La Caravana

Gràcia is a neighborhood that likes to think of itself as a village, a place of narrow streets and independent spirit that has, in recent years, been polished to a high sheen for the boutique-and-brunch crowd. But on Carrer de Mozart, there is a small, unpretentious outpost of reality called La Caravana. It doesn’t care about your Instagram aesthetic. It cares about the vertical spit, the Maillard reaction, and the fundamental human need for well-seasoned protein.

Most people in Europe think they know what a kebab is. They think it’s that rotating cylinder of grey, processed mystery matter—the 'elephant leg'—shaved into a pita and drowned in enough yogurt sauce to mask the regret. La Caravana is the antidote to that culinary crime. This is Syrian-style shawarma, and the difference is visceral. When you walk in, the first thing that hits you isn't just the heat; it's the smell of actual meat being roasted. Owner Shadi Al-Haj and his crew stack these spits by hand, layering cuts of chicken or beef with fat and spices until it becomes a towering monument to flavor.

The chicken shawarma here is a revelation. It’s sliced thin, the edges charred to a crisp while the interior remains drippingly tender. It’s tucked into a flatbread with nothing more than a few pickles and a garlic sauce (toum) so potent it could ward off vampires for a three-block radius. It is simple, it is honest, and it is devastatingly effective. If you’re looking for the best shawarma in Barcelona, your search ends on this cramped sidewalk in Gràcia.

Then there is the falafel. In most places, falafel is a dry, brown hockey puck that requires a gallon of water to swallow. At La Caravana, they fry them to order. Break one open and it’s a vibrant, herbaceous green inside, steaming and fragrant with cumin and coriander. It’s crunchy on the outside, light on the inside, and serves as a reminder that vegetarian food doesn't have to be a compromise. Pair it with their hummus—which actually tastes like chickpeas and tahini rather than the refrigerated cardboard sold in supermarkets—and you have a meal that actually satisfies.

The space itself is tiny. It’s a 'caravan' in the sense that it feels like a temporary, bustling stop on a long journey. There are a few stools, a bit of counter space, and a lot of energy. It’s loud, it’s hot, and the service is fast because it has to be. You might find yourself elbow-to-elbow with a local student, a grizzled Gràcia regular, or a traveler who followed their nose away from the tourist traps of the city center. This is a Syrian restaurant in Gràcia that hasn't sold its soul to fit in; it has simply invited the neighborhood to join the party.

Is it perfect? No. If you’re looking for a romantic candlelit dinner or a place to linger over a three-course meal, you’re in the wrong zip code. The floor might be a bit sticky, the napkins are those thin paper ones that don't really do the job, and you’ll likely leave smelling like garlic and roasted beef. But that’s the price of admission for something this authentic. In a city where 'authentic' is often a marketing term used to sell overpriced tapas, La Caravana is the real thing. It’s a reminder that the best food in the world usually comes from people who do one thing, do it exceptionally well, and don't feel the need to apologize for the lack of tablecloths. It’s a protein rush and a middle finger to every bland, mass-produced meal in the city.