f9cs Restaurant

Forget the polished marble of the Eixample and the overpriced tapas traps of the Gothic Quarter. If you want to see where Barcelona actually goes to breathe, you have to get on the S1 or S2 train at Plaça de Catalunya and head north. You watch the city disappear into tunnels, and when you emerge at Baixador de Vallvidrera, the air changes. It’s cooler, sharper, and smells like damp earth and burning holm oak. This is the gateway to Collserola, and f9cs—better known to locals as Font de les Planes—is the reward for making the trip.

This isn’t a restaurant in the traditional, white-tablecloth sense. It’s a 'merendero,' a sprawling, rustic outpost that feels like a cross between a summer camp and a medieval feast. The first thing that hits you isn't the menu; it’s the smoke. It billows from the massive grills where mountains of lamb chops, botifarra sausages, and rabbit are being sacrificed to the gods of fire. It’s a visceral, primal smell that triggers something deep in the lizard brain. You aren’t here for a delicate emulsion or a deconstructed anything. You’re here for the char.

If you’re lucky enough to be here between January and April, you’re here for the calçotada. This is the Catalan ritual of eating oversized green onions charred over open flames until the outer layers are carbon-black. You peel back the burnt skin with your bare, soot-stained hands, dip the tender white heart into a thick, nutty romesco sauce, and lower it into your mouth like a sword swallower. It’s messy, it’s undignified, and it’s one of the greatest culinary experiences on the planet. At f9cs, they do it with a volume and a lack of pretense that makes the city versions feel like pale imitations.

The setting is dominated by the terrace, a massive expanse of tables shaded by trees and overlooking a small, persistent waterfall—the Font de les Planes. It’s loud. There are dogs under tables, cyclists in neon spandex leaning their bikes against fences, and multi-generational Catalan families engaged in high-volume debates over carafes of house red wine. The service is a controlled form of chaos. The waiters move with the frantic energy of people who know they have three hundred hungry hikers to feed before the sun goes down. Don’t expect a warm hug; expect efficiency and a plate of food that’s still sizzling from the coals.

Let’s be honest: the paella here isn't going to win any avant-garde awards. It’s a mountain paella—hearty, heavy on the meat, and designed to fuel a long walk back through the pines. The snails (cargols a la llauna) are spicy, garlicky, and require work. This is food you have to engage with. It’s not a passive experience. You will get grease on your chin and ash on your shirt. If that bothers you, stay in the city and eat a club sandwich at your hotel.

The magic of f9cs is that it remains stubbornly itself despite being twenty minutes from the center of a global tourist hub. It’s a place of transition—where the urban grind of Barcelona meets the rugged indifference of the mountains. You come here to remember that food is supposed to be shared, that fire makes everything taste better, and that a cold beer next to a waterfall is worth more than a dozen Michelin stars. It’s honest, it’s loud, and it’s exactly what you need when the city starts to feel like a cage.