RANGOLI

Walking down Passeig de Joan de Borbó is usually an exercise in dodging disappointment. It is a gauntlet of laminated menus, aggressive touts, and overpriced, frozen paella that tastes like sadness and salt. It’s the kind of place where food goes to die in front of a captive audience of sun-blinded tourists. But then there is Rangoli. It sits there like a quiet, dignified rebuke to the chaos outside, a portal that transports you from the Mediterranean humidity into a world of deep, complex spices and colonial-era elegance.

Step inside and the first thing that hits you isn't the smell of the sea, but the intoxicating perfume of the tandoor and the low, rhythmic thrum of a kitchen that knows exactly what it’s doing. The decor is a far cry from the neon-lit curry houses of the Raval. We’re talking dark woods, antique Indian artifacts, and a vibe that feels curated rather than cluttered. It’s the brainchild of the Anant Group—the same people behind Bembi—and they’ve brought that same level of precision and respect for Indian culinary traditions to the beachside.

The menu is a roadmap through North India, with a few detours that make sense. You aren't here for a generic 'curry.' You’re here for the Murgh Makhani—the real deal, not that neon-orange sugar bomb served in plastic tubs elsewhere. Here, the chicken is charred in the tandoor before being bathed in a tomato and butter gravy that is velvety, rich, and dangerously addictive. Then there’s the Dal Makhani. If you want to judge an Indian kitchen, look at their lentils. Rangoli’s dal is slow-cooked for hours until it reaches a state of creamy, earthy perfection that demands to be mopped up with a piece of their garlic naan, which arrives hot, blistered, and glistening with ghee.

For those who can’t decide—or those who have spent the day drinking too much vermut in the sun—the tasting menu is the move. It’s a curated deep-dive into regional flavor that takes you from crispy starters to heavy-hitting mains. The Tandoori Broccoli is a surprise standout, charred to the edge of oblivion but retaining a crunch that defies logic. It’s the kind of cooking that reminds you that vegetarian food, when handled with this much soul, isn't a sacrifice; it’s a privilege.

Is it more expensive than the hole-in-the-wall spots in the city center? Yeah, it is. But you’re paying for the craft, the setting, and the sheer relief of finding something genuine in a neighborhood that often feels like a theme park. The service is professional, bordering on formal, which fits the upscale atmosphere. It’s the kind of place where you can actually hear your dinner companion speak, a rarity on this stretch of pavement.

The honest truth is that Rangoli shouldn't work here. It’s too good for a street that thrives on mediocrity. But it does work, because even in the heart of tourist central, people eventually get tired of the bullshit. They want something that tastes like it was made by someone who gives a damn. Whether you’re sitting on the terrace watching the yachts bob in the Port Vell or tucked away in the back near the artifacts, Rangoli offers a moment of clarity. It’s a reminder that good food is a universal language, even when it’s spoken in the middle of a tourist trap.