Le Romane

Walking into Le Romane on Carrer de Muntaner, you aren’t greeted by the usual tourist-friendly 'Italian' clichés. There are no checkered tablecloths or dusty bottles of Chianti hanging from the ceiling. Instead, you get the sharp, salty tang of Pecorino Romano and the rhythmic clatter of a kitchen that knows exactly what it’s doing. This is Roman cuisine—Cucina Romana—in its most unapologetic form, dropped into the grid-like elegance of Barcelona’s Eixample.

Let’s talk about the Carbonara. In a world where people still think it’s acceptable to dump heavy cream into a pasta bowl, Le Romane stands as a bastion of sanity. Here, it is a holy trinity of egg yolk, Pecorino, and guanciale. The pork fat is rendered down until it’s translucent and lethal, coating the al dente strands in a glossy, golden emulsion that tastes like a Roman sunset. It’s heavy, it’s salty, and it’s exactly what you need when the world feels thin. If you’re looking for 'light and airy,' go eat a salad somewhere else. This is a protein-heavy punch to the gut that demands your full attention.

Before the pasta hits, you have to deal with the fried stuff. The supplì—Rome’s answer to the arancino—is the litmus test for any self-respecting Roman joint. At Le Romane, they get it right. The exterior is a dark, crunchy shell that gives way to a molten core of rice and mozzarella that stretches into those classic 'telephone wires.' It’s street food elevated to an art form, served without pretense. They also lean into the Roman tradition of 'scrocchiarella'—pizza that is thin, crispy, and structurally sound enough to hold up a generous dusting of high-quality embutidos and Italian salumi.

The room itself captures that specific Eixample energy: high ceilings, a bit of noise, and a crowd that’s a mix of Italian expats looking for a taste of home and locals who have realized that the 'best Italian restaurant Barcelona' isn't necessarily the one with the fanciest linens. It’s busy, it’s loud, and the service is efficient in that way that says, 'We have five people waiting for this table, so enjoy your meal, but don't start writing a novel.'

Then there is the Millefeuille (or Millefoglie). Usually, I’d tell you to skip dessert at a pizza joint, but here, it’s mandatory. They assemble it to order, which is the only way it should ever be done. The pastry layers are shatteringly crisp, sandwiching a cream that isn't too sweet, just rich enough to make you regret nothing. It’s the kind of dish that has earned its own cult following in the reviews, and for good reason. It’s a moment of delicate grace after a meal defined by salt and fat.

Is it perfect? No. It’s crowded, you’ll likely need a reservation days in advance, and if you arrive without one, the wait can be a test of character. But that’s the price of entry for something real. In a city where 'Italian' often means a generic menu of overcooked penne, Le Romane is a reminder that regionality matters. It’s a slice of the Eternal City served up on a plate in Barcelona, and it doesn't care if you like it or not—which is exactly why you probably will.