Restaurant La Foixarda

There is a specific smell to a Sunday in Barcelona that has nothing to do with the sea or the exhaust of a thousand Vespas. It’s the smell of burning holm oak and the sweet, earthy stench of onions being charred into submission. To find it, you have to leave the manicured streets of the Eixample and climb. You head up Montjuïc, past the museums and the Olympic ghosts, until you find a place that feels less like a city and more like a dusty outpost in the Priorat. This is Restaurant La Foixarda.

It’s located right in the guts of the Real Escuela de Equitación, the royal riding school. That means before you taste the wine, you’re going to smell the horses. For some, that’s a dealbreaker. For me? It’s a palate cleanser. It tells you exactly where you are: a place of sweat, dirt, and honest labor. This isn't a place for white tablecloths or waiters who explain the 'concept' of the menu. The concept here is fire. They have a massive indoor grill—the brasa—and they know how to use it.

If you’re here between January and March, you’re here for the calçotada. This is the great Catalan ritual of the spring onion. They take these long, thick green onions, throw them over an open flame until the outside is a blackened, carbonized husk, and serve them on a terracotta tile. You don your bib—yes, you will look like a giant infant, and no, nobody cares—strip the charred outer layer with your bare hands, dunk the tender white heart into a bowl of nutty, garlic-heavy romesco sauce, and lower it into your gullet. It is messy, it is primal, and it is glorious. It’s one of the best calçotada Barcelona experiences you can find without driving an hour into the countryside.

But let’s be honest, because the internet certainly is: La Foixarda has a reputation that’s as rough as its stone walls. With a rating hovering around 3.1, it’s clear that consistency isn't always on the guest list. The service can be indifferent, bordering on the existential. On a busy Sunday, when the terrace is packed with screaming families and groups of friends three carafes deep into the house red, you might feel like the invisible man. The food might come out late. The meat might be saltier than a sailor’s vocabulary.

Yet, people keep coming. Why? Because it’s one of the few authentic restaurants in Sants-Montjuïc that hasn't been completely sanitized for the cruise ship crowds. It’s a window into the old Barcelona, the one that likes its meat grilled over coals and its wine served in a porrón. The parrillada de carne—a mountain of lamb, butifarra, and chicken—is a testament to the power of a well-tended fire. There are no tweezers in this kitchen. There is no foam. There is just protein and heat.

Is it a tourist trap? No. It’s too dysfunctional to be a trap. A trap is efficient. La Foixarda is a living, breathing, sometimes coughing piece of Catalan culture. It’s the kind of place where you can watch riders training their horses while you tear into a piece of toasted bread rubbed with tomato and garlic. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and it’s occasionally frustrating. But when the sun is hitting the terrace and the smell of the grill is rising, it’s exactly where you want to be. Go for the smoke, stay for the chaos, and don’t expect a hug from the waiter. Just eat the onions and be happy.