The Travel Critic

The great thing about arriving late into Spain — the only great thing about arriving late into Spain — is that the Spanish eat late. I have no idea why. I’ve asked them, often and earnestly, and they simply can’t tell me. They shrug, they gesture, they smoke, they look at me like I’ve asked why fish swim. To the best of my knowledge, they are the only race that does this. And by “race” I mean it in that loose, outdated, anthropological sense your nan used to use before Sunday lunch — not in a way that’ll get me cancelled on Twitter, thank you.

Anyway. There I am, touching down at El Prat after a bleak Ryanair delay so long I started writing my will on the back of a Wetherspoons receipt. It’s gone eleven. Back in Blighty, you’d be licking crisp dust from your fingers and calling it a meal. But in Spain, the night is young, the waiters still upright, and there’s hope in the form of food.

Las Ramblas — the arterial heart of Barcelona — is where every tourist staggers first, which is why it’s now essentially a building site with pretensions, a pickpocket’s playground lined with weed dealers, living statues, and about nine million vapers. It’s also a masterclass in how to make a city centre entirely devoid of charm. There’s a KFC in a building Gaudí probably walked past once. A WHSmith pretending to be cultural. Some kind of sex museum, possibly run by Ryanair.

So I veer off. Into the Gothic Quarter. Into an old stone square — all echoing footfall and the clink of ice in glasses, humanity sprawled under twinkling lights like they’ve just discovered civilisation. It is, frankly, wonderful. There are children playing football at midnight. Grown men singing. Waiters dodging pigeons with trays full of Aperol. A moment of accidental European bliss.

And then — CiaoCiao. An Italian, obviously. In Spain. But I’ve always trusted the Italians to know what they’re doing, especially when they’re not at home. The setting? Magical. Balmy air like warm bathwater. Terracotta buildings and hanging plants. The kind of square that makes you forget Brexit happened. The menu? Comforting. Pizza, pasta, the usual carbonara-shaped suspects.

The service? Efficient, in that slightly resentful way that says: Ugh, another tourist, how thrilling. I get it. We’re not interesting. We’re not bringing the heat. We’re bringing Google Translate and very poor tips. But still — a smile wouldn’t kill you, would it, José?

The pizza? Solid. Not spectacular. The base had integrity — chewy, properly baked, none of that flaccid Deliveroo business. The toppings were plentiful if uninspired. It’s the kind of pizza that gets the job done. You’re not talking about it three days later, but you’re glad it was there when you needed it. Like Imodium.

The beer? Cold. And isn’t that half the battle? When your insides are still reverberating from a cabin-pressurised Pringles tube at 37,000 feet, a cold beer in a square like this — that’s salvation. That’s Europe being smug in all the right ways.

Because sometimes you need these places. Not every meal has to be a 12-course deconstruction of “air” with a sommelier who looks like a serial killer. Sometimes, it’s midnight, you’re hungry, you’re not dead, and someone brings you a hot pizza and a cold beer while a child kicks a ball past a mime artist. That, my friends, is enough.

7.5/10. Would return. Especially if Ryanair cocks it up again.