Knackered by the early start and the flight and the mid-afternoon nap in a very nice hotel room, Alasdair and I concede the need to have dinner. I scour the internet for safely vegan options that are open on a Sunday night. They have a burger called The Bristol. Surely a sign?
We settle on Central Burgers, a reasonably well reviewed place online and a short hop from La Ramblas, so off we pop.
I enjoy a relatively sloppy smashed cheeseburger, losing structural integrity by the minute under the weight of their house mayo. The chips are perfectly good, and it all very much hits the spot, with a fruit smoothie to top it all off.
The restaurant seems to be soundtracked by a Michael Jackson playlist, but almost exclusively the rarities? I recognise a Bad bonus track, and Alasdair’s fairly certain he picks out a Sonic 3 track. Ours is not to reason why.
It’s, yes, fine, not particularly a very “local” start to the holiday, but it does the job nicely, knowing that we have plenty more to be getting to.