Beirut

You don’t come to Les Corts for the architectural whimsy of Gaudí or the polished marble of the Passeig de Gràcia. You come here because you’re either a fanatic for the Blaugrana or you’re looking for a neighborhood that still feels like a neighborhood—one with cracked sidewalks, local bars that smell of stale tobacco, and, if you’re lucky, a place like Beirut.

Located on Travessera de les Corts, just a short walk from the looming concrete cathedral of Camp Nou, Beirut is the antithesis of the 'gastronomic adventure' promised by PR firms. It’s a restaurant. A real one. It’s the domain of Chef Paul Haddad, a man who brought the soul of his namesake city to Barcelona over a quarter-century ago. When you walk in, you aren’t greeted by a host with a headset; you’re hit with the heavy, comforting scent of roasting lamb, sumac, and the sharp, clean bite of fresh parsley. It’s the smell of a kitchen that actually cooks.

The menu—or 'la carta' as the locals call it—is a roadmap of Lebanese survival and celebration. Let’s talk about the hummus. In a world where you can buy plastic tubs of chickpea paste at any supermarket, the hummus here is a revelation. It’s silky, rich with tahini, and pooled with olive oil that actually tastes like olives. If you’re feeling decadent, get it topped with beef and pine nuts. It’s a protein-heavy punch to the gut that makes you realize everything you’ve been eating until now was just a pale imitation.

Then there’s the shawarma. Forget the 'elephant leg' of mystery meat you see sweating in the windows of late-night kebab shops. This is real meat, marinated with intent and sliced thin. Whether it’s the lamb or the beef, it has that essential char, that hit of spice that lingers on the back of your tongue. The falafel is equally honest—crunchy on the outside, vibrant green and steaming on the inside, served with a tahini sauce that doesn't apologize for its garlic content. It’s the kind of food that demands you use your hands, that leaves a little grease on your chin and a lot of satisfaction in your soul.

The atmosphere is unpretentious to the point of being defiant. It’s often loud, packed with locals who know that the €15 lunch menu is one of the best deals in the city, and the service is brisk. They aren’t here to be your best friend; they’re here to feed you. You might find yourself squeezed between a table of office workers and a family arguing over the latest Barça result. That’s the point. This is a place for the community, not a museum for tourists.

Is it perfect? No. The acoustics can be a nightmare when it’s full, and if you’re looking for white tablecloths and hushed whispers, you’re in the wrong barrio. But if you want to understand why Lebanese food is one of the world’s great cuisines, and you want to see what happens when a chef stays true to his roots for 26 years, you sit down, you order the kibbeh, and you shut up and eat. Finish with the baklava—sticky, sweet, and heavy with nuts—and a cup of Lebanese coffee that’s strong enough to wake the dead. It’s not a 'culinary journey.' It’s just a damn good meal in a city that sometimes forgets what that looks like.