Sr. Ceviche

Carrer de Trafalgar is a street in transition. It’s the jagged edge where the old-school textile wholesalers of the 19th century meet the new, hungry energy of Barcelona’s modern food scene. It’s not the polished, tourist-choked Rambla, and thank God for that. Here, at number 74, sits Sr. Ceviche—a place that doesn’t just serve food; it throws a punch. This isn't your quiet, contemplative Peruvian temple. It’s a loud, unapologetic, neon-drenched celebration of Latin American coastal soul that manages to bridge the gap between Quito, Lima, and Mexico City without breaking a sweat.

Walk through the door and the first thing that hits you isn't the decor—though the raw concrete bones and the glowing signs are cool enough—it’s the smell. It’s the sharp, electric scent of lime juice hitting raw fish, the deep, earthy funk of chilies, and the sweet, fatty promise of coconut milk. This is a place for people who find 'fusion' to be a dirty word but 'flavor' to be a religion. The room is usually packed, vibrating with the sound of cocktail shakers and the kind of cross-table shouting that only happens when the pisco sours are doing their job correctly.

Let’s talk about the namesake. The ceviche here hits the mark. It’s not just fish sitting in acid; it’s a curated collision of textures. The leche de tigre has enough kick to wake the dead, but enough depth to keep you coming back for the last spoonful. But the real secret—the dish that proves this place has a heart—is the Encocado de Langostinos. This is Ecuadorian coastal comfort food at its most visceral. It’s a rich, velvety coconut stew that tastes like a grandmother’s hug if your grandmother lived on a beach in Esmeraldas and knew exactly how to handle a prawn. It’s heavy, it’s soul-restoring, and it’s the reason this place has a cult following.

Then there are the fish tacos. In a city where 'taco' can sometimes mean a sad, dry tortilla with uninspired fillings, Sr. Ceviche delivers a Mexican-inspired masterpiece that actually respects the ingredient. The fish is crispy, the toppings are bright, and the whole thing disappears in three bites, leaving you wondering why you didn't order five more. Wash it down with a Michelada that’s spicy enough to make your eyes water or a pisco sour that’s topped with foam so thick you could stand a spoon in it. This is the fuel for a night out in El Born, the kind of meal that sets the pace for whatever trouble you’re planning to get into later.

The service is fast, borderline chaotic when the house is full, and entirely devoid of the fake 'hospitality' you find in the tourist traps near the Cathedral. They’re busy, they’re efficient, and they know the food is good. There’s a confidence here that’s infectious. You aren't just a customer; you’re part of the riot. It’s a restaurant in Ciutat Vella that feels like it actually belongs to the neighborhood, a place where locals and expats huddle over shared plates of tequeños and argue about which ceviche is the king of the menu.

Is it perfect? No. It’s loud. You’ll probably leave with the scent of fried plantains clinging to your clothes. If you’re looking for a romantic, candlelit whisper-fest, go somewhere else. But if you want to remember what it’s like to eat food that actually tastes like something—food that has a geography and a pulse—then Sr. Ceviche is mandatory. It’s a reminder that the best things in Barcelona often happen on the edges, in the places where the citrus is sharp and the welcome is real.