El Xampanyet

You don’t come to El Xampanyet for a quiet, contemplative evening. You come here to get hit in the face with the reality of Barcelona. It’s a sensory mugging in the best possible way. Located on Carrer de Montcada, just a few doors down from the high-brow silence of the Picasso Museum, this place is the antithesis of a museum. It’s loud, it’s cramped, and it smells of vinegar, cured pork, and the kind of history you can’t fake with a coat of paint and some Edison bulbs.

Since 1929, the same family has been running this joint, and they haven’t changed much because they didn’t need to. The walls are covered in those iconic blue and white tiles, the floors are probably held together by decades of spilled cider and sparkling wine, and the zinc bar is the altar where the faithful gather. It is, quite simply, one of the best tapas bars in Barcelona, provided you don’t mind standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a stranger who is very likely about to spill a drop of house bubbly on your shoes.

Let’s talk about the drink. It’s called Xampanyet. It’s not quite Cava, not quite champagne—it’s a young, slightly sweet, effervescent white wine that goes down entirely too easy. They serve it in small, old-school coupes that feel like they belong in a black-and-white movie. It’s cheap, it’s cold, and it’s the fuel that keeps the engine of this place running. You’ll see bottles being popped every thirty seconds, the hiss of carbonation cutting through the roar of a hundred simultaneous conversations.

The food is a masterclass in the beauty of the tin and the jar. In Spain, 'conservas'—high-end canned seafood—is a religion, and El Xampanyet is one of its most fervent cathedrals. The Cantabrian anchovies here are a revelation. They are fat, silver-skinned, and swimming in olive oil that you will want to drink. They serve them with a side of thick, crusty bread that exists solely to mop up the remains. Then there’s the tortilla de patatas—thick, gooey in the center, and heavy enough to anchor you to the floor. Don't miss the cecina (cured beef) or the stuffed peppers that provide a necessary kick of heat to cut through the salt.

Being a tapas bar in El Born, the crowd is a volatile mix. You’ve got the tourists who read about it in a guidebook and look slightly terrified by the lack of personal space, and you’ve got the locals who have been coming here since before the neighborhood got expensive. The staff are a blur of white shirts and black vests, moving with a frantic efficiency that borders on the supernatural. They don’t have time for your indecision. Know what you want, shout it out, and keep your elbows tucked in.

Is it a tourist trap? No. It’s a place that tourists happen to love, which is a different thing entirely. The quality hasn’t dipped to accommodate the masses. The anchovies are still top-tier, the wine is still cold, and the atmosphere is still thick with the ghosts of a thousand Sunday afternoons. If you’re looking for restaurants near the Picasso Museum that offer more than just a microwave-heated paella, this is your spot. Just be prepared to wait. The queue outside is a permanent fixture of the street, but once you’re inside, with a glass of bubbles in one hand and a forkful of salt-cured heaven in the other, you’ll understand why nobody ever wants to leave.