Can Kenji

Look, 'fusion' is usually a warning sign. In the wrong hands, it’s a cynical marketing ploy—a way to charge forty euros for a plate of confusion where neither culture recognizes the corpse on the table. But Can Kenji is the exception that proves the rule. This isn't some corporate 'concept' restaurant dreamed up in a boardroom. This is what happens when a Japanese chef, Kenji Ueno, plants his feet in Barcelona soil and decides to stop fighting the local larder. It’s an izakaya with a Catalan heart, tucked away in the Eixample, far enough from the Sagrada Família to avoid the worst of the selfie-stick brigade but close enough to feel the gravity of the neighborhood.

When you walk in, the first thing that hits you isn't the smell of soy sauce—it’s the intimacy. It’s small. It’s wood-heavy. It’s the kind of place where you’re going to overhear your neighbor’s breakup or their business deal, and frankly, that’s part of the charm. This is a working restaurant, not a temple. There are no white tablecloths here to protect your ego. You’re here for the food, which is a visceral, umami-soaked middle finger to anyone who thinks 'authentic' means a static, dead thing in a museum.

The menu is a map of Ueno’s brain. You’ll see things that shouldn't work on paper but absolutely sing on the palate. Take the risotto with shiitake and foie gras. It’s rich, earthy, and unapologetically decadent—a dish that bridges the gap between a Tokyo back-alley and a high-end Barcelona bistro without breaking a sweat. Then there’s the tuna tataki served with salmorejo. Using a cold, creamy Andalusian tomato soup as a foil for perfectly seared fish is the kind of move that makes you wonder why everyone else is still playing it safe with ginger and wasabi.

If you’re a sushi purist, don't worry—the nigiri here is handled with the kind of respect that borders on the religious. The butterfish with truffle is a crowd favorite for a reason; it’s a fat-on-fat crime that pays off in a massive hit to the pleasure centers of the brain. But the real pro move at Can Kenji is the 'Menu del Día.' In a city where the midday menu is a sacred right, Kenji offers one of the best values in town. It’s a multi-course sequence that feels like a heist for the price they’re charging. You get the precision of Japanese technique applied to whatever was fresh at the market that morning, and you leave feeling like you’ve actually been fed, not just 'dined.'

Is it perfect? No. The service can be frantic when the room is packed—and it is always packed. You will need a reservation, and you will probably still have to wait five minutes for your table while someone lingers over their matcha tiramisu. The wine list is lean but smart, focusing on bottles that can stand up to the bold flavors coming out of the kitchen. It’s a place for people who like to eat, who don't mind a bit of noise, and who understand that the best meals happen when you let a chef cook what they actually want to eat. Can Kenji is honest, it’s cramped, and it’s one of the few places in this city that reminds me why we travel in the first place: to find something that couldn't exist anywhere else.