Michigan

Walk into Michigan and you’ll realize the name is a total red herring. There are no Great Lakes here, no Detroit steel, no Midwestern hospitality. What you get instead is a glorious, grease-slicked slice of the real Barcelona, the kind of place that doesn’t give a damn about your Instagram feed or your gluten sensitivity. It’s a neighborhood joint in Sarrià-Sant Gervasi that has survived the onslaught of avocado toast and specialty coffee by doing one thing better than almost anyone else in the city: the tortilla de patatas.

This isn’t the dry, yellow sponge you see sitting under heat lamps at airport kiosks. This is the real deal. It’s a heavy, weeping, golden disc of potato, onion, and egg that defies the laws of structural integrity. When they slide a wedge of it onto a plate—usually accompanied by a hunk of bread rubbed with tomato and doused in olive oil—it’s a protein-heavy religious experience. The center is just barely set, a custardy landscape of slow-confit potatoes that have been fried in olive oil until they’ve surrendered their soul. It’s one of the best tortilla Barcelona has to offer, and it’s been that way for decades.

The atmosphere is exactly what it should be. It’s loud. It’s cramped. The floors are probably a little sticky, and the marble counter is worn smooth by thousands of elbows. This is a tapas bar in Sarrià-Sant Gervasi that serves as the living room for the neighborhood. You’ll see construction workers in high-vis vests standing shoulder-to-shoulder with guys in three-piece suits from the nearby offices on Diagonal, all of them united by the common goal of a mid-morning 'esmorzar de forquilla'—the fork breakfast. There’s a frantic, beautiful energy to the place at noon, a symphony of clinking glasses, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the rhythmic thud of a knife hitting a cutting board.

If you aren’t here for the tortilla, you’re here for the bocadillos. Specifically, the botifarra. The Catalan sausage here is treated with the respect it deserves—grilled until the casing snaps between your teeth, releasing a hit of porky, peppery goodness that’ll make you wonder why anyone bothers with a burger. It’s served in a 'flauta,' a thin, crusty baguette that provides just enough resistance to make you work for it. It’s the definition of cheap eats Barcelona style: high-quality ingredients, zero pretense, and a price point that doesn’t require a second mortgage.

Is it perfect? No. The service is fast, but don’t expect the staff to ask you about your day or explain the 'concept' of the menu. There is no concept. The concept is food. You order, you eat, you pay, and you make room for the next person waiting for your stool. It’s a high-pressure environment that rewards the decisive. If you’re looking for a romantic date night with candlelight and soft jazz, you’ve come to the wrong place. But if you want to understand the heartbeat of this city, if you want to eat something that feels like it was made by someone who actually gives a damn about tradition, then Michigan is your North Star.

It’s a holdout. A survivor. In a city that is increasingly being polished and packaged for mass consumption, Michigan remains stubbornly, beautifully itself. It’s the kind of place where the wine is served in small glasses, the coffee is strong enough to jumpstart a dead battery, and the food reminds you that the simplest things are often the hardest to get right. Don't overthink it. Just show up, find a gap at the bar, and point at the tortilla. You can thank me later.