Pizzería That's Amore

Les Corts is a neighborhood that often feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the next roar from the Camp Nou. It’s a place of wide avenues, sterile office blocks, and far too many joints slinging frozen croquettes to tourists who don’t know any better. But if you walk a few blocks away from the stadium’s concrete shadow, down Carrer de Benavent, you’ll find Pizzería That's Amore. It’s small, it’s unassuming, and it’s doing something with flour and water that most of the city’s high-priced 'gastronomic' temples can’t touch.

Let’s get one thing straight: this isn't your standard Neapolitan pie. They specialize in Pinsa Romana. If you’re the type of person who thinks all pizza is created equal, you’re wrong. Pinsa is an ancient Roman style—oval-shaped, made from a blend of flours, and subjected to a 72-hour fermentation process that results in a crust so light and airy it practically defies gravity. It’s got that shatter-crisp exterior and a cloud-like interior that doesn't leave you feeling like you’ve swallowed a bowling ball. In a city where 'authentic' is a word thrown around like cheap confetti, this is the real deal.

When you walk in, the first thing that hits you isn't just the smell of yeast and melting pecorino; it’s the vibe. This isn't a polished corporate operation. It’s a place where Jasmine—the heart and soul of the front of house—treats regulars and first-timers with the kind of genuine, sharp-witted hospitality that you can't teach in a hospitality seminar. It’s cramped, it’s often loud, and the tables are close enough that you’ll probably learn what the people next to you think about the latest Barça signing. That’s the point. It’s a neighborhood joint in the truest sense.

The menu doesn't try to reinvent the wheel; it just uses better wheels. The Pinsa Carbonara is a masterclass in restraint and decadence. We’re talking real guanciale—the kind that’s rendered down until it’s translucent and funky—paired with pecorino and a dusting of black pepper. No cream, no nonsense. Then there’s the 'Jasmine' pinsa, a namesake favorite that has earned its own cult following among the locals. And for the love of all that is holy, don't skip the tiramisu. It’s served in a way that suggests someone’s grandmother is in the back making sure you eat your feelings, rich with mascarpone and a hit of espresso that actually tastes like coffee.

Is it perfect? If you’re looking for white tablecloths and a sommelier in a tuxedo, absolutely not. The space is tight, and if you haven't booked a table, you’re probably going to be standing on the sidewalk looking in like a hungry orphan. The service is personal, which means it moves at its own pace. But that’s the trade-off for excellence. You’re here for the best pizza in Les Corts, maybe some of the best in Barcelona, and you’re here because you want to eat something that was made by people who actually give a damn about the tradition they’re representing.

This is the kind of place that reminds you why we travel in the first place. It’s not for the monuments or the gift shops. It’s for that moment when you find a small, brightly lit room where the dough has been rising for three days, the beer is cold, and for forty-five minutes, the rest of the world—and the score of the game down the street—just doesn't matter.