Koryo

Sarrià-Sant Gervasi is not where you go to find the bleeding edge of cool. It’s the 'upper' part of Barcelona—quiet, residential, moneyed, and largely ignored by the hordes of tourists choking the life out of the Gothic Quarter. It’s a place of leafy streets and dignified apartment blocks. But on Carrer de Reus, there’s a doorway that leads somewhere else entirely. Koryo doesn’t bother with the neon-soaked K-pop aesthetics that have turned half the Korean spots in Eixample into stage sets. It’s a sober, functional room that smells of toasted sesame oil and the glorious, sharp tang of fermentation. It’s been here a while, and it feels like it.

Walking into Koryo is a relief. There is no one trying to sell you a lifestyle. There are no 'concept' cocktails. There is just a kitchen doing the hard, honest work of feeding people. If you’re smart, you show up for the menu del dia. In a city where the cost of living is spiraling into the stratosphere, Koryo remains a bastion of sanity. For a price that feels like a clerical error in your favor, you get a multi-course immersion into the soul of Korean home cooking.

It starts with the banchan—those small, essential plates of seasonal vegetables, pickles, and, of course, the kimchi. The kimchi here has that necessary bite, a fermented funk that wakes up the palate and reminds you that food is a living, breathing thing. Then comes the main event. If you aren't ordering the dolsot bibimbap, you’re doing it wrong. It arrives in a heavy stone bowl, screaming hot, the rice at the bottom crackling and popping as it transforms into a golden, crunchy crust. You add the gochujang, you break the egg, and you stir like your life depends on it. It’s a textural masterpiece—the soft vegetables, the chewy rice, the spicy-sweet heat of the paste, and those charred, crispy bits of rice that you have to scrape off the stone like a prize.

The bulgogi is another heavy hitter. Thinly sliced beef, marinated until it’s tender enough to yield to a stern look, then seared on the plancha. It’s sweet, savory, and deeply satisfying. Or maybe you go for the japchae, those glass noodles made from sweet potato starch that have a bounce and a chew unlike anything else in the culinary canon, tossed with sesame and wood ear mushrooms. This is food that doesn't need to shout to be heard. It’s balanced, it’s nutritious, and it feels like someone’s mother is in the back making sure you eat your vegetables.

The service is efficient, bordering on the brisk, which is exactly what you want at lunch. The room is filled with locals—office workers taking a break from the grind, students from the nearby universities, and Korean expats who know that this is the real deal. It’s a place of habit and ritual. There’s a quiet dignity to the way Koryo operates. They aren't chasing stars or influencers; they’re just making sure the rice is perfect and the broth is deep.

Is it the most luxurious dining experience in Barcelona? Not by a long shot. The decor is dated, the lighting is unforgiving, and the chairs are built for utility, not lounging. But that’s the point. You come here for the honesty of the ingredients and the precision of the flavors. It’s a reminder that the best meals aren't found in the places with the biggest PR budgets, but in the quiet corners where people have been doing the same thing well for years. If you want the flash, go elsewhere. If you want a protein-heavy punch to the cortex and a bowl of rice that sings, get yourself to Sarrià.