Casa Fernández

If you want to see where the Barcelona bourgeoisie goes to loosen their ties and act like humans, you head uphill. Way uphill. Past the tourist-choked alleys of the Gothic Quarter and the neon glare of Eixample, you find yourself in Sarrià-Sant Gervasi, specifically on Carrer de Santaló. This is the 'Zona Alta'—the upper zone. It’s where the money lives, and Casa Fernández is its beating, grease-slicked heart.

Opened in the late eighties by Javier de las Muelas—the man who turned the Dry Martini into a local religion—Casa Fernández isn't some hushed temple of gastronomy. It’s a loud, clattering, wood-paneled tavern that smells of frying garlic and success. When you walk in, the first thing that hits you isn't the decor; it's the energy. It’s the sound of a hundred conversations competing with the hiss of the beer taps and the rhythmic thud of a knife against a cutting board. The waiters wear white jackets, moving with the weary, practiced efficiency of men who have seen it all and aren't particularly impressed by your watch or your pedigree.

Let’s talk about the food, because that’s why you’re here, squeezed into a corner table or leaning against the bar. This is Mediterranean cooking stripped of its pretension. You start with the croquetas. They are, quite simply, some of the best tapas in Barcelona. Whether it’s the jamón or the mushroom, the exterior is a shatteringly crisp shell that gives way to a center so creamy it’s practically a liquid state of matter. It’s a dangerous game; you’ll tell yourself you’ll only have one, and then you’re three orders deep and questioning your life choices.

Then comes the ensaladilla rusa—a mountain of potato, tuna, and mayo that serves as the benchmark for every other bar in the city. It’s cold, it’s rich, and it’s perfect. If you’re feeling like a carnivore, the steak tartare is prepared with a level of respect usually reserved for holy relics. They don’t hide the meat behind too much caper or onion; they let the beef speak for itself. And you have to order the huevos estrellados—fried eggs broken over a bed of golden, oil-soaked potatoes and topped with translucent slices of Iberian ham. It’s the kind of dish that makes you want to weep with joy and then immediately schedule a cholesterol check.

Is it expensive? For a tapas bar, yeah, it’s not exactly a budget basement. You’re paying for the quality of the product and the privilege of sitting in a room that feels like the center of the local universe. The crowd is a mix of old-money families, young professionals looking to be seen, and the occasional traveler who wandered off the beaten path and struck gold. It’s a place that manages to be both exclusive and welcoming, provided you don’t mind a bit of noise and a wait for a table.

There’s a certain honesty to Casa Fernández that you don't find in the 'concept' restaurants downtown. It knows exactly what it is: a high-end tavern serving the classics without apology. There are no foams here. No spheres. No 'deconstructed' anything. Just good ingredients, cooked by people who know what they’re doing, served to people who know what they like. It’s a slice of the real Barcelona—the one that exists when the cruise ships leave and the sun sets over the Tibidabo. If you want to understand this city, you have to eat here. Just bring your appetite and leave your ego at the door.