Foster's Hollywood

You don’t come to Nou Barris looking for a Michelin star or a lecture on the subtle nuances of Priorat wine. You come here because you’re in Heron City, a sprawling monument to suburban entertainment, and you’ve developed a primal, undeniable craving for something that’s been deep-fried, grilled, or slathered in barbecue sauce. Welcome to Foster’s Hollywood—a place that isn't just a restaurant; it’s a Spanish fever dream of what California used to look like in the movies.

Walking into this place is like stepping into a cinematic purgatory. The walls are plastered with movie memorabilia, the booths are deep and red, and the lighting is that specific shade of neon that makes everyone look like they’re waiting for a casting call that’s thirty years late. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and it smells like sizzling beef and sugar. For the locals of Nou Barris, this isn't a tourist trap—it’s the weekend escape. It’s where families celebrate birthdays and teenagers go to feel like they’re somewhere else entirely.

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: the Bacon & Cheese Fries. If you haven't had them, you haven't truly experienced the Foster’s cult. It is a mountain of potatoes, drowned in a proprietary ranch dressing that probably has a higher addictive potential than most controlled substances, topped with a melted cheese blend and crispy bacon bits. It is unapologetic, heart-stopping, and magnificent in its own greasy way. It’s the kind of dish that makes a nutritionist weep and a hungry person find religion.

Then there are the ribs. The 'National Star Ribs' are the heavy hitters here. They arrive glistening, coated in a thick, sweet, smoky glaze that requires a stack of napkins and a complete lack of dignity to finish. The meat doesn't just fall off the bone; it surrenders. Is it authentic Texas barbecue? Don't be ridiculous. It’s the Spanish interpretation of the American South, and in the middle of a shopping mall in Barcelona, it weirdly works. The burgers, like the 'Director’s Choice,' are massive, multi-layered constructions that require a certain level of structural engineering to consume without a fork.

But here’s the honest truth: it’s a chain. The service can be indifferent when the Saturday night rush hits, and as the reviews suggest, the air conditioning in Heron City can sometimes turn the dining room into a walk-in freezer—bring a coat, or at least a sweater, because the 'cold' mentioned by regulars isn't just a rumor. The prices aren't exactly 'cheap eats' anymore, but the portions are designed to ensure you won't need to eat again for at least twenty-four hours.

If you’re looking for the 'real' Barcelona, go find a damp basement in the Gòtic and eat a tinned sardine. But if you want to see where the people who actually live in this city go when they want to shut off their brains and dive face-first into a plate of nachos, this is it. It’s honest in its artifice. It’s a loud, sticky, neon-lit slice of the American Dream, exported, re-packaged, and served up with a side of Mediterranean hospitality. It’s not sophisticated, but sometimes, sophisticated is the last thing you want to be.