Molino de Pez

Walking into Molino de Pez isn’t like walking into your typical, sterile hotel dining room. Forget the beige carpets and the hushed tones of people eating overpriced club sandwiches. This place, tucked into the ground floor of Hotel Seventy on Carrer de Còrsega, hits you with the smell of wood smoke and the low-frequency hum of a room that actually knows how to party. It’s a massive, double-height space that feels less like a restaurant and more like a cathedral dedicated to the holy trinity of Spanish cooking: product, fire, and memory.

This is the Barcelona outpost of the Redruello family—the Madrid royalty behind La Ancha. They’ve brought that specific, unapologetic 'casa de comidas' philosophy to the Eixample, and they’ve done it without the stuffy pretension that usually follows big-name chefs. The kitchen is wide open, a stage of flickering orange light where chefs battle the coals. There’s no hiding here. You see the fat dripping off the turbot, you hear the hiss of the plancha, and you smell the oak wood burning down to the embers that will eventually char your dinner.

Let’s talk about the food, because that’s why you’re here, and if you aren’t, you should be. Start with the Tortilla de Velázquez. It’s not one of those structural marvels you can build a house with; it’s a loose, yellow, runny mess of eggs and potatoes that barely holds its shape, and it is glorious. It’s the kind of dish that makes you want to fire your doctor and live on a diet of pure cholesterol. Then there are the lentils. Most restaurants treat lentils as a side thought or a vegan obligation. Here, they are cooked with chorizo and a level of respect usually reserved for fine wine. They are deep, earthy, and soul-shattering.

The grill—the 'brasas'—is the heart of the operation. Whether it’s the branzino (lubina) or the zamburiñas (those sweet little scallops), everything that touches the fire comes out with that primal, smoky kiss that you just can’t replicate in a modern electric kitchen. It’s honest cooking. It’s not trying to be 'fusion' or 'elevated' or whatever other buzzword is currently being murdered by PR firms. It’s just good ingredients treated with heat and salt.

Then there’s the piano. Yes, a live piano. In most places, this would be a one-way ticket to Cringetown, but here, amidst the industrial-chic decor and the clatter of plates, it works. It adds a layer of cinematic weirdness to the evening. You’re sitting there, face-deep in a plate of hake, while someone plays a melody that makes the whole room feel like a scene from a movie about a beautiful, slightly chaotic dinner party. It’s one of the best restaurants in Eixample for anyone who actually likes the act of eating.

Is it perfect? No. It’s loud. If you’re looking for a quiet place to discuss your divorce or a secret merger, go somewhere else. The service can be frantic when the room is full, which is almost always. And it’s not cheap—you’re paying for the quality of the sourcing and the prime real estate near Passeig de Gràcia. But for a taste of traditional Spanish food in Barcelona that feels alive and vital rather than preserved in amber for tourists, it’s essential.

Save room for the Rum Baba. It’s a sponge soaked in enough booze to fail a breathalyzer test, topped with a cloud of cream. It’s a decadent, ridiculous end to a meal that celebrates the joy of being full. Molino de Pez is a reminder that even in a city obsessed with the next new thing, the old ways—fire, salt, and a bit of soul—still win every time.