de l'Arrabassada is a legendary ribbon of asphalt that snakes its way up the Collserola ridge, a road known more for its hairpin turns and illegal midnight races than for fine dining. But tucked into the side of the mountain, within the sprawling confines of the Vall Parc sports club, sits Horizon Park. It’s not a temple of gastronomy, and it’s certainly not where you go to be seen in your finest silk. It’s a refueling station for the weary, the active, and the locals who know that the best views of Barcelona don’t always come with a white tablecloth and a three-month waiting list.

You walk in and the first thing that hits you isn't the scent of truffle oil; it’s the rhythmic, percussive 'thwack-thwack' of padel balls hitting glass. This is a club restaurant in the truest sense. It’s loud, it’s unpretentious, and it smells faintly of wood-smoke and expensive tennis shoes. The crowd is a mix of sweaty-shirted regulars fresh off the court, families with kids who have too much energy, and the occasional traveler who took a wrong turn toward Tibidabo and realized they were starving.

The menu is a straightforward, no-nonsense collision of Italian soul and Mediterranean grit. If you’re looking for the best pizza Barcelona has to offer in a setting that feels like a secret mountain hideout, you’re in the right place. The 'Barcelona' pizza is the move here—topped with a generous forest of fresh arugula and ribbons of Iberian ham that melt into the hot mozzarella. It’s simple, honest, and exactly what you want when the mountain air starts to get a bit of a bite to it. For those who aren't in the mood for dough, the Torreznos de Soria are a masterclass in pork fat—crispy, salty, and dangerously addictive. They also turn out a surprisingly delicate Fagottini with pear and cheese in a walnut sauce that feels almost too sophisticated for a place where people are wearing headbands.

Is it perfect? Hell no. The service can be indifferent, especially when the terrace is packed and the sun is setting. You might have to wave your arms like a shipwreck survivor to get a second bottle of wine. The atmosphere can veer toward chaotic during the weekend lunch rush when the 'menu del día' seekers descend. But that’s the charm. It’s real. It’s a slice of the city that hasn't been polished for Instagram.

You come here for the terrace. When the sun dips and the city below begins to glow like a bed of embers, you realize why people make the trek up the hill. You’re sitting above the noise, the smog, and the tourist traps of the Gothic Quarter. You’ve got a cold beer, a plate of patatas bravas that actually have some kick to them, and the entire Mediterranean horizon laid out in front of you. It’s the kind of place where you can breathe.

If you’re looking for a romantic, candlelit whisper-fest, go somewhere else. But if you want to see how the people who actually live in this city spend their Saturdays—arguing over a close call on the court while tearing into a wood-fired crust—then get in a car and head up the Arrabassada. Just watch the curves on the way down.