Gatsby

Carrer de Tuset is not the Barcelona of sun-drenched plazas and dusty wine barrels. It is the street of the 'pijo'—the polished, the perfumed, and the unapologetically ambitious. This is the heart of the Zona Alta, where the city’s glitterati come to play, and Gatsby is the undisputed, gold-leafed crown jewel of this high-rent playground. If you’re looking for a quiet, contemplative meal where you can hear your own thoughts, turn around and walk toward the Raval. You’ve come to the wrong place.

Walking into Gatsby is like stepping into a fever dream of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wildest bender, updated for the 21st-century jet set. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the electric hum of a crowd that’s been waiting all week to spend too much money. The decor is a riot of Art Deco geometry, velvet, and enough brass to sink a battleship. It’s loud, it’s theatrical, and it’s entirely aware of its own absurdity. That’s the point. You don’t come here for a meal; you come for the spectacle.

The experience is built around the dinner show, a concept that usually fills me with a deep, existential dread. But here, they actually pull it off. As you work your way through a menu that leans heavily into Mediterranean luxury, the room transforms. One minute you’re tucking into a plate of Arroz meloso de bogavante—creamy lobster rice that’s surprisingly well-executed for a place with this much distraction—and the next, a troupe of professional dancers is blurring the lines between the stage and your table. The production values are high, the choreography is tight, and the energy is infectious. It’s a sensory blitzkrieg of sequins, feathers, and live vocals that makes the standard 'dinner and a movie' look like a funeral.

The food, remarkably, isn't an afterthought. In many dinner-show joints, the kitchen is just a factory for lukewarm chicken. Not here. The Steak Tartare is prepared with a level of respect that suggests the chef actually gives a damn, and the Solomillo de ternera with foie gras is exactly the kind of decadent, artery-clogging plate that this room demands. It’s rich, it’s expensive, and it pairs perfectly with a wine list that seems designed to be read by the light of a smartphone flash.

As the night progresses, the boundary between restaurant and nightclub dissolves entirely. The tables stay, but the volume goes up, the lights go down, and the DJ takes over. This is where you see the real Barcelona high society in its natural habitat—beautiful people doing beautiful things in beautiful clothes. The dress code is not a suggestion; it’s a barrier to entry. If you show up in sneakers, the bouncers will look at you like you’ve just insulted their mothers.

Is it authentic? That depends on what you’re looking for. It’s not the 'authentic' Barcelona of the history books, but it is the authentic Barcelona of the modern elite. It’s a place of artifice and excess, a temple to the 'see and be seen' culture that defines this neighborhood. It’s expensive, it’s a bit ridiculous, and the service can be as haughty as the guest list. But for one night, if you’re willing to lean into the madness and let the champagne flow, Gatsby offers a high-gloss escape that’s hard to find anywhere else in the city. Just don't expect to leave with your hearing—or your bank account—intact.