Gingko Restaurant

The Eixample grid can be a soul-crushing labyrinth of 'authentic' traps and overpriced mediocrity if you don’t know where to turn. You walk past block after block of the same chamfered corners, looking for a sign of life that hasn't been focus-grouped to death. Then you find Gingko. It doesn’t scream for your attention with golden dragons or waving cats. It’s quiet. It’s minimalist. It’s the kind of place that knows exactly what it is, and more importantly, what it isn’t.

Walking into Gingko feels like a palate cleanser for the soul. The decor is stripped back—clean lines, warm wood, and a vibe that says 'we’re here to cook, not to entertain your orientalist fantasies.' This is modern Asian dining in the heart of Barcelona, and it’s doing something that few fusion joints manage: it’s being honest. It’s not trying to reinvent the wheel; it’s just making the wheel run a hell of a lot smoother with better grease and finer steel.

Let’s talk about the dim sum, because that’s where the battle is won or lost. Most people are used to the rubbery, translucent pucks found in the freezer aisle or at the bottom of a bamboo steamer in a tourist trap. At Gingko, the Siu Mai is a revelation. When you hit that truffle-infused filling, it hits you with an intensity that’s earthy, rich, and perfectly balanced against the snap of the protein. The Har Gow is delicate, the skin thin enough to be elegant but strong enough to hold the cargo. This is technical cooking, the kind that requires a chef who actually gives a damn about the heritage of the fold.

Then there’s the Iberian pork. This is where the 'fusion' tag actually earns its keep. Taking the pride of Spain—that fatty, acorn-fed magic—and applying Chinese lacquer and heat is a stroke of genius. The ribs are a triumph of texture: a lacquered, sticky exterior that gives way to meat that practically dissolves on the tongue. It’s salty, it’s sweet, and it’s unapologetically fatty. If you’re looking for a salad, you’ve wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

One of the biggest surprises here is the wine list. Usually, in a Chinese restaurant, the wine is an afterthought—a dusty bottle of something generic kept in a cupboard. Not here. The selection is curated with a surgical eye, featuring bottles that actually stand up to the bold, spicy, and umami-heavy flavors of the menu. It’s a grown-up way to eat Asian food, and it’s about time more places caught on.

And then, the flan. I know what you’re thinking. Why the hell am I eating flan at a Chinese fusion spot in Eixample? Because it’s Barcelona, and because they’ve perfected a cheese flan that has no business being this good. It’s creamy, dense, and just the right amount of 'not-too-sweet.' It’s the kind of ending that makes you realize the kitchen isn't bound by geography, only by quality.

Is it the cheapest meal in the city? No. Is it a 'hidden gem'? Nothing in Eixample is hidden anymore. But Gingko is a sanctuary of quiet excellence. It’s for the person who wants the heat of the wok and the precision of the knife without the theater. It’s for the local who’s tired of tapas and the traveler who’s tired of bullshit. It’s just good food, served by people who know how to handle a flame. And in a city that’s increasingly becoming a theme park, that’s worth every cent.