La Rovira

Gràcia is a neighborhood that likes to think of itself as a village, a defiant little pocket of independence that resisted the grid-like sprawl of the Eixample for as long as it could. It’s a place of narrow streets and hidden squares, and if you wander far enough away from the tourist-choked Plaça de la Vila, you’ll find Plaça de la Rovira i Trias. This is where the real life happens. And right there, anchoring the corner, is La Rovira.

This isn’t the Barcelona they sell you on the glossy brochures. There are no white tablecloths here. No waiters in waistcoats performing the synchronized dance of fine dining. La Rovira is a bar—a proper, wood-heavy, noise-filled sanctuary for people who take two things very seriously: craft beer and sandwiches. It’s the kind of place where the air smells of toasted bread and the yeasty breath of a well-maintained cellar.

Let’s talk about the beer. In a city that was long a desert of watery industrial lagers, La Rovira is an oasis. They’ve got fifteen or eighteen taps—depending on the day and the mood—pouring the good stuff. We’re talking local heavy hitters like Garage Beer Co or Edge Brewing, alongside international guests that actually deserve the shelf space. It’s a cervecería artesana that doesn’t feel like a laboratory. It feels like a pub. The staff know their IBUs from their ABVs, but they won’t lecture you about it unless you ask. They’ll just pour you a cold, hazy IPA and let you get on with your business.

But you aren’t just here to drink. You’re here for the 'entrepans.' In the hierarchy of Spanish food, the sandwich is often overlooked, but at La Rovira, it’s the main event. These aren't dainty tea sandwiches. These are structural achievements. Take the 'Rovira'—a signature beast that combines the salty punch of cured meats with the crunch of perfectly toasted bread. Or the pork belly options that arrive glistening, fatty, and unapologetic. The bread is the secret—crusty enough to lacerate the roof of your mouth if you’re not careful, but soft enough to soak up the juices of whatever protein they’ve jammed inside. It’s honest, visceral eating that requires two hands and a complete disregard for your shirt’s well-being.

The crowd is a cross-section of the barrio. You’ve got the old-timers who remember when the square was different, sitting next to young designers with expensive glasses and local activists arguing over the latest municipal decree. It’s loud. It’s crowded. If you come at peak hours, you’ll be hovering over someone’s shoulder like a vulture, waiting for a stool to vacate. That’s part of the deal.

Is it perfect? No. The service can be 'Gràcia-speed'—which is to say, they’ll get to you when they get to you. It’s not a place for a quiet, romantic whisper; you’ll be shouting over the hiss of the sandwich press and the general roar of Catalan conversation. But that’s the point. It’s a place that feels lived-in. It’s one of the best craft beer bars in Barcelona precisely because it doesn't try to be anything other than a neighborhood local that happens to serve world-class suds and life-changing sandwiches. If you’re looking for a 'hidden gem,' look elsewhere. This place is hiding in plain sight, and the locals would prefer if you didn't tell too many people about it. But since you’re here, pull up a stool, order a pint of something bitter, and get the pork belly. You can thank me later.