Bodega Solera
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Our take
Early evening, midweek, the hour when a bodega either earns its keep or does not. This one just about does. A glass, some olives, a tin opened straight onto the table, a room whose lighting has never once been considered, thank goodness. The bill, when it arrives, is the best part of the night: small, legible, settled quickly. That is the deal, and a fair one, provided you do not ask for more than the deal covers. It neither dazzles nor offends. My mother would have called it a place to eat rather than a place to talk about, and she would have meant both halves. They open every day of the week, generous for the format. Once a year I drift in, spend little, leave fed. There are worse arrangements in this city.
Lead critic · We Know Barcelona