Omma Korean BBQ

Barcelona is a city that runs on the holy trinity of olive oil, garlic, and salt. It’s a beautiful, civilized way to live, but eventually, you hit a wall. You’ve had enough pan con tomate to last a lifetime, and your soul starts screaming for something else. Something loud. Something that fights back. That’s when you find yourself on Carrer de Girona, standing in front of Omma Korean BBQ. This isn't the sanitized, air-conditioned version of Korea you find in a shopping mall. This is the real deal, dropped right into the grid of Eixample.

Walking into Omma, the first thing that hits you isn't the decor—which is clean, modern, and industrial—it’s the sound. It’s the rhythmic hiss of meat hitting a hot plate and the low hum of exhaust fans struggling to keep up with the collective exhales of twenty different tables. Those silver tubes hanging from the ceiling? They’re the industrial lungs of the operation, and they’re working overtime. This is a place for the work of eating. You aren't here to be pampered; you’re here to participate in the ancient, glorious ritual of the grill.

The meal begins with the banchan, the small plates of fermented and pickled things that serve as the litmus test for any Korean kitchen. If the kimchi is flabby or the bean sprouts are tired, you might as well walk out. At Omma, the kimchi has that essential, effervescent funk—the kind that clears your sinuses and wakes up your lizard brain. You’ll find yourself reaching for the Gyeran-mari, a rolled omelette so precise it looks like it was engineered rather than cooked. Some reviewers call it a Spanish omelette, but don't be fooled; this is a masterclass in Korean egg-work, layered and delicate, a soft counterpoint to the aggression of the chili paste.

Then comes the main event: the meat. Whether you’re going for the Samgyeopsal (thick slabs of pork belly) or the Bulgogi (thinly sliced, marinated beef), the quality is undeniable. You watch the fat render, the edges char, and the sugars in the marinade caramelize into a dark, sticky crust. You wrap it in a lettuce leaf, shove in some garlic and ssamjang, and eat it in one go. It’s messy, it’s hot, and it’s exactly what you need when you’re tired of being a tourist.

Don't sleep on the Korean Fried Chicken, either. It’s got that glass-like crust that stays crunchy even under a glaze of spicy-sweet sauce—a crunch so loud it can be heard in the next block. It’s the kind of food that makes you forget you’re in the Mediterranean for an hour. The service is efficient, bordering on brisk, which is exactly how it should be. They aren't here to tell you their life story; they’re here to make sure your grill is hot and your beer is cold.

Omma is a reminder that Barcelona is a global city, one that can do more than just tapas and paella. It’s a place for people who want to get their hands dirty, who appreciate the funk of fermentation, and who know that the best meals are the ones you have to work for. It’s honest, it’s visceral, and in a neighborhood increasingly filled with overpriced brunch spots, it’s a goddamn relief.