Volando Voy

If you find yourself on Carrer Getsemaní, you’ve likely made a wrong turn or you’re looking for something the guidebooks didn’t tell you about. This is Horta-Guinardó, a sprawling, hilly district that feels less like the 'City of Counts' and more like a collection of stubborn villages that refused to be swallowed by the urban sprawl. This is where Volando Voy sits—a small, unassuming rincón that takes its name from the legendary Camarón de la Isla song. And like the song, the place is raw, rhythmic, and entirely devoid of artifice.

Walking into Volando Voy isn't like entering one of those polished Eixample spots where the lighting is designed to make your cocktail look good on Instagram. Here, the lighting is secondary to the vibe. It’s a neighborhood joint in the truest sense. You’ll see dogs—lots of them—sprawled under tables while their owners argue over the state of the world or the local football scores. It’s the kind of place where the floor might be a little scuffed and the service is more 'honest' than 'servile.' If you’re looking for someone to bow and scrape, go back to the Rambla. If you want a cold beer and food that tastes like someone actually gave a damn in the kitchen, stay put.

The menu doesn't try to reinvent the wheel, but it treats the wheel with a hell of a lot of respect. Let’s talk about the bravas. In a city where 'bravas' often means frozen spuds drowned in pink mayo, Volando Voy does it right. They’re hand-cut, crispy where they need to be, and topped with a sauce that actually has a bit of a kick—a rare find in a country that often treats spice like a personal insult. Then there’s the 'Vaca Vieja' burger. We’re talking aged beef, funky and rich, cooked to a proper medium-rare that lets the mineral tang of the meat shine through. It’s messy, it’s primal, and it’s exactly what you want after a long walk through the nearby hills.

They also dabble in platillos and tacos that punch way above their weight class. The cochinita pibil tacos aren't some watered-down 'fusion' nonsense; they’ve got the citrusy, earthy depth you’d expect from a place that understands the soul of street food. You might find a shrimp carpaccio or some croquetas that actually contain recognizable chunks of ham rather than a mysterious salty paste. It’s a kitchen that understands that 'simple' doesn't mean 'easy.'

The real magic of Volando Voy, however, is the atmosphere. It’s a sanctuary for the locals who live in the surrounding blocks. It’s the sound of clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional bark from a golden retriever who’s hoping for a stray piece of burger bun. It’s a place that feels lived-in. It’s the antidote to the 'Disney-fication' of Barcelona. You come here to disappear for a few hours, to eat well without the pretense, and to remember that the best parts of a city are often the ones that don't care if you find them or not.

Is it worth the trek up to Horta? If you’re a tourist looking for a photo op with a paella pan, probably not. But if you’re a traveler—someone who values the grit and the grease and the genuine pulse of a neighborhood—then Volando Voy is essential. It’s a reminder that even in a city as overrun as Barcelona, you can still find a corner where the spirit of the 'barrio' is alive, well, and smelling faintly of fried potatoes and aged beef.