Tucked away in the backstreets of El Raval, Dos Pebrots gives a dining experience that could be described as a bit funky. I’m talking food plated with tweezers, tiny birds hanging in the kitchen being basted with boiling hot oil, and pigs’ nipples. Yes, pigs’ nipples.

Dos Pebrots describes itself as “a project that aims to review, contextualize, and reinterpret the origins of the Mediterranean through the cuisines of the different civilizations that have had the honour of populating its shores.” The menu is built around ancient texts—recipes from Ancient Rome, Egypt, Greece, and beyond. But because many of these texts are vague, with ingredients or techniques lost to time, the team at Dos Pebrots interprets them in their own way, staying as true to the original as possible.

As soon as I walked in, I could feel this was a place that takes food seriously. It was quietly professional and upscale, but without the air of exclusivity that makes you feel like you’re trespassing. The service was attentive, and each server clearly knew what they were talking about — happy to share more about the menu when asked, but equally respectful if you seemed more interested in chatting with your companions.

I dined alone, so when offered either a small table in the warmly lit, snug (yet high-ceilinged) restaurant or a bar seat overlooking the open kitchen, I chose the latter. One thing I love about dining in Europe is how normalised solo meals are. I was seated next to another solo diner who turned out to be a friend of one of the chefs, so I got to bask in the extra attention he received. (They spoke in Catalan and I couldn’t understand a word, but I always enjoy witnessing such warm, familiar interactions.)

The service was a fascinating dance to witness — the kind you might expect from a Michelin guide spot — and it was fabulous to watch the chefs and servers weave around each other as they executed each order. But it wasn’t mechanical; There was laughter and camaraderie throughout the team, creating a perfectly pitched atmosphere: thoughtful, lively, and just the right amount of theatrical.

I first came across this restaurant while looking into a piece on where Anthony Bourdain had eaten in Barcelona (a theme you’ll likely see recur). The article recommended two things: the omelette and the pigs’ nipples. Naturally, I was intrigued. Never one to shy away from a culinary challenge, I knew I had to give those nips a try.

The menu itself was a double-page spread of small plates — not so long as to feel chaotic (a red flag in any restaurant), but still more extensive than I’m used to. For the rest of my choices, I asked my server for recommendations. He lit up when talking about the gnocchi with morel mushrooms, so I trusted his enthusiasm. He also suggested the roasted pork, which I added to the order.

It’s worth noting that the wine list was impressively extensive. I’m still finding my feet when it comes to wine, so I usually lean on the server’s expertise when it comes to pairings. This time, I was given a glass of Albamar PAI Albariño — which, according to Google, is “green and flinty.” All I know is I liked it. (I promise I’m going to get better with these wine descriptions in the future.)

First up was the omelette, made right in front of me by the chef in a scorching hot mini cast iron skillet. I was walked through each step of the preparation, from breaking the eggs to whisking up pastes, and the addition of vibrant green sauces, toasted pine nuts and an intriguingly-grey fish sauce called garum. Apparently, this sauce was used in ancient Roman times as an umami-rich, salty addition to many dishes—almost like an archaic ketchup.

Once it was ready, it was served directly in the skillet, and I dived in. While I truly enjoyed the presentation and the history behind the dish, I found myself a little underwhelmed by the flavor. It felt bland, and I couldn’t help but think it might’ve benefitted from a little more of that strange grey sauce. But it also made me wonder: Could ancient Roman food ever compare to the complex flavors we have today? After all, we live in a world where umami can be pre-packaged in a packet (love you, MSG). Were the Romans really working with the same depth of flavors, or was that simply the best they could do with what they had? It was a fascinating history lesson, but perhaps not a dish for the modern palate.

Next came the server’s emphatically recommended gnocchi.

Floored.

I’m not sure words can fully capture how amazing this dish was. Plated like a mosaic, with horizontally sliced morel mushrooms nestled in sage butter between buttons of gnocchi, each bite offered an earthy, almost meaty richness from the mushrooms, rounded by the nutty depth of the butter. I could’ve easily eaten double the (very reasonable) portion.

The gnocchi itself was a marvel—silky and so delicate, yet somehow still holding its neat cylindrical shape and perfectly crisped on both top and bottom. I was so intrigued I had to ask how they did it: apparently, there's no flour involved. It’s made with potato, cream, and a Japanese starch vine called kudzu, then strained, sieved, and frozen into shape before it ever meets heat.

The result? A dish of balance, finesse, and texture so satisfying, I savored every bite until the last forkful. If you find yourself in Barcelona, do not miss this.

As I awaited the next dish, I savored the atmosphere, sipping on my flinty wine. Having sat at many chef’s counters before, I can confidently say this one was among the more captivating. The chefs moved with seamless precision, each one effortlessly weaving between stations. I watched them carefully plate dishes with the aid of long tweezers, placing delicate decorations before swiftly sending them to the pass to the servers who checked everything, smoothly adjusted anything needing it and promptly took them to their tables. In the next breath, the chefs were adjusting the hot coals of the open grill to my right, or tending to the tiny birds suspended on hooks in the back, their skin crisping in the heat of the oils that they basted them in. The energy in the kitchen was both fluid and focused, a fascinating watch.

My next dish was the one you’re probably most curious about- the pig’s nipples. This was the one I read Anthony Bourdain had eaten when he visited Barcelona, so I thought I might as well give it a try. I will note, when I ordered this, my server did question whether I was sure. I asked if it wasn’t good, and he said it was more of a “joke item”. Well, I definitely had to try it then. He suggested a half portion, as he said four nipples were proably too much for one person. I think some might disagree.

The dish certainly was presented in a ‘funny’ way- on a statue of a pig, laying on its back, with the confit nipples placed on it’s belly. Oh, and it also came with a little port glass of hot pork broth. With no instruction, I opted to consume it ‘tequila-style’: pig nipple first, followed by broth. Surprisingly, it was alright. The nipple had the uniform texture of a firm pâté, and the broth was rich and salty. I was glad for the half-portion recommendation, as it was quite intense flavour-wise and I could have easily stopped after just one. But, of course, I finished both. Waste not, want not. Honestly, I would say if you have the chance, give it a go— even if just to say you’ve done it (which, honestly, isn’t an awful way to live).

At this point, I’m starting to get seriously full (a consistent issue with this hobby of mine—I'm trying to train myself to comfortably eat more courses), but it’s the final dish, and it’s another one recommended by the server. Essentially a deconstructed pork bun, it arrived sizzling in a terracotta dish, infused with the bold aroma of rosemary. A sprig of it had been set alight and placed on top, gently smoking as it reached the table and infusing the flavour into the meat even more.

Given the state of my stomach, I was a little daunted by the prospect of another deeply savoury, meat-forward dish. And while it was a bit of a challenge (I had a mild food coma for about 30 minutes afterwards, during which I sat and slowly sipped the rest of my wine), it was absolutely worth it. The two buns served alongside the pork were delightfully pillowy, soaking up the herby oils and forming a delicious little sammich with the hearty meat.

Overall, I left feeling full, not just from the food, but from the storytelling, history, and sheer creativity of the experience. While not every dish wowed me, the concept absolutely did—and there are plenty more on the menu I’d be keen to try when I’m next in Barcelona (with a repeat of the gnocchi, of course). If you’re open-minded and looking for a meal that’s dinner with an edible homage to the mediterranean’s history, this one’s worth a visit.

Review: Dos Pebrots

Quick Bites: La Plata

A Brief Tapas Tour of Barcelona: From Tradition to Twist