Tast Gastro Bar

Avinguda del Paral·lel is a strange, sprawling artery of a street. It was once the Broadway of Barcelona, a neon-lit strip of theaters, cabarets, and dens of iniquity. Today, it’s a bit more sanitized, a bit more functional, but it still retains that gritty, late-night energy. And right there, amidst the theater-goers and the neighborhood regulars, sits Tast Gastro Bar. It doesn’t look like much from the outside—just another glass-fronted spot on a busy road—but walk through the door and the smell of searing protein and high-grade olive oil hits you like a physical weight. This is where the theater of the plate happens.

Let’s get one thing straight: the word 'gastrobar' is usually a red flag. It’s often code for 'we’re going to charge you double for a smaller portion of mediocre food and serve it on a piece of slate.' But Tast is the exception that proves the rule. It’s a place that respects the tradition of the tapa while having the stones to mess with it. The kitchen is open, a frantic, controlled chaos of stainless steel and blue flames. You want to sit at the bar. You want to see the sweat on the line cook’s brow as he flips a piece of octopus or monitors the precise moment a rice dish reaches its peak.

The litmus test for any self-respecting Barcelona joint is the croqueta. Most places serve floury, frozen bricks that sit in your stomach like lead. At Tast, the croquetas de jamón are a revelation. They are dangerously creamy, almost liquid in the center, encased in a shell so thin and crisp it shatters like glass. It’s a hit of pure, unadulterated salt and fat that demands a follow-up of cold, crisp Estrella. If you aren't burning your tongue because you couldn't wait thirty seconds to bite into one, you aren't doing it right.

Then there’s the rice. In this city, 'best paella Barcelona' is a search term that leads many a poor soul into a tourist trap where the rice is yellowed with chemicals and the shrimp are rubber. Tast does 'arroz de montaña'—mountain rice. It’s dark, intense, and deeply savory, cooked with the kind of stock that takes days to reduce. It’s about the socarrat—that caramelized, nearly-burnt layer at the bottom of the pan that you have to scrape off with your fork like you’re digging for buried treasure. It tastes of woodsmoke, wild mushrooms, and the kind of rustic Catalan soul that you usually have to drive three hours into the hills to find.

The service is professional, which in Barcelona means they aren't going to laugh at your jokes or ask about your day. They are there to move plates, pour wine, and keep the machine humming. It’s efficient, it’s fast, and it’s honest. You might feel a little squeezed if you’re at a small table during the 9:00 PM rush, but that’s the point. This isn't a place for a quiet, contemplative salad. It’s a place for noise, for the clatter of cutlery, and for the visceral joy of eating food that someone actually gave a damn about making.

Is it the cheapest meal in Sants-Montjuïc? No. But it’s a bargain for the quality. You’re paying for the technique, the ingredients, and the fact that they haven't sold their soul to the cruise ship crowds. If you want the 'authentic' experience without the sawdust on the floor or the microwave in the back, this is your spot. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s one of the few places on the Paral·lel that still feels like it belongs to the city.