Samarkand Comida Típica Uzbeka

If you’re looking for white tablecloths, fawning waiters, or a view of a Gaudí chimney, get back on the L3 and head toward the center. You’re in Nou Barris now. This is the Barcelona that doesn’t make it onto the postcards—a working-class sprawl of high-rises and laundry hanging over balconies. But it’s here, on Carrer de Santapau, that you’ll find Samarkand Comida Típica Uzbeka, a place that serves the kind of soul-satisfying, unvarnished food that makes the long metro ride feel like a pilgrimage.

Walking into Samarkand isn’t about 'ambiance' in the way a PR firm defines it. It’s a room. It’s clean, it’s bright, and it smells like cumin, rendered lamb fat, and the kind of deep, slow-simmered onions that form the backbone of Central Asian cooking. This is a family operation, and you feel it the moment you sit down. There’s no pretense here, just a menu that reads like a map of the ancient Silk Road, translated into a language of steam and spice.

You’re here for the Plov, or Osh. In Uzbekistan, this isn’t just a rice dish; it’s a national obsession, a social glue. At Samarkand, they treat it with the respect it deserves. The rice is glistening, each grain separate and saturated with the essence of lamb and sweet, yellow carrots. It’s heavy, it’s rich, and it hits your system like a warm blanket. It’s the kind of food that was designed to sustain horsemen crossing the steppes, and it works just as well for a hungry traveler in 2025. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a piece of the tender, fall-apart lamb that’s been buried in the rice like a prize.

Then there are the Manti. These aren’t the delicate, ethereal dumplings you find in a dim sum parlor. These are sturdy, hand-folded pockets of dough, steamed until they’re just translucent enough to tease the meat and onions inside. When you bite into one, it releases a hot, savory broth that demands your full attention. Top them with a dollop of sour cream and maybe a hit of their house-made chili sauce, and you’ll understand why people have been eating these for centuries. Don’t ignore the Samsa either—flaky, golden pastries filled with minced meat that shatter with a satisfying crunch, releasing a puff of aromatic steam.

To cut through all that glorious fat, you need the Achichuk salad. It’s a simple, brutalist composition of tomatoes, onions, and maybe some chili, sliced paper-thin. It’s the acid and the crunch that resets your palate so you can go back in for another round of lamb. Wash it all down with a pot of green tea, served in traditional ceramic bowls. It’s the ritual that completes the meal, a moment of calm in a neighborhood that’s always moving.

Samarkand is one of those rare spots in Barcelona where the price-to-happiness ratio is heavily skewed in your favor. It’s one of the best cheap eats in Barcelona, not because it’s 'budget,' but because the value is immense. You’re eating food that has a lineage, cooked by people who aren't trying to reinvent the wheel—they’re just trying to keep it turning. It’s honest, it’s filling, and it’s entirely devoid of the tourist-trap bullshit that plagues the city center. If you want to see the real Barcelona, the one that eats well without needing to brag about it on Instagram, this is where you go. Just bring an appetite and leave your pretensions at the door.