Pelai

Step off the Carrer dels Tallers and you’re immediately dodging the human equivalent of a pinball machine. It’s a street defined by vintage shops, record stores, and the frantic, sweaty energy of tourists who’ve lost their way to the Rambla. But then there’s Pelai. It sits inside the Catalonia Pelai hotel, and usually, I’d tell you to run for the hills when a restaurant is tethered to a lobby. Most hotel dining is a soul-crushing exercise in mediocrity—club sandwiches and overpriced 'international' buffets designed to offend no one and please even fewer. Pelai, however, is the exception that proves the rule.

This isn't some sterile corporate feeding trough. The bones of the place are 19th-century Barcelona—high ceilings, stone, and a sense of permanence that the surrounding fast-fashion outlets lack. You walk through the lobby and emerge into a space that feels like an urban clearing. The real magic, if you can snag a spot, is the interior courtyard. In a city as loud as Barcelona, silence is the ultimate luxury, and eating out here, surrounded by the quiet hum of the Eixample-style architecture, is a rare win.

The kitchen here isn't trying to reinvent the wheel; they’re just trying to make sure the wheel is perfectly balanced and greased with high-quality olive oil. This is Catalan market cuisine, which means the menu lives and dies by what’s actually good right now. They lean heavily into the classics, and thank God for that. You start with the cannelloni. In Catalonia, cannelloni—specifically the 'Caneló de rostit'—is a sacred Sunday tradition, a way to use up the leftover roast meats. At Pelai, they treat it with the respect it deserves: rich, savory, blanketed in a béchamel that’s thick enough to hold a secret and thin enough to melt on the tongue. It’s the kind of dish that makes you want to call your grandmother, even if she’s never been within a thousand miles of Spain.

Then there’s the rice. Let’s be clear: most of the paella served within a five-block radius of here is a crime against humanity—frozen, yellow-dyed rice topped with sad, rubbery shrimp. Pelai does it right. Whether it’s a seafood version or something earthier with meat, the rice is the star, not the garnish. You’re looking for that 'socarrat'—the toasted, caramelized layer at the bottom of the pan where all the flavor hides. It’s a protein-heavy, starch-laden punch to the gut in the best possible way.

The service is professional, bordering on old-school. These aren't kids working a summer job; they’re a team that understands the rhythm of a dining room. They know when to refill the wine and when to leave you alone to argue about whatever it is you’re arguing about. Is it the cheapest meal in the Ciutat Vella? No. But you aren't paying for just the calories. You’re paying for the escape. You’re paying to sit in a 19th-century courtyard, eating honest food that hasn't been dumbed down for the masses, while the rest of the world screams for cheap sangria just a few yards away. If you want the 'best Mediterranean restaurant Barcelona' experience without the pretension of a Michelin star or the filth of a tourist trap, this is where you land.