ROYAL INDIAN

Sarrià-Sant Gervasi is not where you go to get your hands dirty. It’s a neighborhood of ironed shirts, quiet plazas, and old money. It’s the kind of place where the silence is expensive. But then you find yourself on Carrer de Sant Màrius, and the air changes. The scent of toasted cumin and sizzling garlic starts to cut through the sterile Mediterranean breeze. You’ve arrived at Royal Indian, and thank god for that.

Let’s be clear: the name is a bit of a trope. Every city on the planet has a 'Royal Indian.' But ignore the branding. This isn’t about velvet curtains or gold-plated service. This is a neighborhood workhorse that understands the fundamental truth of Indian cooking: if the spices aren't hitting you in the chest, you’re doing it wrong. It’s a clean, functional space that doesn't feel the need to perform 'authenticity' for tourists because, frankly, the tourists haven't found this corner of Sant Gervasi yet. This is for the locals who are tired of tapas and want a meal that actually fights back.

You start with the samosas. In too many places, these are frozen afterthoughts—leaden triangles of grease. Here, they are the main event. They arrive hot enough to cause a lawsuit, the pastry shattering under the fork to reveal a filling that actually tastes of potato and pea, not just yellow dust. It’s a protein-heavy, carb-loaded opening salvo that sets the tone for everything that follows. If you aren't burning your tongue on the first bite, you aren't living.

The menu hits the hits, but it does them with a level of care that’s increasingly rare in Barcelona’s mid-range dining scene. The Chicken Tikka Masala—the ultimate cliché—is handled with respect. The sauce is thick, rich, and carries that essential smoky depth from the tandoor. But the real move is the Lamb Rogan Josh or the Karahi. You want the lamb to be tender enough to yield to a spoon, swimming in a gravy where the oil has just started to separate—a sign that the onions and spices have been cooked down with the kind of patience that can’t be faked. It’s a visceral, heavy-hitting experience that demands a basket of garlic naan to mop up the remains. The naan here isn't a dry cracker; it’s pillowy, charred in the right places, and glistening with enough garlic butter to make your doctor weep.

What makes Royal Indian work isn't just the kitchen; it’s the lack of pretension. The service is efficient, bordering on the quiet side, which is exactly what you want when you’re elbow-deep in a biryani. There’s a strange comfort in the environment—it’s cozy without being cramped, the kind of place where you can actually hear your own thoughts, or at least the sound of your own satisfied chewing.

Is it the 'best Indian restaurant in Barcelona'? That’s a fool’s errand of a question. But is it the best Indian restaurant in this part of town? Absolutely. It’s a reliable, honest sanctuary for anyone who believes that dinner should be an event for the senses, not just a social media check-in. If you’re looking for a 'gastronomic journey' with foam and tweezers, go elsewhere. If you want to sit down and eat a meal that makes you feel like a human being again, pull up a chair. Just don't forget to check TheFork for a discount; in a neighborhood this pricey, getting a world-class curry for a bargain feels like a small, delicious heist.