La Focaccia

Sarrià is not the Barcelona you see on the postcards. It’s not the sweaty, neon-lit chaos of the Ramblas or the self-conscious cool of El Born. It’s a village that got swallowed by a city but refused to change its clothes. It’s quiet, it’s wealthy, and it’s where you go when you want to disappear into a plate of something real. That’s where you’ll find La Focaccia di Dante Gori, a place that doesn’t give a damn about your Instagram feed or the latest 'fusion' trend.

Walking into this joint on Carrer de Castellnou feels like stepping into a kitchen in Lucca or Livorno. It’s narrow, it’s warm, and the air is heavy with the scent of yeast, roasting garlic, and the kind of olive oil that actually tastes like something. This isn't a 'concept' restaurant. It’s a temple to the Tuscan table, run by people who understand that the best Italian food is usually the simplest. If you’re looking for a DJ and a light show with your pasta, do us all a favor and stay in Eixample.

The namesake focaccia is the opening act, and it’s a revelation. It’s not that dry, spongy bread you find in supermarket bins. This is crisp on the outside, airy within, and slicked with enough high-quality oil to make you forget your cholesterol levels. It’s the foundation of everything here. But the real soul of the place reveals itself in the Melanzane alla Parmigiana. It’s a dense, rich, bubbling masterpiece of eggplant and cheese that has been cooked down until it’s more of a feeling than a dish. It’s the kind of food that requires a glass of rough red wine and a complete lack of ego.

Then there’s the risotto. People talk about the risotto here with a sort of hushed reverence. Whether it’s the porcini version or whatever is seasonal, it’s executed with the kind of patience that most modern kitchens have traded for speed. It’s creamy, it’s got bite, and it’s served without the unnecessary garnish that usually signals a chef is trying too hard. You can taste the stock, you can taste the butter, and you can taste the fact that someone stood over a stove stirring the damn thing until it was perfect.

For the pizza traditionalists, the wood-fired oven isn't just for show. The crust is thin, charred in the right places, and topped with ingredients that haven't been tortured by a marketing department. But save room for the closer. The tiramisu here is legendary for a reason. It’s not a stiff, gelatinous cube; it’s a soft, boozy, coffee-soaked collapse of mascarpone and ladyfingers that ruins all other versions for you. It’s the best Italian restaurant Barcelona has tucked away in its residential corners, far from the tourist traps.

Is the service brisk? Sometimes. Is it cramped when the local families pile in on a Tuesday night? Absolutely. But that’s the price of admission for authenticity. This is a neighborhood spot in the truest sense—a place where the owner’s name is on the door and his heart is on the plate. It’s honest, it’s unapologetic, and it’s exactly what you need when the world feels a little too plastic. If you want to understand why people still fall in love with Italian food, sit down, shut up, and let Dante feed you.