Abrelatas Bar & Vermuteria

There is a specific kind of madness in Poble Espanyol. It is a curated, walled-off simulation of Spain, an architectural greatest-hits album built for the 1929 World’s Fair. Usually, this is the kind of place that makes me want to drink heavily in a dark room. But then you find Abrelatas. The name literally means 'can opener,' and in a country that treats preserved seafood with the same reverence the French reserve for cheese, that’s a promise of something real.

You’re sitting in the Plaza Mayor, surrounded by buildings that look like they were plucked from a Castilian village and dropped onto the side of Montjuïc. It’s easy to be cynical here. But when the waiter drops a glass of dark, bitter-sweet vermouth—the kind that tastes like botanicals and ancient secrets—and a tin of mejillones en escabeche, the cynicism starts to melt. This isn't the 'canned food' of your sad childhood pantry. This is the high-art of the Spanish larder. We’re talking about plump mussels, hand-packed in a sharp, paprika-stained vinegar sauce that demands you dip every last crumb of bread into the tin.

The interior of Abrelatas feels more like a high-end hardware store for hedonists than a standard bar. Shelves are stacked floor-to-ceiling with colorful tins: berberechos (cockles) from the Galician coast, ventresca (tuna belly) so fatty it practically dissolves on the tongue, and razor clams that taste like a cold slap of Atlantic seawater. It’s a shop, too, so you can buy a few tins of the good stuff to take home, though they’ll never taste quite as right as they do here, under the Barcelona sun with a toothpick in your hand.

Let’s talk about the Gilda. It’s the quintessential Basque pintxo—an olive, a guindilla pepper, and an anchovy skewered together. It’s salty, spicy, and oily. It’s a punch in the mouth that wakes up your palate and makes you crave another sip of beer. They do them right here. They also lean heavily into the craft beer movement, offering a selection that provides a necessary alternative to the watery industrial lagers served at the more 'traditional' tourist traps nearby. If you're looking for the best tapas Barcelona has to offer in a setting that feels like a movie set, this is your strange, beautiful intersection.

Is it a bit of a trap? Well, you have to pay to get into Poble Espanyol first, which is a hurdle. But if you’re already there—maybe you’re visiting the MNAC or wandering the gardens of Sants-Montjuïc—Abrelatas is the honest heart of the place. It doesn't try to be a five-star dining experience. It’s a bar that respects the product. It understands that sometimes the best thing a chef can do is stay out of the way and let a century-old preservation technique do the heavy lifting.

The service can be brisk, especially when the plaza fills up with tour groups, but there’s a grit to it that I appreciate. It’s a reminder that even in a simulated village, the people pouring the drinks are very much alive. Come here when the sun is starting to dip, order the 'vermut de la casa,' a plate of sharp Manchego, and a tin of something you can't pronounce. Lean back, watch the crowds drift by, and realize that even in the middle of a tourist attraction, you can still find a moment of genuine, salt-crusted grace.