70/30 Restobar

Walk into 70/30 Restobar and the first thing you need to understand is the name. It’s not a math equation; it’s a lifestyle. In Córdoba, Argentina, they don’t do things halfway, especially when it comes to their unofficial national anthem: Fernet and Coke. The ratio is 70% cola, 30% bitter, herbal darkness. It’s a drink that tastes like medicine and bad decisions, and once you get the taste for it, nothing else will do. This place, tucked away on Carrer de Mallorca in the working-class heart of Sant Martí, is a shrine to that specific, rugged brand of Argentinian hospitality.

Forget the white tablecloths and the hushed tones of the Eixample steakhouse circuit. This is a restobar in the truest sense—a place where the lighting is honest, the service is familiar, and the air smells of searing beef and fried dough. You aren't here for a 'gastronomic journey' curated by a guy in a fedora. You’re here because you’re hungry, and you want food that fights back.

The star of the show, the undisputed heavyweight champion of the menu, is the Lomito Cordobés. In a world of dainty sliders and deconstructed nonsense, the Lomito is a structural achievement. We’re talking about a massive steak sandwich—tender beef fillet, ham, cheese, a fried egg that bleeds gold the moment you commit, lettuce, tomato, and a slathering of mayo that ties the whole beautiful mess together. It’s the kind of sandwich that requires two hands, a stack of napkins, and a complete disregard for your cardiologist’s advice. It’s visceral. It’s heavy. It’s perfect.

If you aren't ready for the Lomito, the empanadas are the gateway drug. These aren't the doughy, flavorless triangles you find in the frozen section. The 'carne cortada a cuchillo'—hand-cut beef—is the way it’s supposed to be done. No ground meat mystery here; just chunks of steak, onions, and spices that tell a story of the pampas. Then there’s the entraña, or skirt steak. It’s a cut of meat that demands respect. Cooked over the high heat of the grill until the outside is charred and the inside is a deep, mineral-rich pink, it’s served with a chimichurri that actually has some bite to it.

What makes 70/30 special isn't just the protein; it’s the lack of pretense. You’ll see Argentinian expats leaning against the bar, arguing about football or the state of the peso, nursing their Fernets like they’re back in a barrio in Córdoba. It’s a neighborhood joint that hasn't been polished smooth by the relentless gears of the Barcelona tourism machine. The staff might be busy, the room might get loud, and you might have to wait for a table on a Friday night, but that’s the price of entry for something real.

Is it the best Argentinian restaurant in Barcelona? If you define 'best' by the quality of the linen, probably not. But if you define 'best' by the feeling of a cold drink hitting your throat and a massive, grease-slicked steak sandwich hitting the table while the room buzzes with genuine human energy, then 70/30 is in a league of its own. It’s a reminder that the best meals aren't always the ones you plan; they’re the ones that find you when you’re wandering away from the Sagrada Familia crowds, looking for a place that still has a soul.