Salsa

Sarrià-Sant Gervasi is where the old money of Barcelona goes to sleep. It is a neighborhood of manicured parks, quiet streets, and people who wear cashmere even in the summer. It is the last place you’d expect to find a kitchen that understands the low-down, dirty, beautiful soul of Mexican street food. But there, on Carrer de Laforja, sits Salsa. It doesn’t scream for your attention with inflatable cacti or 'Taco Tuesday' banners. It just exists, serving up the kind of food that makes you remember why you started traveling in the first place.

When you walk into Salsa, you aren't greeted by a theme park version of Mexico. It’s a tight, focused space that feels like a well-kept secret shared among the locals who’ve grown tired of the overpriced tapas traps in the center. The air smells of charred chilies, slow-rendered pork fat, and the sharp, acidic sting of fresh lime. It’s the smell of a kitchen that actually gives a damn. This isn't 'Tex-Mex'—there are no mountains of yellow cheese or soggy burritos here. This is a love letter to the flavors of the Yucatán and the streets of CDMX, filtered through a local lens.

The menu—or the 'letter' as the locals call it—is a concise exercise in doing a few things perfectly. You start with the croquetas. Now, usually, a croqueta is a Spanish birthright, a creamy bechamel-filled nugget of tradition. But here, they’ve hijacked the form. The cochinita pibil croquetas are a revelation—a crunchy exterior giving way to a rich, spiced pork interior that bridges the gap between the Old World and the New. It’s a brilliant, greasy, high-wire act that shouldn't work, but it does.

Then comes the main event: the cochinita pibil. This is the litmus test for any Mexican joint worth its salt. At Salsa, the pork is treated with the respect it deserves—marinated in achiote and citrus, slow-cooked until it’s less of a meat and more of a state of mind. It’s served with pickled red onions that provide the necessary acidic punch to cut through the richness. You pile it onto a corn tortilla, add a splash of their house-made salsa—which actually carries a respectable heat—and for a second, the posh streets of Sarrià disappear. You’re somewhere else entirely.

The aguachile is another standout, a cold, sharp slap to the face that wakes up the palate. It’s fresh, vibrant, and unapologetically spicy. To wash it down, you don’t look for a cheap beer. You look for the mezcal. The selection here is curated by people who clearly spend their nights thinking about smoke and agave. A proper margarita here isn't a slushy-machine disaster; it’s a balanced, dangerous thing that demands you order a second.

Is it perfect? No. The service can be 'relaxed' when the room is full, and if you’re looking for a quiet, romantic whisper-fest, the energy here might be a bit much. But that’s the point. Salsa is a reminder that even in the most refined corners of Barcelona, you can still find a place that’s raw, honest, and willing to make you sweat a little. It’s one of the best Mexican restaurants in Barcelona because it doesn't try to be everything to everyone. It just tries to be authentic to the ingredients and the culture it represents. If you’re tired of the tourist-friendly fluff and want a meal that actually leaves a mark, this is where you go.