Hungry eyes Restaurant

The name sounds like a discarded track from a mid-80s power ballad compilation, but don't let the branding fool you. Hungry Eyes isn't here to play with your nostalgia; it’s here to set your palate on fire in the best way possible. Located in the resolutely un-glamorous neighborhood of Les Corts—a place where real people actually live and work, far from the madding crowds of the Gothic Quarter—this joint is doing something that 90% of the city’s Indian restaurants fail to do: they’re cooking like they actually give a damn.

Walking down Carrer dels Comtes de Bell-Lloc, you aren't looking for a 'gastronomic journey.' You’re looking for a meal that doesn't taste like it was prepared by a committee in a corporate office. You step inside and the smell hits you first—not that faint, dusty turmeric scent of a supermarket spice aisle, but the aggressive, beautiful aromatics of cumin, cardamom, and ginger hitting hot oil. It’s a small, unassuming space that fills up fast with locals who know exactly what they’re doing.

The 4.9-star rating on Google isn't a fluke or a result of some clever PR campaign. It’s the result of consistency. In a city where service can often be described as 'indifferent' at best, the crew here treats you like a long-lost relative who finally came home for dinner. They aren't hovering, but they care. They want you to like the food because they’re proud of it. And they should be.

Let’s talk about the lamb. In most places, lamb curry is a gamble—a bowl of gristle and disappointment. Here, the lamb is a revelation. It’s slow-cooked until it’s practically structural integrity-free, surrendering to the slightest pressure of a fork. Whether it’s the Rogan Josh or a spicier Vindaloo, the meat has actually spent time getting to know the sauce. Then there’s the Butter Chicken. It’s a cliché, sure, but when done right—creamy, slightly smoky, and balanced—it’s a reminder of why the dish became famous in the first place. Mop it all up with garlic naan that comes out of the kitchen blistered, charred in the right places, and glistening with enough butter to make your cardiologist weep.

If you’re here during the day, the 'Menu del Día' is one of the greatest legal heists in Barcelona. For a handful of Euros, you get a multi-course spread that puts the sad, wilted salads of the city center to shame. It’s honest food for people who work for a living. It’s the kind of place where you can sit alone with a cold beer and a plate of onion bhaji and feel like the world is, for a moment, exactly as it should be.

Is it fancy? No. Is it 'fusion'? God, I hope not. It’s just excellent Indian food served by people who understand that a restaurant is more than just a place to exchange currency for calories. It’s a place for comfort. It’s a place for heat. It’s a place that reminds you that the best meals aren't found under a neon sign or on a 'top ten' list written by someone who’s never left the Eixample. They’re found in places like this, tucked away on a quiet street, waiting for someone with an appetite and a little bit of sense to walk through the door.