Dalmatian Peaks & Street Eats: A Relaxed 5-Day Split, Croatia Food Trip with Winter Mountain Escapes

The day opens with the smell of butter and espresso at BUTTER'S, sunlight catching on the glass as locals shuffle in with sleepy hellos. From there, the city’s spine reveals itself: Diocletian’s Palace in the clear winter light, its arches echoing with footsteps and the low murmur of guides weaving Roman history with pop-culture trivia. Lunch at Ćiri Biri Bela pulls you into a quieter side street, all worn wood, warm plates, and the kind of service that makes you slow down and actually taste the olive oil. By afternoon you’re climbing toward the Marjan viewpoint, stone steps under your boots, pine resin sharp in the cold air as the terracotta roofs and ferries below arrange themselves into a postcard you didn’t have to fight for. As the sky turns metallic, you drop back to sea level for BOKAMORRA—neon glow on Trumbićeva obala, 80s pop humming, and pizzas that feel like someone took Naples and sent it to fashion school. The crust blisters, cocktails come in jewel tones, and the room buzzes with that particular off-season mix of locals and in-the-know visitors. Walking home along the Riva, fingers cooling around the last of your drink, you already sense tomorrow shifting inland: less marble, more flour, and the quiet rhythm of neighborhood streets.

Morning in Split’s residential streets feels quieter, the soundscape more dogs and schoolkids than tour groups. At Tri Pite Materine, the glass fogs slightly from the warmth inside as trays of savory pies slide out of the oven, the smell of cheese and greens hitting you before you even read the labels. With something flaky in hand, you drift back toward the Riva, where the promenade—Obala hrvatskoga narodnog preporoda—acts as the city’s living room, chairs scraping on stone and spoons chiming against porcelain. Lunch turns casual at TOP street food, all paper wrappings and the sizzle of grills, a pointed contrast to last night’s haute couture pizza but every bit as satisfying. The afternoon belongs to Marjan’s southern side, where Forest Park Marjan (South) stretches along the sea: pine needles underfoot, the rhythmic slap of waves against rock, and the occasional cyclist cutting through your thoughts. Evening swings back toward the old town, with dinner at Jo & The Sisters, where focaccia and sandwiches feel elevated by care rather than fuss, and then a short walk to SIP27 wine & tapas bar. There, under low lighting and clinking glasses, you taste your way through Dalmatian wines, already thinking about tomorrow’s deeper dive inland.

The city recedes in the rearview mirror as apartment blocks give way to scrubby hills and stone terraces. Morning belongs to Stella Croatica near Klis, where the air smells of olives, citrus, and drying herbs, and an open-air olive museum threads you through stories of harvests and pressing. The textures here are tactile—rough stone walls, smooth glass bottles of oil, the crunch of sugared almonds between your teeth. Lunch pushes deeper inland to Konoba Campanelo in Mirlović Zagora, where the sky feels bigger and the pace drops another gear.

By day four, Split feels smaller in the best way—you know which corner cafés will be open and how the light falls on the harbor. Morning starts with a precise caffeine hit at Stow Coffee Roasters Split, tucked by the rugby field, where the hiss of steam wands and the grind of beans set a modern tempo against the city’s ancient backdrop. Lunch takes you along the coast to Restoran Triton Split, inside the Radisson Blu, where the sea sits just beyond the glass and plates lean refined without losing their Dalmatian soul. The salt smell outside mixes with the clean, hotel-lobby air in a strangely satisfying way.

Your last day folds the city back into itself. Morning begins in the palace again, but this time with a cup from D16 Coffee, where the smell of espresso mingles with the damp coolness of ancient stone. The alleys feel familiar now—the particular echo of footsteps, the way sunlight sneaks into narrow lanes for just a few minutes. Lunch at Fig Split keeps you within the walls, plates that remix local ingredients with a global sensibility, a nod to the way Split constantly rewrites its own story. By afternoon, you’re pulled once more toward Marjan, this time into the heart of Forest Park Marjan, the city dropping away behind you like a coat you’ve shrugged off.