Àbac

You don’t just stumble into Àbac. You make a pilgrimage. You leave the sweaty, tourist-choked chaos of La Rambla behind and head north, climbing toward the cooling shadows of Tibidabo. This is Sarrià-Sant Gervasi—the land of old money, quiet streets, and high walls. Behind one of those walls sits a sleek, white-on-white temple of gastronomy where Jordi Cruz, the boy wonder turned elder statesman of Spanish TV, runs a kitchen with the precision of a Swiss watch factory.

The experience usually kicks off where the real work happens: the kitchen. It’s a vast, stainless-steel cathedral of industry. You stand there, feeling slightly underdressed and definitely in the way, while a small army of cooks moves with silent, terrifying efficiency. They hand you a snack—maybe a nitro-frozen cocktail or a delicate wafer that dissolves before you can even process the flavor—and you realize you’re not just here for dinner. You’re here for a demonstration of what happens when human obsession meets a centrifuge.

Once you’re ushered into the dining room, the vibe shifts. It’s muted, elegant, and perhaps a bit clinical. But the food? The food is a loud, unapologetic riot. Take the 'Bloody Mary.' This isn't the watery, celery-stalked hangover cure you know. It’s a concentrated, icy blast of tomato essence and vodka that hits your palate like a freight train. It’s cold, it’s sharp, and it wakes up parts of your brain you forgot you had. Then there’s the 'Theory of Categories' and 'The Principle'—dishes that sound like philosophy lectures but eat like a dream. We’re talking about textures that shouldn't exist: foams that carry the weight of a full roast, seafood that tastes more like the ocean than the ocean itself, and sauces so glossy you could check your reflection in them.

Cruz is obsessed with technique, but he hasn't forgotten that food needs to taste like something. He takes the bones of Mediterranean tradition—the red prawns, the wild mushrooms, the suckling pig—and puts them through a high-tech wringer. The result is a protein rush to the cortex, a sequence of twenty-plus courses that challenge your idea of what a meal is supposed to be. Is it precious? Yes. Is it expensive? Painfully. But there is a level of craft here that demands respect. You can see the sweat and the ego on every plate, even if the room is air-conditioned to a perfect, silent chill.

The service is what you’d expect for three stars: attentive to the point of telepathy. Your wine glass is never empty, your napkin is folded the second you stand up, and the staff explains each dish with the solemnity of a priest delivering a sermon. It can feel a bit stiff if you’re used to the rowdy energy of a Poble Sec tapas bar, but that’s the trade-off. You’re here for the pinnacle of fine dining in Barcelona, not a casual night out.

Is it worth the three-hundred-euro-plus hit to your wallet? If you want to see the absolute limit of what can be done with an ingredient, then yes. It’s a masterclass in modern Catalan cooking. It’s a place for big anniversaries, deep pockets, and people who don’t mind their dinner being a bit of a performance. Just don’t expect a quick bite. This is a marathon of excess, a beautiful, technical, and occasionally exhausting display of culinary firepower that will stay with you long after the bill is paid and you’re heading back down the hill toward the city lights.