What Tapa

If you’re looking for white tablecloths, a sommelier with a waxed mustache, or a menu translated into six languages, do yourself a favor and stay on the Rambla. You don’t belong here. What Tapa is located in Nou Barris, a neighborhood that doesn’t give a damn about your travel itinerary. You take the L1 metro until the tourists start thinning out, then you walk past the discount shops and the apartment blocks until you hit Carrer d'Escòcia.

Don’t let the name fool you. 'What Tapa' sounds like the kind of punny, low-effort joint you’d find near the Sagrada Família serving frozen calamari to people in cargo shorts. It’s not. It’s a Peruvian stronghold, a place where the flavors of Lima have been transplanted into the concrete heart of Barcelona with zero concessions to local palates. This is where the city’s Latin American community comes to remember what home tastes like, and they aren't here for 'tapas.' They’re here for the real deal.

Walk in on a weekend morning and the air is thick—not with the smell of toasted sandwiches, but with the heavy, intoxicating scent of frying pork and citrus. The move here, the absolute mandatory play, is the Desayuno Peruano. We’re talking about a plate of chicharrón—not the bagged snack, but thick, meaty chunks of pork belly, braised until tender and then fried until the edges are crisp and lethal. It comes with fried sweet potato and a mountain of salsa criolla—red onions marinated in lime juice and chili that provide the necessary acidic counter-punch to all that glorious fat. Throw in a tamal, wrapped in a banana leaf and steaming with the scent of corn and lard, and you have a breakfast that will either fuel you for a marathon or send you straight back to bed for a four-hour coma.

Then there’s the ceviche. In the fancy spots downtown, they treat ceviche like a delicate science experiment. Here, it’s treated like a right. It’s raw fish cured in a leche de tigre that is unapologetically sharp, loaded with enough lime and ají limo to make your eyes water in the best way possible. It’s served with big-kernel choclo corn and sweet potato to soak up the juices. It’s fresh, it’s brutal, and it’s exactly what ceviche should be.

The room is no-frills. Fluorescent lighting, sturdy furniture, and usually a TV in the corner showing a match or the news from back home. The service is efficient but don’t expect a hug. They’re busy feeding people who are hungry for a taste of something authentic. It’s loud, it’s crowded, and there’s a sense of community that you just can’t manufacture with a PR budget and some Edison bulbs.

Is it 'best Peruvian Barcelona' material? If you value soul over presentation, absolutely. It’s one of those rare spots where the price-to-happiness ratio is skewed heavily in your favor. You’ll leave with a full stomach, a slight zing on your tongue from the chili, and the satisfaction of knowing you’ve eaten something that hasn't been sterilized for the masses. It’s honest food for honest people. If you can’t handle a little grease on your chin or a neighborhood that doesn't look like a movie set, stay on the tour bus. More chicharrón for the rest of us.