Restaurant Escairon

Walk down Carrer d'En Fontrodona in Poble-sec and you’ll find plenty of places trying very hard to be something they aren’t. Then there is Restaurant Escairon. It doesn’t try. It just is. Since the late sixties, this family-run Galician outpost has been standing its ground, serving up the kind of unvarnished, protein-heavy truth that makes the modern world of 'small plates' and 'concept dining' look like a fever dream of the weak.

You walk in and the first thing that hits you isn't a scented candle or a curated playlist. It’s the smell of the grill and the low hum of people who are here to do serious work with a knife and fork. The decor is unapologetically old-school: wood-paneled walls, white tablecloths that have seen a thousand Sunday lunches, and a bar where the coffee machine never seems to stop. It’s a neighborhood joint in the truest sense, a place where the waiters have seen it all and aren't particularly impressed by your Instagram following. They are professional, efficient, and they know exactly how long that steak needs to stay on the heat.

Let’s talk about the octopus—the pulpo a feira. In lesser hands, octopus is a rubbery disappointment. Here, it’s a revelation. It’s boiled until it yields to the slightest pressure, sliced into thick coins, and served on the traditional wooden plate. A heavy hand with the extra virgin olive oil, a dusting of pimentón (paprika) that provides a smoky, earthy kick, and a scatter of coarse salt. That’s it. It’s a three-ingredient masterclass in how to treat a cephalopod. You eat it with a toothpick, the way God intended, and you use the bread to mop up every last drop of that red-tinted oil.

But the real reason people make the pilgrimage to this corner of Sants-Montjuïc is the beef. We’re talking about Galician blonde cattle, animals that have lived a long, happy life before being transformed into the best ribeye—the chuletón—you’ll find in the city. It arrives at the table thick, charred on the outside, and deep purple in the middle, seasoned with enough sea salt to make a cardiologist weep. The fat is yellow and buttery, the kind of fat that carries the flavor of the pastures. There are no fancy sauces, no truffle oils, no distractions. It’s just you, the meat, and a side of hand-cut fries that actually taste like potatoes.

To wash it down, you don't order a craft cocktail. You order the house Ribeiro. It arrives in a ceramic pitcher and you drink it out of small white ceramic bowls called tazas. It’s cold, it’s slightly acidic, and it cuts through the richness of the beef like a sharp blade. It’s the way they’ve been doing it in the villages of Galicia for centuries, and there is absolutely no reason to change it now.

Is it perfect? No. It’s loud. On weekends, it’s chaotic, packed with multi-generational families arguing over the bill. If you’re looking for a romantic, candlelit whisper-fest, you’re in the wrong place. The service can be brusque when the room is full, but it’s never dishonest. This is one of the best Galician restaurants in Barcelona because it respects the product. It understands that when you have ingredients this good, the best thing a chef can do is get out of the way. It’s a place for people who love to eat, who aren't afraid of a little grease on their chin, and who know that the best things in life usually come on a wooden plate or a hot grill.