Restaurant Petit Hípica

Forget the polished marble of Eixample and the overpriced tapas traps of the Gothic Quarter. If you want to understand the soul of Catalan eating, you have to climb. You head up the winding roads of Montjuïc, past the museums and the manicured gardens, until the air starts to smell less like diesel and more like woodsmoke and horse manure. This is Restaurant Petit Hípica, and it is unapologetically real.

Located right next to the equestrian club, this isn't a place that cares about your Instagram aesthetic. It’s a low-slung, functional space where the primary decor is the haze of the 'brasa'—the charcoal grill—and the sound of families arguing over the last drop of wine. You come here because you want to eat like a local on a Sunday afternoon, which means you’re here for the fire. The kitchen is centered around the coals, and they don’t overcomplicate things. Why would they? When you have high-quality lamb, thick coils of botifarra, and artichokes that have been kissed by flames until their outer leaves are carbonized armor, you don’t need a foam or a reduction.

If you’re lucky enough to be here during calçot season—roughly January through March—you’re in for a visceral, messy ritual. The calçots (oversized green onions) are charred over open flames until they look like blackened sticks. You peel back the burnt outer layer with your bare hands, dredge the tender white heart in a thick, nutty romesco sauce, and drop it into your mouth while looking at the sky. It is a primal, communal experience that leaves your hands stained and your soul satisfied. It’s the kind of meal that reminds you that food is supposed to be an event, not just fuel.

The menu is a greatest hits of Catalan mountain cuisine. The 'parrillada de carne' is a mountain of protein—lamb, pork, chicken, and sausage—served with a side of 'mongetes' (white beans) that have soaked up all the rendered fat. The allioli here isn't the weak, mayonnaise-based stuff you find in supermarkets; it’s a pungent, aggressive emulsion of garlic and oil that will stay with you for three days. Embrace it. It’s part of the deal.

The service is exactly what it should be for a place like this: efficient, slightly harried, and entirely devoid of the fake 'hospitality' found in the tourist zones. They aren't going to explain the provenance of the salt. They’re going to bring you a carafe of house red and a plate of toasted bread rubbed with tomato and garlic, and they’re going to expect you to enjoy it. The atmosphere is loud, dusty, and unapologetically chaotic. You’ll see riders in their boots coming in for a post-ride beer, local families celebrating birthdays, and the occasional traveler who took a wrong turn and ended up in a smoky, meat-heavy sanctuary.

Is it perfect? No. If you’re allergic to horses, stay away. If you need white tablecloths and a quiet environment to discuss your startup, go elsewhere. The floor might be a bit dusty, and you’ll definitely leave smelling like a campfire. But that’s the point. Restaurant Petit Hípica is a reminder that the best things in life are often the simplest: good meat, hot coals, and a view of the mountain. It’s one of the best restaurants in Sants-Montjuïc precisely because it refuses to change for anyone. In a city that is rapidly being sanitized for global consumption, this place remains a stubborn, delicious holdout of the old Barcelona.