Santa Anita

Barcelona is a city that lives in the streets, and nowhere is that more evident right now than on Carrer del Consell de Cent. What used to be a choked artery of diesel fumes and honking taxis has been reclaimed by the people—a 'superilla' or superblock where the pavement belongs to the strollers, the dogs, and the drinkers. In the middle of this urban revolution sits Santa Anita, a place that functions like a Swiss Army knife for the modern Eixample resident. It’s not a white-tablecloth temple of gastronomy, and thank God for that. It’s a bar, a grill, a beer hall, and a kitchen that seems to understand that sometimes you want a refined cocktail and sometimes you just want a plate of nachos that could stop a bullet.

Walking in, you get that industrial-chic vibe that’s become the shorthand for 'cool' in this neighborhood—exposed brick, high ceilings, and a certain unvarnished honesty. The air is a thick, swirling cocktail of roasted coffee beans and the sharp, salty hiss of the plancha. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t try too hard to be your friend, which is exactly why you end up staying for three more drinks than you planned. You see the digital nomads hunched over laptops in the morning, nursing cafe amb llet and sweet crepes, and by 8:00 PM, they’ve been replaced by groups of locals arguing over the latest Barça collapse over rounds of Estrellas.

Let’s talk about the food, because in a city obsessed with its stomach, you can’t survive on vibes alone. The menu is a bit of a wildcard. You’ve got the classics—the patatas bravas are the litmus test of any self-respecting Barcelona joint, and here they do them right. The potatoes have that essential crunch, a structural integrity that holds up against a spicy, smoky brava sauce and a dollop of alioli that doesn’t apologize for the garlic. Then there are the crepes, an odd addition to a tapas-heavy menu, but they work. Whether it’s a savory fold-over with ham and cheese or a sugar-dusted dessert version, they provide a weirdly comforting counterpoint to the salt and grease of the grill.

And then there are the nachos. Purists might scoff at finding nachos in the heart of Eixample, but when they arrive—piled high, messy, and unapologetic—you realize that 'authenticity' is a boring word. What matters is that they taste good when you’re halfway through a bottle of vermouth. The service is typical of a high-volume Barcelona spot: efficient, slightly harried, and possessing that uncanny ability to spot a thirsty customer from across a crowded room without ever making eye contact.

The draw here is the terrace. Sitting out on the pedestrianized Consell de Cent, you’re watching the neighborhood breathe without the barrier of a car window. Is it the best meal you’ll ever have in Spain? Probably not. But it is a real meal, in a real place, served to real people. It’s an anchor in a neighborhood that’s rapidly changing—a reliable spot where the beer is cold, the food is honest, and the bill won't make you want to jump off the Sagrada Família.