Restaurant Capricho Gallego

If you’re looking for white tablecloths, hushed whispers, and a waiter who explains the 'provenance' of your micro-greens, do yourself a favor and stay in the Eixample. Restaurant Capricho Gallego is not that place. Located in the steep, winding streets of Horta-Guinardó, specifically in the unassuming Plaça d'Isop, this is a bar de barrio in its purest, most unapologetic form. It’s a Galician outpost in a working-class neighborhood, a place where the floor might be littered with toothpicks and the air is thick with the scent of frying oil and the high-decibel debates of local regulars.

To understand Capricho Gallego, you have to understand the geography. You’re far from the Gothic Quarter’s tourist traps here. This is the part of Barcelona where people actually live, work, and complain about the hills. The restaurant sits on a square that feels like a village plaza, dominated by a terrace that is almost always packed. It’s the kind of environment where the TV is permanently tuned to a football match, and the 'ambiance' is provided by the rhythmic clatter of plates and the occasional roar of the crowd when Barça scores. It’s honest. It’s loud. It’s real.

The menu is a love letter to Galicia, that rainy, rugged corner of northwest Spain known for producing the best seafood and the heartiest souls. You’re here for the classics. The pulpo a la gallega—octopus dusted with pimentón and served on a wooden board—is the litmus test for any Galician joint, and here it passes with flying colors. It’s tender, not rubbery, swimming in just enough olive oil to make you reach for the bread. Then there are the patatas bravas, which reviewers consistently flag as a highlight. They aren't the fancy, triple-cooked cylinders you find in Michelin-starred spots; they are rough-cut, crispy, and smothered in a sauce that actually has a bit of a kick.

But the real soul of the place might be the bocadillos. In a city increasingly obsessed with brunch and avocado toast, Capricho Gallego remains a bastion of the great Spanish sandwich. Whether it’s lomo, tortilla, or calamari, these are massive, structural feats of bread and protein designed to sustain a human being through a long shift or a long afternoon of drinking Estrella. It’s the kind of food that doesn't demand your respect—it earns it by being exactly what it needs to be.

Is it perfect? No. The service can be brusque if the terrace is full and you’re a stranger. The interior decor hasn't changed since the mid-nineties, and the lighting is more 'interrogation room' than 'romantic evening.' But that’s the point. The 3.8-star rating you see online is a badge of authenticity. It means they aren't catering to the whims of the TripAdvisor crowd; they are catering to the neighborhood. It’s a place for people who want a cold beer, a plate of lacón con cachelos, and a seat in the sun without having to pay a 'tourist tax' on the bill.

If you’re willing to make the trek up to Horta, you’ll be rewarded with a glimpse of the Barcelona that hasn't been polished for Instagram. It’s a place of grease-slicked napkins, shouting matches over offside calls, and some of the most soul-restoring Galician comfort food in the city. Come for the pulpo, stay for the people-watching, and don't expect a smile from the waiter until your second or third visit. By then, you’ll be part of the furniture.