Poppy 80's

Sarrià-Sant Gervasi is not where you go to find the 'raw' Barcelona. It’s the 'Upper Diagonal,' a place of quiet leafy streets, expensive strollers, and people who have successfully avoided the chaos of La Rambla for three generations. It’s polished. It’s respectable. And right in the middle of this bourgeois tranquility sits Poppy 80’s, a restaurant that looks like a neon-lit fever dream of a decade that most culinary purists would rather forget. But don't let the name or the aesthetic fool you. This isn't some cynical theme park serving microwave pasta to tourists. This is a serious Italian kitchen operating under the cover of 80s pop culture.

When you walk into Poppy 80’s, you’re hit with a vibe that is unapologetically nostalgic. It’s small, intimate, and feels like the private clubhouse of someone who really, really misses the era of synth-pop and VHS tapes. But the smell—that’s what gives the game away. It’s the smell of rendering pork fat and aged Pecorino Romano. It’s the smell of a kitchen that knows exactly what it’s doing. In a city where 'Italian food' often means overpriced pizza or pasta drowned in generic tomato sauce, Poppy 80’s is a localized rebellion. It’s one of the best Italian restaurants in Barcelona precisely because it doesn't try to please everyone.

The menu—or 'la carta'—is a tight, focused list of hits. The star of the show, the dish that people across the city whisper about, is the carbonara. Let’s be clear: if you’re looking for cream, go to the supermarket. Here, the carbonara is a masterclass in the Roman trinity: egg yolks, Pecorino, and guanciale. The guanciale is the key—fatty, salty, cured pork jowl that’s been fried until the edges are crisp and the center is melting. It’s tossed with al dente pasta until the cheese and egg emulsify into a glossy, golden sauce that coats every strand. It’s heavy, it’s visceral, and it’s exactly what a carbonara should be.

Then there’s the ravioli. You can tell they’re handmade by the way the dough has that slight, satisfying resistance to the tooth. Whether they’re stuffed with pumpkin or ricotta, the fillings are vibrant and the sauces are kept simple to let the product shine. That word—'product'—comes up a lot in reviews for a reason. They aren't cutting corners with cheap oil or industrial cheese. They are sourcing the kind of ingredients that make you realize why Italian food conquered the world in the first place. It’s about the quality of the flour, the age of the cheese, and the honesty of the preparation.

The service is typical of a neighborhood joint in Sarrià: professional but with a personal touch that you only get when the staff actually recognizes the people walking through the door. It’s a place for locals—the kind of spot where you might see a couple on a first date next to a table of neighborhood regulars who look like they've owned their apartments since the 1980s. It’s unpretentious in a neighborhood that can sometimes be the opposite.

Is it perfect? No. It’s small, and if you don’t have a reservation, you’re probably going to be standing on the sidewalk looking in like a kid at a candy store. The 80s theme might be a bit much for those who prefer their dining rooms white and sterile. But if you give a damn about what’s on the plate, none of that matters. Poppy 80’s is a reminder that good food doesn't need a five-star hotel or a view of the Mediterranean. It just needs a chef who gives a shit and a room with some soul. If you find yourself in the upper reaches of Barcelona, tired of the tourist traps and looking for a meal that feels like a warm, salty hug, this is your spot.