Les Truites

Most people think they know the Spanish tortilla. They think it’s a cold, dense slab of potato and egg sitting sadly on a bar counter under a heat lamp. They are wrong. To understand what the humble omelette can become when pushed to the brink of madness, you have to go to Carrer de Viladomat. You have to go to Les Truites.

This isn't a restaurant; it’s a laboratory. Since 1978, Joan Antoni Miró has been the mad scientist at the center of it all. While the rest of the world was trying to reinvent the wheel, Miró was reinventing the egg. He’s written books on the subject, won awards, and spent over four decades proving that if you can dream it, you can fold it into a whisked egg and fry it in a pan. The space itself is unpretentious, bordering on the clinical. It doesn't need the Edison bulbs or the reclaimed wood of the tourist traps in the Gothic Quarter. It has the yellow glow of a thousand yolks and the steady, rhythmic clatter of pans hitting the burner.

You come here for the 'Truita de Croissant.' On paper, it sounds like a culinary hate crime—a buttery, flaky croissant chopped up and submerged in egg. In reality, it is a revelation. It’s sweet, salty, and structurally impossible. It’s the kind of dish that makes you question why we ever bothered with bread in the first place. But don't stop there. The menu is a fever dream of possibilities. There’s the botifarra with white beans—a Catalan classic compressed into a disc of perfection. There’s the octopus with pimentón, the cherry with goat cheese, and even dessert tortillas that defy logic.

If you’re smart, you’ll ignore the impulse to order just one. This is a place for the tasting menu. Who does a tasting menu of omelettes? A man who knows he’s conquered the medium. You’ll sit there as plate after plate of varying textures and colors arrives, each one a testament to Miró’s obsession. Some are runny and 'babosa,' others are firm and structural. All of them are honest. There is no place for ego here, only the egg.

The service is typical of a neighborhood institution in Eixample—efficient, slightly brisk, and entirely devoid of the sycophantic fluff you find on the Rambla. They know the food is the star. They know you’re there because you heard about the guy who puts croissants in omelettes. They’ve seen the look on your face before.

Is it the best tortilla in Barcelona? That’s a dangerous question in a city where every grandmother claims the title. But it is certainly the most inventive, the most dedicated, and the most visceral expression of what can happen when a person decides to do one thing and do it better than anyone else on the planet. It’s a protein-heavy, cholesterol-ignoring middle finger to the bland and the expected. If you want a salad, go to a juice bar. If you want to see what happens when a simple ingredient is elevated to high art, pull up a chair at Les Truites. It’s yellow, it’s greasy, and it’s absolutely essential.