Little Fern

Poblenou isn’t the Barcelona you see on the postcards. It’s not the winding, claustrophobic alleys of the Gòtic or the grand, gilded boulevards of Eixample. It’s a neighborhood of ghosts—old textile mills, rusted shutters, and the lingering scent of industrial sweat—slowly being overwritten by glass-walled tech hubs and creative studios. And right there, on Carrer de Pere IV, sits Little Fern. It’s a bright, airy defiance of the gritty street outside, a piece of New Zealand’s obsessive cafe culture transplanted into the Mediterranean sun.

Walking in, you’re hit with the immediate, unmistakable hum of a place that knows exactly what it’s doing. It’s the sound of a high-end espresso machine working overtime and the rhythmic clatter of a kitchen that doesn’t do 'simple' breakfast. Owners Jay and Judit didn’t just open a cafe; they brought a philosophy. In Auckland, brunch isn't a lazy afterthought—it’s a religion. And at Little Fern, they’re preaching to a very hungry choir of digital nomads, locals who’ve abandoned the burnt-milk café amb llet of the corner bars, and weekend warriors willing to wait on the sidewalk for a table.

Let’s talk about the kimchi pancakes. In a city where 'fusion' is often a polite word for 'confusion,' these things are a revelation. They’re savory, fermented, and punchy, topped with a gochujang mayo that hits you with just enough heat to wake up your central nervous system, balanced by the cooling crunch of fresh sprouts and a perfectly fried egg. It’s a messy, glorious plate of food that demands your full attention. Then there are the Turkish eggs—Cilbir for the initiated. It’s a bowl of thick, garlicky yogurt, poached eggs with yolks that run like liquid gold, and a dousing of chili butter that ties the whole beautiful disaster together. You’ll find yourself scraping the bottom of the bowl with whatever bread is within reach, unashamed.

The coffee here isn't just a caffeine delivery system; it’s the main event. They treat their beans with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious relics. Whether it’s a flat white—poured with the precision of a diamond cutter—or a clean, acidic batch brew, it’s a reminder that coffee can actually taste like something other than charcoal. And if you don't order the banana bread with espresso butter, you’ve fundamentally failed the mission. It’s dense, toasted to a crisp on the edges, and that butter... it’s a decadent, caffeinated smear of genius that should probably be illegal.

Is it crowded? Yes. Will you have to wait on a Saturday morning while feeling slightly judged by the effortlessly cool crowd in linen shirts? Probably. But that’s the price of entry for brunch that actually has a soul. This isn't a tourist trap serving frozen croissants and watered-down orange juice. It’s a place built on the belief that breakfast should be an event, a protein-heavy, unapologetic collision of heat and fat that carries you through the day.

Little Fern is a sanctuary for people who are tired of the same old avocado toast tropes. It’s honest, it catches the restless hum of a neighborhood on the rise, and it’s a testament to what happens when you bring a bit of Kiwi grit to the Catalan coast. It’s the kind of place that makes you realize that maybe, just maybe, the most important meal of the day shouldn't be spent in a hermetically sealed hotel buffet, but here, in the heart of Poblenou, with a flat white in one hand and a forkful of kimchi in the other.