Al Jaima Els Encants(la cantina de los sabores)

The Mercat dels Encants is a beautiful, shimmering mess. Underneath that giant, mirrored canopy that reflects the chaos of Barcelona’s oldest flea market, you’ll find everything from rusted 19th-century anchors to stacks of bootleg DVDs and mid-century chairs that have seen better decades. It is loud, it is dusty, and if you have any soul at all, it will make you very, very hungry. This is where Al Jaima Els Encants—also known as La Cantina de los Sabores—comes in. It isn't a restaurant in any conventional, white-tablecloth sense. It’s a stall, a cantina, a steam-streaked bunker of North African hospitality in the middle of a commercial battlefield.

Walk past the guys haggling over old watches and follow the scent of toasted cumin and slow-cooked lamb. You’ll find a space that feels less like a dining room and more like a communal refueling station. The chairs are basic, the tables are packed close together, and the noise of the market—the shouting, the clatter of metal, the hum of the city—is your soundtrack. There is no pretense here. No one is taking photos of their latte for the ‘gram. People are here to eat, and they are here because the food is honest, unapologetic, and incredibly cheap.

If you’re here on a Friday, you’re here for the couscous. In Morocco, Friday is the day of the holy meal, and Al Jaima honors that tradition with mountains of semolina so light they practically float, topped with tender chunks of lamb or chicken and a heap of caramelized onions and raisins—the tfaya—that provides a sweet, dark counterpoint to the savory broth. It’s a massive portion, the kind of meal that demands a nap afterward, but you’ll keep digging until you hit the bottom of the plate. The tagines are equally visceral. They arrive bubbling in their clay pots, the lids lifted to reveal lamb that collapses at the mere suggestion of a fork, or chicken with preserved lemons and olives that cut through the fat like a razor.

Don't overlook the bocadillos. This is a market, after all, and the Moroccan take on the Spanish sandwich is a revelation. They stuff crusty bread with spiced kefta or merguez sausages, charred on the grill and slathered with just enough harissa to make things interesting. It’s the ultimate fuel for another three hours of digging through boxes of old vinyl. To wash it down, there is only one choice: the Moroccan tea. It’s poured from a height, a stream of hot, sugary mint liquid that creates a frothy head and hits your system like a bolt of lightning.

The service is fast, borderline frantic, and entirely functional. The guys behind the counter have the weary, professional air of people who have seen it all and don't have time for your dietary neuroses. It’s a beautiful thing to watch. You’ll see hipsters from the nearby tech offices sitting elbow-to-elbow with Moroccan immigrants and old Catalan men who have been coming to this market since before the shiny roof was even a blueprint.

Is it refined? No. Is it quiet? Absolutely not. But Al Jaima is one of the few places left in this rapidly gentrifying city that feels like it belongs to the people. It’s a reminder that the best food in Barcelona isn't always found in a Michelin-starred kitchen or a curated tapas bar in the Eixample. Sometimes, it’s found in a market stall, eaten off a metal table, with the smell of the city in your nose and a plate of perfect couscous in front of you. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s exactly what you need.