Muxsa

Guinardó is not the Barcelona they put on the postcards. There are no dancing fountains here, no guys in giant lizard suits charging ten euros for a photo, and thank god for that. It’s a neighborhood of steep hills, laundry hanging over balconies, and people who have zero patience for culinary pretension. This is where you find Muxsa, sitting on the corner of Teodor Llorente like it’s been waiting for you to finally get tired of the Gothic Quarter’s overpriced croquetas.

Walking into Muxsa feels like a relief. It’s a neighborhood joint that refuses to be put in a box. Is it a Peruvian spot? A tapas bar? A cocktail lounge? It’s all of that, and it doesn't care if that confuses you. The air smells like lime juice and frying potatoes—the two essential scents of a life well-lived. The decor is clean, modern, but lacks that sterile 'designed by a corporate firm' feel. It feels like a place owned by people who actually show up for work.

Let’s talk about the ceviche, because if you’re coming here and not ordering it, you’re doing it wrong. This isn't that wimpy, pre-marinated fish mush you find in tourist traps. This is a high-voltage, protein-heavy strike to the jaw. The leche de tigre is bright, sharp, and unapologetic, cutting through the humidity of a Barcelona afternoon like a razor. It’s the kind of dish that makes your eyes widen and your pulse quicken. Then, in a move that shouldn't work but absolutely does, you follow it up with a Spanish tortilla. It’s thick, gooey in the center, and heavy with the kind of soul that only comes from a kitchen that respects the classics. This is the beauty of Muxsa: the collision of Lima and Barcelona on a single table.

The menu keeps swinging. You’ve got burgers that are built for hunger, not for Instagram—juicy, messy, and served with the kind of raciones that make you realize you’ve been under-snacking your entire life. The patatas bravas here aren't an afterthought; they’re a statement. And then there are the cocktails. In a city where 'cocktail' often means a gin and tonic the size of a fishbowl, Muxsa treats the bar with the reverence of a laboratory. The Pisco Sours are dangerous—frothy, tart, and far too easy to drink in multiples.

The crowd is a mix of locals who know exactly what they’ve got and the occasional traveler who got lost on the way to Hospital de Sant Pau and struck gold. There’s a hum of conversation that isn't drowned out by shitty house music. It’s the sound of a neighborhood eating well. The service is efficient and honest; they aren't going to blow smoke up your skirt, but they’ll make sure your glass is never empty and your ceviche is fresh.

Is it out of the way? Maybe, if you think the world ends at Plaça de Catalunya. But for the price of a short metro ride, you get a meal that feels earned. It’s affordable, it’s loud, and it’s real. Muxsa is a reminder that the best parts of Barcelona are often found when you stop looking at the map and start following the smell of lime and hot oil up the hill. It’s a place for people who love food more than they love being seen eating it. If you want the 'authentic' experience everyone keeps lying about, take the L4, walk up the hill, and sit down at the bar. You won't regret it.