Ocaña

Plaça Reial is a trap. Let’s just get that out of the way. It is a beautiful, palm-fringed, Gaudí-lamp-lit trap designed to separate tourists from their Euros in exchange for frozen croquetas and sangria that tastes like industrial floor cleaner. But then there is Ocaña. Named after José Pérez Ocaña, the cross-dressing, anarchist painter who was the beating, rebellious heart of the Ramblas in the seventies, this place is the exception that proves the rule. It’s a sprawling, multi-level complex of decadence that manages to be a café, a restaurant, a cocktail bar, and a basement club without losing its soul to the corporate machine.

Walking into Ocaña feels like stepping into a fever dream of old-world Barcelona filtered through a smoky, late-night lens. The ceilings are high enough to house a cathedral, the furniture looks like it was liberated from a grand estate in the middle of a revolution, and the lighting is perpetually set to 'bad decisions.' It’s beautiful, sure, but it’s a rough-edged beauty. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to order a double of something brown and bitter and stay until the sun comes up.

You’re here for the atmosphere, but the kitchen isn't just mailing it in. The patatas bravas are a legitimate contender in a city that takes its fried tubers very seriously—crispy, salty, and topped with a sauce that actually has some teeth. They do the classics—jamón, croquetas, grilled octopus—with a level of respect you don't usually find in a square this crowded. But let’s be honest: you’re really here for the Apotheke. The basement bar is a wood-paneled sanctuary inspired by 1920s pharmacies, where the bartenders treat mixology like a dark art. The cocktails are expensive, yes, but they are potent and precise, served in a room that feels like it’s vibrating with the ghosts of a thousand legendary parties.

The service? It’s Barcelona. It can be chaotic. It can be indifferent. If the place is packed—and it usually is—don't expect to be coddled. The staff are working a room that never stops moving, from the brunch crowd nursing hangovers on the terrace to the late-night revelers waiting for the drag queens to take the stage. The drag shows here aren't the sanitized, TV-ready versions you see elsewhere; they are loud, proud, and messy in the best possible way, a direct nod to the man whose name is on the door.

Is it a bit of a circus? Absolutely. Is it loud? Always. If you’re looking for a quiet, contemplative meal where you can hear your own thoughts, go somewhere else. But if you want to feel the pulse of the Ciutat Vella, if you want to see the intersection of high-end mixology and grit, Ocaña is where you land. It’s a middle finger to the sanitized, IKEA-fied version of tourism that’s slowly eating the city alive. It’s expensive, it’s crowded, and it’s occasionally pretentious, but it’s also one of the few places left in the Gothic Quarter that feels like it has a pulse. Sit on the terrace, watch the world go by under the arches, and order another round. The ghost of Ocaña wouldn't have it any other way.