Jobs Restaurant | Barcelona

Eixample is a grid of ambition and ego. It’s a neighborhood where every second doorway promises a 'gastronomic experience' designed by a marketing firm to separate tourists from their Euros. But then there’s Jobs. Located on Carrer de Mallorca, this isn’t a place that begs for your attention with neon signs or guys in suits waving menus at you on the sidewalk. It’s a restaurant that understands the fundamental truth of the industry: the work—the 'job'—happens on the plate.

Walking into Jobs, you get the sense that someone actually gave a damn about the lighting and the acoustics without making it feel like a sterile laboratory. It’s sleek, sure, but it’s got a pulse. It’s the kind of room that feels right whether you’re closing a deal or trying to remember why you fell in love with the person sitting across from you. The service is professional, bordering on telepathic, lacking that weary indifference you find in the more trampled parts of the Gothic Quarter.

Let’s talk about the food, because that’s why you’re here, and if you aren’t, you’re in the wrong neighborhood. They do a Russian Salad—the Ensaladilla Rusa—that serves as a baseline for everything else. In lesser hands, it’s a gloopy mess of frozen peas and cheap mayo. Here, it’s a balanced, creamy, high-acid opening act that prepares your palate for the heavy hitters. Then comes the cannelloni. In Catalonia, cannelloni is sacred—the traditional use for Sunday’s leftovers. At Jobs, they treat it with the reverence of a high-mass ritual. It’s rich, decadent, and draped in a béchamel so smooth it should be illegal.

The 'Ingot'—the Lingote—is where the kitchen really flexes. Whether it’s the suckling pig or the lamb, it’s a masterclass in texture. Compressed, slow-cooked until the collagen has surrendered completely, and then seared on the plancha until the exterior is a glass-like sheet of crackling fat. It’s a protein rush to the cortex, the kind of dish that makes you stop talking and just focus on the mechanics of chewing and smiling.

But the real reason people lose their minds here—the thing that shows up in nearly every review and probably in the dreams of half the neighborhood—is the torrija. Forget every dry, pathetic piece of French toast you’ve ever had. This is a thick slab of brioche that has been soaked in milk and sugar until it’s structurally unsound, then caramelized until it has a burnt-sugar crust that shatters like a window. It’s served warm, usually with a scoop of ice cream to provide that hot-cold friction that triggers the lizard brain’s pleasure centers. It is, quite simply, one of the best desserts in the city. Period.

Is it a 'hidden gem'? No. The locals know exactly where it is, and the 4.6 rating isn't a fluke. It’s a best Mediterranean restaurant Barcelona contender because it doesn't try to reinvent the wheel; it just makes the wheel out of better materials and greases it with better olive oil. It’s honest. It’s visceral. It’s a reminder that even in a city as picked-over as Barcelona, you can still find a meal that feels like a discovery. If you’re looking for a restaurant in Eixample that delivers on the promise of modern Catalan cooking without the pretense, this is your spot. Just make sure you save room for that torrija, or don't bother coming at all.