Monry's

If you’re looking for the neon-lit, sangria-by-the-pitcher hellscape of the lower city, keep walking. You won't find any plastic menus with photos of paella here. Monry’s is tucked away in Sarrià-Sant Gervasi, the 'upper zone' where the money lives, the streets are wider, and the air feels about five degrees cooler because it’s not being exhaled by ten thousand cruise ship passengers. This is a neighborhood joint for people who know exactly what they want, and what they want is a damn good meal without the performance art.

Walking into Monry’s on Carrer del Doctor Fleming, you get the sense that the place hit the ground running. It’s got that 'grand opening' energy that never quite faded—a clean, modern space that manages to feel lived-in and welcoming from the jump. It’s not trying to be a dusty tavern from the 19th century, and it’s not trying to be a molecular gastronomy lab. It’s a tapas bar that respects the fundamentals. You see the locals—the well-dressed couples, the groups of friends deep in conversation—huddled over raciones, their voices bouncing off the walls in that beautiful, chaotic Spanish cadence.

Let’s talk about the solomillo. The tenderloin. In a city where everyone claims to have the best meat, Monry’s actually makes a case for it. When that solomillo with foie hits the table, it’s a protein rush to the cortex. It’s rich, it’s decadent, and it’s cooked with the kind of precision that suggests the person behind the stove actually gives a shit. The foie melts into the beef, creating a sauce that you’ll be tempted to lick off the plate once the bread runs out. And you will run out of bread, because the pan con tomate here is the real deal—crusty, rubbed with the right amount of garlic and tomato, and drizzled with oil that hasn't been sitting in a plastic jug for six months.

The croquettes are another litmus test, and Monry’s passes with flying colors. They’ve got that perfect, shatter-crisp exterior that gives way to a center so creamy it’s practically a liquid. Whether it’s the classic jamón or whatever seasonal whim the kitchen is on, they are addictive. Then there’s the ensaladilla rusa—a dish that is too often a mayo-heavy crime against humanity. Here, it’s balanced, cold, and clean, a necessary counterpoint to the heavier raciones. If you’re feeling bold, the steak tartar is chopped with intent, seasoned to kick you in the teeth just enough to keep things interesting.

The service? It’s professional. These aren't kids working a summer job; these are people who understand the rhythm of a busy dining room. They might be brisk when the terrace is full and the sun is setting, but they’re never indifferent. They know the menu, they know the wine list, and they know when to leave you alone with your gin and tonic.

Is it the cheapest meal in Barcelona? No. But it’s honest. You’re paying for quality ingredients and a seat in a neighborhood that hasn't been sold off to the highest bidder. It’s the kind of place you go when you want to remember why you fell in love with this city in the first place—not for the monuments, but for the simple, unadulterated joy of a cold beer and a plate of something wonderful in the company of people who aren't looking at a map. It's a reminder that the best parts of Barcelona aren't found on a postcard.