Taverna Cu-Cut

Carrer d’Enric Granados is the runway of Eixample. It’s a leafy, pedestrian-friendly artery where the beautiful people of Barcelona come to see and be seen, usually with a glass of vermouth in hand. In the middle of this architectural catwalk sits Taverna Cu-Cut, a place that takes its name from a satirical Catalan magazine that was shut down by the military in 1905 for being too loud and too honest. That’s a hell of a legacy to live up to, and while the restaurant isn’t exactly overthrowing the government, it is doing something equally difficult: serving food that actually justifies the prime real estate it occupies.

Walking in, you’re hit with that industrial-vintage vibe that Barcelona does so well—exposed brick, warm wood, and the kind of lighting that makes everyone look like they’ve just returned from a weekend in Cadaqués. It’s a 'taverna' in name, but the soul is pure 21st-century hustle. This isn’t the place for a dusty plate of olives and a surly waiter who’s been there since the Civil War. It’s a gastrobar where the energy is high, the music is curated, and the kitchen is clearly having a bit of fun with the classics.

The menu is a tactical strike on the senses. You start with the raw bar because that’s where the kitchen shows its teeth. The corvina ceviche isn’t some bland, citrus-heavy afterthought; it’s brightened with mango and a kimchi-infused tiger milk that gives you a slow-burn kick in the teeth. Then there’s the steak tartare. They cut it by hand—a small detail that makes all the difference between a protein mush and a dish with actual texture and dignity. If you’re feeling indulgent, get it with the foie micuit shavings. It’s rich, it’s heavy, and it’s exactly what you want when the second bottle of Priorat hits the table.

But they haven't forgotten where they are. The 'Canelón de la abuela'—grandmother’s cannelloni—is a direct line to Catalan tradition. It’s a three-meat blend (beef, chicken, pork) wrapped in pasta and smothered in a bechamel that’s thick enough to hide a secret. It’s the kind of comfort food that anchors a meal otherwise floating on fusion flavors like yuzu and ponzu. The carrillera (beef cheek) is another winner, cooked at a low temperature until it practically surrenders to the fork, served over a truffled puree that smells like a damp forest in the best possible way.

Now, let’s talk about the reality of dining on Enric Granados. It’s busy. It’s loud. And because it’s a hotspot, the service can sometimes feel like it’s running a marathon it didn’t train for. You might have to wave a hand to get that second drink, and you should be specific about wanting 'agua del grifo' (tap water) unless you want to see a three-euro charge for a glass bottle on your bill. It’s a minor annoyance, but in a city where tourism can sometimes feel like a giant vacuum for your wallet, it’s worth keeping your eyes open.

Is it worth it? If you want to sit on a terrace, watch the world go by, and eat tapas that actually have some personality, then yes. It’s a standout on the block for those who want the vibe of a cocktail bar with the substance of a real kitchen. It’s a place for a long, loud dinner with friends where the bill won’t ruin your week, but the flavors might stay with you until morning. Just remember the spirit of the old Cu-Cut magazine: stay a little rebellious, drink well, and don't take the 'tourist' label lying down.