Bodega Molina 1950

Sant Gervasi is not the Barcelona you see on the postcards. It’s not the sweat-soaked chaos of the Rambla or the self-conscious hipness of El Born. This is 'Upper Barcelona'—old money, quiet streets, and a certain restrained elegance. But right there on the corner of Plaça de Molina, there is a crack in the veneer. Bodega Molina 1950 is that crack. It’s a bastion of the old guard, a place that has stubbornly refused to change while the world outside traded its soul for avocado toast and craft cocktails.

Walking into Bodega Molina is like stepping into a sepia-toned dream of the mid-century. It’s been here since 1950, and it looks like it. The wood is dark and seasoned by decades of conversation; the shelves are groaning under the weight of bottles that have seen better days. It’s a neighborhood joint in the truest sense. You’ll see the well-heeled residents of the district rubbing elbows with students and old-timers who look like they haven’t moved from their barstools since the Franco era. There is no pretension here. No one is trying to 'deconstruct' your dinner. They are here to feed you, get you a little buzzed on vermouth, and send you back out into the night.

Let’s talk about the food, because if the food sucked, the nostalgia wouldn't matter. The patatas bravas here are a religious experience for the neighborhood. They aren't those frozen cubes you find in the tourist traps. These are hand-cut, fried to a precise golden crunch, and smothered in a sauce that has just enough kick to remind you you're alive. It’s the kind of grease that coats your soul in a warm hug. Then there are the gildas—the classic Basque skewered snack of olive, anchovy, and pepper—that hit you with a salt-and-vinegar punch to the cortex. It’s simple, honest, and devastatingly effective.

But we have to talk about the elephant in the room—or rather, the singer in the bathroom. For reasons that remain delightfully obscure, the restroom at Bodega Molina is a full-blown, hallucinogenic shrine to Julio Iglesias. Photos, memorabilia, the smooth crooning of Spain’s greatest lover echoing off the tiles. It is weird, it is kitschy, and it is absolutely magnificent. It’s the kind of specific, human eccentricity that makes a place worth visiting. It tells you that the people running this joint have a sense of humor and a sense of history.

The terrace on the plaza is where you want to be when the sun starts to dip. It’s one of the best spots for people-watching in the city. You watch the chaos of the intersection, the scooters buzzing by like angry hornets, while you sip a cold beer or a glass of the house vermouth. The service is exactly what it should be: efficient, slightly brusque in that classic Spanish way, but ultimately warm if you show them you’re not there to waste their time.

Is it the 'best' restaurant in Barcelona? Who cares. It’s an authentic piece of the city’s heart. It’s a place where the garnish isn't just a sprig of parsley, but the accumulated history of seventy years of neighborhood life. If you want a 'gastronomic adventure,' go somewhere else. If you want to feel like you actually belong in Barcelona for an hour or two, pull up a chair at Bodega Molina. Just make sure you visit the bathroom before you leave. Julio is waiting.