CHICHU'S

If you’re looking for a sprawling dining room with white linens and a waiter who performs a choreographed dance around your table, keep walking. Chichu’s isn’t that. It’s a small, cramped, and gloriously loud box of a restaurant tucked away in the upscale folds of Sarrià-Sant Gervasi, just a stone's throw from the manicured lawns of Turó Park. It’s the kind of place where the air is thick with the scent of searing beef and the kind of buttery, herb-heavy sauce that makes a cardiologist weep and a hungry man rejoice.

You walk in and immediately realize you’re in someone’s territory. This is a neighborhood joint for people who don’t need to prove anything. You’ll see the local old money—men in well-tailored blazers who have been eating here since the doors opened—rubbing elbows with young professionals who know that the best steak Barcelona has to offer isn't found in a tourist trap on La Rambla, but right here, on a side street called Mestre Nicolau.

The menu is refreshingly brief. It doesn't try to be everything to everyone. You start with the basics. The croquetas are a litmus test for any Catalan kitchen, and here they pass with flying colors—crispy shells giving way to a molten, savory interior. If they have the artichokes (alcachofas) on the menu, order them. They come fried to a delicate crisp, seasoned with just enough salt to make you crave a cold beer or a sharp glass of red. But let’s be honest: you’re here for the main event.

The Entrecôte with Cafe de Paris sauce is the undisputed king of the table. It arrives sliced, swimming in a pool of yellow-gold liquid gold. This isn't just butter; it's a complex, secret alchemy of herbs, spices, and fat that clings to the perfectly medium-rare beef. It’s visceral. It’s messy. You will find yourself using the last crust of bread to swipe every remaining drop of that sauce off the plate, and you won’t feel a shred of shame doing it. It’s the kind of meal that reminds you why we eat out in the first place—not for the 'experience' or the 'concept,' but for the simple, primal satisfaction of high-quality protein and fat executed with total confidence.

The service is brisk, efficient, and carries that particular brand of Barcelona charm that borders on indifference until they realize you’re actually there for the food. Once you’ve proven you’re not just another lost soul looking for a salad, they treat you like a regular. It’s intimate, bordering on claustrophobic when the lunch rush hits, but that’s part of the magic. You’re part of the hive mind, all focused on the same singular goal: the next bite of steak.

Is it the cheapest meal in the city? No. But for the quality of the product and the sheer soul of the place, it’s a bargain. It’s an honest restaurant in a city that is increasingly being polished for the masses. Chichu’s remains stubbornly itself. It’s loud, it’s tight, and it smells like heaven. If you can’t handle a little noise and a close neighbor, go find a hotel lobby. If you want a steak that will haunt your dreams, get a table here.