Chicho

If you’re looking for a curated experience with Edison bulbs and a menu written in chalk by someone with a degree in graphic design, keep walking. Chicho isn’t that. It’s located on Avinguda de la República Argentina, a busy, exhaust-heavy artery that pumps life through the upper reaches of the city, right where the polished edges of Sarrià-Sant Gervasi start to fray into the more rebellious spirit of Vallcarca. This is a bar de barrio in its purest, most unadulterated form. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t care if you like it, which is exactly why you probably will.

Walking into Chicho feels like stepping into a version of Barcelona that is rapidly being polished out of existence. The lighting is functional, the surfaces are built for durability rather than aesthetics, and the soundtrack is the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine and the muffled roar of traffic from the avenue. It’s a transit point for the neighborhood—a place where people stop because they’re hungry, because they’re thirsty, or because they just need ten minutes of peace before heading back to the grind. There is no pretense here. No one is taking photos of their food for the ‘gram. They’re too busy eating it.

The menu is a greatest-hits collection of the Spanish working-class diet. We’re talking about the holy trinity of the neighborhood bar: tapas, bocadillos, and cold beer. The patatas bravas here are exactly what they should be—crispy, salty, and slathered in a sauce that has enough kick to remind you you’re alive. Then there are the bocadillos. In a world of artisanal sourdough and gluten-free wraps, there is something deeply spiritual about a proper Spanish sandwich. The bread has that specific, shatter-crisp crust that gives way to a soft interior, soaking up the juices from a slab of lomo or the salt from a layer of jamón. It’s fuel. It’s honest. It’s what keeps this city running.

The terrace is the heart of the operation. Perched on the sidewalk of República Argentina, it’s not exactly a quiet oasis, but it’s a fascinating place to watch the world go by. You’ll see the old guard of the neighborhood nursing a glass of vermouth, students from the nearby schools grabbing a quick bite, and the occasional traveler who wandered too far from Park Güell and realized they were actually hungry for real food. The service is efficient and unsentimental. They aren't going to explain the provenance of the olives to you, and frankly, you shouldn't ask. They’ve got tables to clear and coffee to pour.

Is Chicho a destination restaurant? Absolutely not. You don’t cross the ocean to eat here. But if you find yourself in the northern part of the city, tired of the tourist traps and the overpriced 'authentic' experiences in the center, this is where you go to ground yourself. It’s affordable, it’s reliable, and it’s real. It’s a reminder that the best parts of travel aren’t always the monuments or the museums; sometimes, it’s just a plastic chair on a noisy street, a cold Estella, and a plate of fried potatoes that costs less than a fancy coffee in Eixample. It’s the grit that makes the pearl, and Chicho has plenty of it.