Santamasa Sarrià

Sarrià is not the Barcelona you see on the back of a bus tour brochure. It’s a place that still feels like the independent village it was until the city swallowed it whole in 1921. It’s a neighborhood of quiet wealth, narrow stone streets, and a pace of life that suggests nobody is in a particular hurry to get anywhere. At the heart of this bubble, on the pedestrian artery of Carrer Major de Sarrià, sits Santamasa. It’s the kind of place that understands exactly what it is: a reliable, unpretentious anchor for a community that values quality over theatrics.

Walking into Santamasa Sarrià feels like stepping into a modernized farmhouse that’s been scrubbed clean but kept its soul. There’s a lot of warm wood, high ceilings, and the kind of soft, amber lighting that makes everyone look a little more interesting than they probably are. It’s buzzing, sure, but it’s a local buzz—the sound of families arguing over football, old friends sharing a bottle of Priorat, and the rhythmic clatter of plates coming out of a kitchen that knows its rhythm. If you’re looking for molecular foam or waiters in white gloves, you’ve wandered into the wrong part of town. This is about the fundamentals.

The star of the show here is the 'coca.' For the uninitiated, the Catalan coca is the leaner, meaner cousin of the pizza. It’s a thin, elongated flatbread that provides the perfect, crunchy canvas for whatever the kitchen decides to throw on top. At Santamasa, they treat the coca with the respect it deserves. Whether it’s topped with 'escalivada' (smoky roasted vegetables), salt-cured anchovies, or a decadent smear of truffle oil and jamón, the base remains the hero—crisp enough to shatter, but sturdy enough to hold the weight of the Mediterranean. It’s honest food. It’s the kind of thing you eat with your hands while leaning over a paper-covered table.

But don’t stop at the bread. The patatas bravas here are a local obsession for a reason. They aren't those frozen cubes you find in the tourist traps near La Rambla; these are hand-cut, fried to a golden defiance, and topped with a sauce that actually has some personality. The menu—or 'la carta' as the locals call it—is a broad sweep of Mediterranean comfort, from well-constructed burgers to fresh salads that don't feel like an afterthought. It’s a menu designed to please a crowd, which is exactly why you’ll see three generations of a Sarrià family sharing a table here on a Sunday afternoon.

The service? It’s professional, but it’s Catalan professional. That means it’s efficient but won't coddle you. When the terrace is full—and it usually is, because sitting on Carrer Major watching the world go by is one of life’s great low-cost luxuries—the staff might be moving at a sprint. Don't take it personally. Just order another glass of vermut and enjoy the fact that you’re in a part of Barcelona where the primary language is still Catalan and the primary goal is a good meal.

Is it the most experimental kitchen in the city? No. Is it trying to be? Absolutely not. Santamasa hits that necessary sweet spot—better than a basic bar, more relaxed than a formal restaurant, and consistently good enough that you don't have to think twice about coming back. It’s a slice of the real Barcelona, tucked away in the hills, waiting for anyone smart enough to leave the city center behind.