Adobo/Adobar

Sarrià-Sant Gervasi is not where you go to see the Sagrada Família or dodge pickpockets on the Rambla. It is the part of Barcelona where the air feels a little thinner, the streets are a little wider, and the money is significantly older. It’s here, tucked away in the quiet, residential pocket of Tres Torres, that Enrique Valentí decided to plant his flag with Adobo/Adobar. If you know Valentí from his work at Marea Alta, you know the man doesn’t do anything halfway. He’s a chef’s chef, obsessed with product, technique, and the kind of deep, soulful flavors that make you want to lick the plate.

The name is a play on words—Adobo (the marinade) and Adobar (the act of marinating). It’s a manifesto. In a world of flash-frozen nonsense and 'fusion' that nobody asked for, Valentí is looking backward to move forward. He’s digging into the ancient alchemy of vinegar, spices, and time. The space itself reflects this: it’s got a raw, high-ceilinged aesthetic but without the pretension. High ceilings, large windows that let the Mediterranean light pour in, and an open kitchen where you can watch the team work with the kind of quiet intensity usually reserved for bomb disposal units.

Let’s talk about the tortilla de patatas. People in this city argue about tortilla the way they argue about football, but the version here is a serious contender for the heavyweight title. It’s the Betanzos style—runny, gooey, and unapologetically yellow. When you pierce the skin with a fork, the yolk flows out in a rich, velvety stream, demanding to be mopped up with a piece of crusty bread. It is a simple thing, done perfectly, which is the hardest thing in the world to achieve. If you don't order it, you’ve fundamentally misunderstood why you’re here.

Then there are the adobos. Whether it’s fish or meat, the technique is masterfully applied. It’s not about masking the flavor of the protein; it’s about elevating it, giving it a bright, acidic punch that cuts through the richness. The ensaladilla rusa is another exercise in balance—creamy, precise, and topped with just enough brine to keep things interesting. And then there’s the flan. Forget the rubbery, industrial cubes you find in tourist traps. This is a velvet-textured masterpiece, rich with egg yolks and topped with a caramel that has just the right hint of bitterness. It’s the kind of dessert that makes grown men go silent.

The crowd here is local. You won’t find many 'I Love BCN' t-shirts. It’s full of neighborhood regulars who know exactly what they’re doing, business types closing deals over vermouth, and food nerds who have made the pilgrimage from the city center. The service is professional, polished, and mercifully free of the 'hey guys' familiarity that plagues modern dining. They know the menu, they know the wine, and they know when to leave you alone with your thoughts and your croquetas.

Is it worth the trek up to the 08017 zip code? If you care about real food, yes. If you want to see what happens when a top-tier chef stops trying to impress critics and starts trying to feed people’s souls, then absolutely. It’s not cheap, but quality never is. Adobo/Adobar is a reminder that at the end of the day, all we really want is a comfortable chair, a cold drink, and a plate of food that tastes like someone actually gave a damn in the kitchen.