“There’s a Syrian I know who has just what you need,” my friend said, smiling. I was drying the last pool water from my hair when he said it. I’d been complaining about the mutiny rattling around in my empty stomach brought on by an afternoon of water polo. “He has the best kebabs in Barcelona,” my friend clarified, whisking me by the elbow and out of the gym as dusk descended on the winding streets of the Gótico.

The restaurant is situated on the corner of C/ Palau, a stone’s throw from the Generalitat it’s blue and white tiled walls clean and sparkling. Even though the shishas, dominoes and men in flowing gelabiya’s one normally associates with an Arab café are missing, the taste of the Middle East is unmistakable and genuine. All prepared by the bald headed Syrian maestro carving from his grill, wrapping juicy shwerma meat in salad, tahini and homemade spicy sauce. My first encounter was three years ago. If you like kebabs too, you’re bound to become a regular too.