Restaurant Babou

Ronda de Sant Pere is a meat grinder. It’s the frantic, exhaust-choked artery where the orderly grid of Eixample collides with the labyrinthine madness of the old city. It’s a place of commuters, honking scooters, and tourists looking lost with their rolling suitcases. You don’t usually come here for a soul-restoring meal. You come here to get somewhere else. But then there’s Babou, sitting there like a cool glass of water in a heatwave, tucked into the ground floor of the Yurbban Passage.

Let’s get the 'hotel restaurant' thing out of the way. Usually, that’s a death sentence—a recipe for bland, overpriced club sandwiches and 'international' buffets designed to offend no one and please even fewer. But Barcelona is different. Here, the hotels have realized that if they don’t cook real food, the locals will ignore them, and a restaurant without locals is just a waiting room with white tablecloths. Babou isn't a waiting room. It’s a sleek, high-ceilinged room that manages to feel intimate despite the scale, a place where the lighting is low enough to hide your sins but bright enough to see the sear on your protein.

You start with the croquetas. In this city, the croqueta is the ultimate litmus test. If a kitchen can’t get the béchamel right—creamy, almost liquid, encased in a shell that shatters like glass—they shouldn't be allowed to touch a stove. Babou’s jamón ibérico croquettes pass the test. They are salty, rich, and gone too fast. It’s the kind of snack that demands a cold glass of vermut and a moment of silence.

Then comes the octopus. Pulpo a la brasa is a cliché in Barcelona, appearing on every menu from the port to Tibidabo. But when it’s done right, like it is here, you remember why it became a staple. It’s got that smoky, charred exterior from the grill, giving way to a tender, buttery center that hasn't been boiled into submission. It’s served with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing your product is fresh.

The risotto is the surprise hit. Usually, ordering risotto in Spain is a gamble—you often end up with a plate of sad, overcooked rice mush. At Babou, the mushroom risotto is a revelation of texture and deep, fungal funk. It’s rich, earthy, and hits that primal umami button in your brain that makes you want to scrape the plate clean when no one is looking. It’s not 'fusion' for the sake of being fancy; it’s just good cooking using the Mediterranean pantry.

The service is professional without being stiff. They know the wine list, they know when to refill your water, and they know when to leave you the hell alone so you can actually enjoy your conversation. It’s a rare thing in this part of town—a place that feels sophisticated but remains grounded in the reality of what a good dinner should be: honest ingredients, prepared with care, served in a room that makes you feel better than you did when you walked in.

Is it the cheapest meal in Barcelona? No. Is it a dusty tavern where a guy named Paco has been pouring wine since the seventies? Definitely not. But if you’re tired of the tourist traps around Urquinaona and you want a meal that actually respects your palate and your time, Babou is the play. It’s a polished, modern take on the Catalan soul, served right in the middle of the urban scramble. It’s the kind of place that reminds you that even in the busiest parts of the city, you can still find a moment of genuine, delicious calm.