Casa Rafuel

In a world where every amateur with a smartphone thinks they’re a food critic, Rafael Antonín—known to the digital masses as Rafuel—did something radical. He actually learned how to cook. But he didn’t do it the usual way, sweating through culinary school at nineteen. He did it after a lifetime in the petroleum business, becoming a social media sensation in his sixties before finally planting his flag here, on Carrer de Casanova. Casa Rafuel isn't some vanity project or a 'concept' designed by a marketing firm; it’s a high-functioning, unapologetic temple to Mediterranean comfort food in the heart of the Upper Diagonal.

Walking into Sarrià-Sant Gervasi, you expect a certain level of polish, a certain hush of old money. Casa Rafuel gives you the polish, but it replaces the hush with the frantic, beautiful energy of a kitchen that actually gives a damn. This is one of the most honest Spanish restaurants in Barcelona, and it doesn't care if you found it on a screen or stumbled in off the street. The room is sleek, sure, but the focus is squarely on the plate. You aren't here for fusion experiments; you’re here for the elevated simplicity of the Catalan kitchen.

You start with the nigiri. Not the Japanese kind, but the one that made the man a legend: the Nigiri de huevo frito con puntilla y trufa. It sounds like a gimmick until you eat it. It’s a tiny, perfect fried egg, the edges crisp and lacy, served as a decadent, one-bite Spanish tapa with a hit of truffle that doesn't overwhelm the senses but wakes them up. It’s messy, it’s brilliant, and it’s a middle finger to anyone who thinks comfort food can't be sophisticated. It’s a protein rush that hits you right in the lizard brain.

Then comes the real heavy lifting. The menu is a parade of classics done with obsessive care. The 'Bikini de Rafuel'—a toasted sandwich of truffle and mozzarella—is the kind of thing you’ll dream about for weeks. The croquetas are creamy, the tortilla is cooked to that perfect point of runny gold, and the canelones pay proper homage to Catalan tradition. There’s no leche de tigre or raw fish here; instead, you get the deep, savory satisfaction of slow-cooked meats and the kind of rice dishes that demand a moment of silence.

The crowd is a mix of the neighborhood elite and the food pilgrims who’ve followed Rafuel’s journey from Instagram stories to a brick-and-mortar reality. It’s a scene, but it’s an honest one. The service is professional—none of that forced 'we’re all family here' nonsense—just efficient people moving food that they’re clearly proud of.

Is it expensive? Yeah, it’s the Upper Diagonal; what did you expect? But unlike the dozens of soul-sucking tourist traps lining the Rambla, you’re actually getting what you pay for here. You’re paying for the quality of the ingredients, the precision of the execution, and the fact that a guy decided to reinvent himself when most people are looking for a rocking chair. Casa Rafuel is a reminder that it’s never too late to start a fire, as long as you’re willing to stand in the heat. If you want a quiet, flavorless meal, go somewhere else. If you want your palate slapped around by some of the best traditional comfort food in Barcelona, sit down and order the egg.