Rabbit's Bar

If you’re looking for the grit and grime of the Raval, you’ve come to the wrong neighborhood. Rabbit’s Bar sits up in Sarrià-Sant Gervasi, the kind of zip code where the sidewalks are wider, the air is thinner, and the scooters are significantly more expensive. This is the 'Upper Diagonal,' the bastion of Barcelona’s old-money elite. But don't let the polished exterior fool you. Once you push through the doors of Rabbit’s, the quiet privilege of Ganduxer vanishes, replaced by the beautiful, clattering chaos of a proper Spanish tapas bar.

This isn't some dusty relic from the 1940s. It’s a modern, high-gloss operation—all stainless steel, marble counters, and bright lights—that somehow manages to capture the soul of a classic joint. It’s loud. It’s crowded. It’s the kind of place where the waiters move with a choreographed urgency that borders on the supernatural. If you’re looking for a quiet, romantic corner to whisper sweet nothings, go somewhere else. Here, you’re here to eat, to drink, and to shout over the din of a hundred other people doing exactly the same thing.

The heart of the experience is the bar. It’s a massive, U-shaped altar to gluttony that dominates the room. Sitting here is mandatory. You want to see the action; you want to smell the garlic hitting the plancha; you want to see the plates flying out of the kitchen. This is one of the best tapas bars in Barcelona for anyone who values execution over artifice. The menu doesn't try to reinvent the wheel; it just makes the wheel better than everyone else.

Start with the ensaladilla rusa. It’s a litmus test for any Spanish kitchen, and here it’s a masterclass—creamy, cold, and topped with high-quality ventresca (tuna belly) that actually tastes like fish, not tin. Then move to the hot stuff. The fricandó is a revelation. It’s a traditional Catalan beef stew with moixernons (mushrooms) that usually belongs in a grandmother’s kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. At Rabbit's, it’s rich, deeply savory, and served with a level of confidence that says, 'Yeah, we know it’s good.'

And then there’s the field pumpkin—roasted until it’s slumped and caramelized, served with stracciatella that cuts through the sweetness like a knife. It’s simple, honest, and devastatingly effective. But the real reason people trek up the hill to Ganduxer is the torrija. This isn't just dessert; it’s a tactical strike on your cardiovascular system. A thick slab of brioche soaked in milk and sugar, caramelized until the exterior is a glass-like shell, and served with a dollop of cold cream. It is, quite simply, one of the best things you will put in your mouth in this city.

Is it expensive? For tapas, yeah, a little. You’re paying the 'Sarrià tax.' Is it pretentious? Surprisingly, no. Despite the well-heeled crowd in their quilted vests and designer loafers, the vibe is democratic. Everyone is equal before a plate of perfectly fried croquetas. It’s a polished, professional, and unapologetically high-energy tribute to the way Barcelona loves to eat. It’s proof that you don’t need a hundred years of history to have a soul—you just need a hot plancha and the guts to do the classics right.