Antunez

Gràcia is a neighborhood that likes to pretend it’s still a village, a place where people still look you in the eye and the pace of life slows down just enough to make you forget the tourist-choked madness of La Rambla. Tucked away on Carrer de Neptú, Antunez sits in the bones of what used to be a traditional colmado—one of those old-school neighborhood grocery stores that sold everything from salt cod to loose beans. It hasn’t lost that soul. You walk in and you’re hit with the clatter of plates, the low hum of neighborhood gossip, and the smell of garlic hitting a hot pan. It’s not a museum, and it’s not trying to be a Michelin-starred temple of pretension. It’s a tavern, plain and simple, and it’s exactly what you want when you’re tired of the bullshit.

The room is a beautiful collision of the old and the new. High ceilings, marble-topped tables, and wooden shelves stacked with wine bottles that look like they’ve been there since the dawn of time. It’s the kind of place where you can lean against the bar with a vermouth or settle in for a long, wine-soaked afternoon. The lighting is warm, the floor is tiled, and the room hums with a restless, lived-in noise. It’s crowded, yes. It’s loud, definitely. If you’re looking for a quiet, romantic whisper-fest, go somewhere else. Antunez is for people who like the sound of life happening around them.

Let’s talk about the food, because that’s why you’re here. They do the classics, but they do them with a level of respect that’s becoming increasingly rare. The headline act is the tortilla de patatas, and here’s the kicker: they make it to order. None of that pre-cooked, rubbery yellow brick you see sitting under heat lamps in the tourist traps. This is a living thing. It arrives at the table hot, slightly runny in the center—the way God intended—and seasoned with the kind of confidence that only comes from a kitchen that knows exactly what it’s doing. It’s a protein rush to the cortex, a simple, three-ingredient high that reminds you why Spanish cuisine conquered the world.

Then there’s the canelón de pularda. In Barcelona, the cannelloni is a sacred object, traditionally eaten on Saint Stephen’s Day to use up leftovers. At Antunez, they treat it like a masterpiece. The poultry is rich and savory, wrapped in delicate pasta and smothered in a truffle-infused bechamel that is so decadent it should probably be illegal. It’s the kind of dish that makes you want to lick the plate, social graces be damned. The croquetas are another mandatory order—crispy on the outside, nearly liquid on the inside, and packed with the salty punch of good jamón. Even the bravas, the most abused dish in the city, get a fair shake here with a sauce that actually has some teeth.

Is it perfect? No. The service can be frantic when the house is full, which is basically always. You might feel a little squeezed at the smaller tables, and the wine list, while solid, isn't going to win any awards for avant-garde experimentation. But that’s the point. Antunez isn't trying to reinvent the wheel; it’s just trying to make the best damn wheel in the neighborhood. It’s a place for regulars, for people who live in the apartments upstairs, and for the lucky few who wander off the main drag and realize they’ve found the real thing. It’s honest, it’s visceral, and it’s one of the best restaurants in Gràcia for anyone who actually gives a damn about what’s on their fork.

If you want the soul of Barcelona without the postcard-perfect veneer, this is your spot. Just make sure you book a table, or be prepared to fight for a square inch of marble at the bar. Either way, you’re winning.