Miss Simona - Brunch

The area surrounding the Sagrada Família is, for the most part, a tactical minefield of culinary despair. It is a place where frozen paellas go to die and where tourists are fleeced for the privilege of eating a sandwich that tastes like damp cardboard. You walk these streets under the gaze of Gaudí’s unfinished masterpiece, dodging selfie sticks and looking for a sign of life—real life—in a kitchen. Then you find Miss Simona.

At first glance, it looks like exactly the kind of place I’d usually avoid. It’s got the neon signs, the explosion of artificial flora, and a color palette that leans heavily into the 'Instagrammable' aesthetic. It’s bright, it’s loud, and it’s unapologetically pretty. But here’s the thing about being a cynical bastard: sometimes, you have to shut up and eat. Because once the plates start hitting the marble-topped tables, you realize that Miss Simona isn’t just a backdrop for a photo op. There is a real, beating heart in this kitchen, and they actually give a damn about the food.

Let’s talk about the eggs. In the brunch world, the Benedict is the ultimate litmus test. Most places treat hollandaise like a chore, serving a broken, lukewarm mess over a muffin that’s seen better decades. At Miss Simona, the 'Simona Benedict' arrives with a certain swagger. The eggs are poached to that precise moment of tension where the slightest poke of a fork releases a golden, rich lava. The hollandaise is velvety, acidic enough to cut through the fat, and served over bread that actually has some structural integrity. It’s a dish that demands your full attention, even as the chaos of Eixample swirls outside the door.

Then there is the cheesecake. Specifically, the pistachio cheesecake. This isn’t one of those airy, forgettable mousses masquerading as dessert. It is a dense, decadent, and deeply nutty affair that feels like a protein rush to the cortex. It’s the kind of thing you eat with a small spoon, savoring the way the salt hits the sweet, wondering how they managed to pack that much flavor into a single slice. Pair it with their specialty coffee—which is pulled with the kind of technical precision you’d expect from a high-end espresso bar—and you’ve got a breakfast that will sustain you through a four-hour climb up a cathedral spire.

For those who prefer their mornings with a bit more of a kick, the sangria here is a legitimate contender. It’s not the sugary, fruit-punch-from-a-carton nonsense found on the main tourist drags. It’s balanced, cold, and dangerous. You sit there, watching the sunlight hit the stone of the Sagrada Família just a block away, sipping on something that actually tastes like Spain, and you realize that this place is a necessary anomaly. It’s a high-volume, high-energy operation that refuses to compromise on the basics.

Is it crowded? Yes. Will you likely have to wait for a table if you didn't book ahead? Almost certainly. The service is fast—it has to be—but it lacks that weary indifference you find at the neighboring tourist traps. The staff moves with a frantic grace, navigating the narrow spaces between tables filled with locals, digital nomads, and wide-eyed travelers. It’s a slice of modern Barcelona: international, aesthetic-obsessed, but anchored by a kitchen that knows how to cook. If you can handle the pink walls and the floral ceilings, you’ll find a kitchen that actually knows what it's doing. It’s honest food in a neighborhood that desperately needs it.