Pomarada

Passeig de Gràcia is a gauntlet. It is a glittering, high-rent artery of consumerism and Gaudí-fueled architectural fever dreams, clogged with selfie sticks and people who think a frozen pizza near a landmark is a 'cultural experience.' But if you know where to look—specifically, if you look up—you find the lungs of the city. Pomarada sits on the 'Principal' floor of number 78, a space that feels less like a restaurant and more like the grand, slightly faded apartment of a Catalan aristocrat who still remembers when the city had a soul.

Walking into Pomarada is an exercise in decompression. You leave the hiss of traffic and the frantic energy of the Eixample district behind, ascending into a world of high ceilings, intricate moldings, and the kind of 'drawing room' atmosphere that demands you sit up a little straighter. This isn't some minimalist, white-walled concept space designed for Instagram. It’s a place of heavy wood, white tablecloths, and the rhythmic clink of real silverware. It’s old-school, and in a city increasingly obsessed with the 'new,' that feels like a radical act of defiance.

The menu doesn't try to reinvent the wheel, and thank God for that. We’re talking about the bedrock of Mediterranean cooking. The arroz de bogavante—lobster rice—is the heavy hitter here. It arrives with that deep, oceanic funk that only comes from a proper fumet, the kind of stock that’s been simmering since the morning shift arrived. The rice is cooked with precision, absorbing the essence of the sea without turning into mush. If you’re not in the mood for a full-blown paella commitment, the grilled meats are handled with the respect they deserve. A proper entrecote, charred on the outside and bleeding just enough in the middle, served without unnecessary garnish or pretense.

Then there’s the terrace. In the Eixample, the 'patio de manzana'—the interior courtyard—is the ultimate luxury. Pomarada’s terrace is a sanctuary of green and quiet, tucked away from the wind and the noise of the street. It’s where you want to be for a long, wine-soaked lunch that bleeds into the late afternoon. You start with the canelones—rich, creamy, and tasting of Sunday family dinners—and you end with a gin and tonic that’s probably stronger than your doctor would recommend.

Is it perfect? No. The service can be 'professional' in that stiff, slightly indifferent way that defines old-world European dining. If you’re looking for a waiter to be your best friend and tell you their life story, go somewhere else. Here, they are there to move plates and pour wine, and they do it with a practiced efficiency that doesn't care about your schedule. It can get loud when the local business crowd descends for their Menú del Día, and the prices reflect the fact that you are sitting on some of the most expensive real estate in Spain.

But Pomarada is worth it because it represents a version of Barcelona that is slowly being polished away. It’s a place for people who want to eat real food in a room that has seen a few things. It’s for the traveler who wants to sit near Casa Batlló without feeling like a mark. It’s honest, it’s grand, and it’s exactly what you need when the chaos of the street becomes too much to bear. Order the rice, drink the wine, and forget that the 21st century is happening right outside the window.