Suru Bar

Walking into Suru Bar isn’t like walking into those sterile, white-tablecloth joints in the upper reaches of the city. There is no velvet rope, no fawning maître d' in a cheap suit, and certainly no 'tourist menu' translated into six languages. Instead, you get the smell of charcoal, the low hum of a kitchen that knows exactly what it’s doing, and the kind of industrial-chic aesthetic that actually feels earned rather than bought from a catalog. This is Eixample Esquerra at its most honest—a neighborhood spot that has quickly become a pilgrimage site for those who worship at the altar of the grill.

The pedigree here is serious. The trio behind the counter—Carles Morote, Gemma López, and Sergi Puig—cut their teeth at Dos Palillos, the legendary Asian-fusion temple run by Albert Raurich. They took that high-wire technical precision and stripped it down to its bare essentials. They call it a 'Mediterranean Izakaya,' which is a fancy way of saying they use Japanese techniques to set fire to the best ingredients Catalonia has to offer. It’s a marriage of convenience that works perfectly because both cultures respect the ingredient enough to let it speak for itself.

Let’s talk about the skin. If you come here and don't order the 'piel de pollo,' you’ve fundamentally failed the assignment. It is a masterclass in texture—rendered down until it’s a glass-shattering sheet of pure poultry essence, often topped with something decadent like caviar or a hit of citrus to cut through the fat. It’s the kind of dish that makes you realize everything you’ve been told about 'healthy eating' is a lie designed to keep you miserable. Then there are the sweetbreads (mollejas), charred until the exterior is a caramelized crust while the inside remains creamy and rich. They don't shy away from the offal here; they celebrate it. The monkfish liver, or 'hígado de rape,' is served with a delicacy that would make a French saucier weep, proving that the 'foie gras of the sea' deserves just as much respect as its land-based cousin.

Sergi Puig runs the floor and the wine list with a quiet, focused intensity. This is a natural wine bar at heart, but without the pretension or the 'vinegar-in-a-bottle' surprises that plague lesser establishments. He’ll find you something orange, something funky, or something deep and mineral-heavy that stands up to the smoke of the yakitori. The list is alive, changing with the seasons and the whims of the winemakers, and it’s one of the best reasons to secure a stool at the bar.

The space itself is all concrete, metal, and open kitchen. You want to be at the bar. You want to watch the chefs navigate the narrow space behind the grill, flipping skewers with a rhythmic, almost meditative focus. It’s loud, it’s cramped when it’s full, and the service is efficient rather than subservient. They aren't here to be your best friend; they’re here to feed you things you’ll be thinking about three days later.

Is it for everyone? No. If you’re looking for a quiet, romantic corner to whisper sweet nothings over a salad, go somewhere else. Suru Bar is for the eaters. It’s for the people who want to see the fire, smell the smoke, and drink wine that tastes like the earth it came from. It’s a reminder that the best food in Barcelona isn't found in the shadows of the Sagrada Familia, but in the small, loud, smoke-filled rooms where the chefs are cooking for themselves as much as for you.