Buenas Migas

Let’s be honest: nobody comes to a shopping mall looking for soul. You come to Glòries because you need a new pair of sneakers or because your phone screen finally gave up the ghost. You expect the usual suspects—the global franchises that serve food as exciting as a spreadsheet. But then, tucked into the steel and glass of the Sant Martí district, you hit a wall of scent that doesn’t belong in a mall. It’s the smell of rosemary, sea salt, and yeast working its magic in a hot oven. This is Buenas Migas, and it’s the best argument I’ve found for why you shouldn't judge a book by its commercial cover.

Buenas Migas is a strange beast, a 'Focacceria Inglesa' born from an unlikely marriage of Ligurian tradition and British comfort. It was started by Clare and Patrick, who decided that what Barcelona really needed was a place that treated dough with respect while serving a proper cup of tea. It’s a chain, sure, but it’s a chain with a pulse. In a city that can sometimes feel like it’s drowning in tourist-trap tapas, this place offers something refreshingly simple: honest bread and a place to sit without being hassled.

When you walk in, the first thing you see is the counter, a landscape of thick, dimpled focaccia. This isn't that thin, dry stuff you find in plastic wrappers. This is the real deal—pillowy, oil-slicked, and heavy enough to use as a weapon. The focaccia de cebolla (onion) is a masterclass in minimalism, the onions caramelized until they’re sweet and jammy against the salt-crusted crust. If you’re feeling more substantial, the versions topped with potato and rosemary or ham and cheese are the kind of carb-heavy fuel that makes the surrounding consumerist frenzy feel manageable.

But the real curveball here is the British influence. You’re in the middle of Barcelona, surrounded by people speaking Catalan and Spanish, and yet, there it is: the crumble. Apple, red berries, whatever is in season, topped with a buttery, sandy rubble that would make an English grandmother nod in approval. It’s a weird juxtaposition that shouldn't work, but it does. You grab a tray, pick your poison, and find a corner. The crowd is a mix of @22 district office workers looking for a quick lunch, exhausted parents trying to bribe their kids into one more hour of shopping, and locals who know that for a 'cheap eat in Barcelona,' the quality here punches way above its weight class.

The service is what you’d expect from a high-volume cafe—efficient, a little brisk, but generally kind. It’s the kind of place where the 'merienda' (the sacred afternoon snack) is taken seriously. You’ll see people lingering over a cafe con leche and a slice of tiramisu long after they’ve finished their shopping. It’s a refuge. The lighting is warm, the wood is worn, and for a moment, you can forget you’re twenty yards away from a Zara.

Is it high dining? No. Is it 'authentic' Catalan cuisine? Not even close. But it is a genuine part of the modern Barcelona fabric. It’s a place that understands that sometimes, all you want is a piece of bread that tastes like someone actually cared about the flour, a decent salad, and a moment of peace. If you find yourself wandering the Sant Martí neighborhood or lost in the labyrinth of Glòries, skip the food court. Look for the place that smells like a bakery in Genoa and serves dessert like a pub in Cornwall. It’s a weird, beautiful hybrid that shouldn't exist in a mall, but I’m damn glad it does.