Xorús

If you find yourself on the 'other' Rambla—the one in Poblenou—you’ve already made a better life choice than the poor souls dodging pickpockets and overpriced frozen paella near Plaça de Catalunya. This is a neighborhood that still breathes, and Xorús is its steady, charcoal-fueled heartbeat. It’s a braseria, a temple of the grill, where the air is thick with the scent of oak-charred fat and the kind of honest, unpretentious cooking that doesn't need a PR firm to explain it.

Walking into Xorús, you aren't greeted by a host with a headset and a fake smile. You’re greeted by the hiss of the plancha and the rhythmic clinking of wine glasses. This is a place where the tile floors have seen decades of Sunday family lunches and the walls are soaked in the stories of a neighborhood that used to be the 'Manchester of Catalonia.' It’s loud, it’s busy, and it’s exactly where you want to be when the hunger hits that primal, meat-and-fire level.

The soul of the operation is the brasa. We’re talking about real fire, not some sanitized electric oven. When you order the entrecot or the lamb chops, they come to the table with that unmistakable crust—the Maillard reaction in its most glorious, smoky form. But the real litmus test for any self-respecting Catalan grill is the caracoles a la llauna. These aren't the dainty, butter-drenched snails of a Parisian bistro. These are rugged, seasoned with salt, pepper, and a bit of spice, roasted until they’re practically fused to the tin. You pick them out with a toothpick, dip them in a pungent allioli that will keep vampires and strangers at bay for forty-eight hours, and realize that this is what real eating feels like.

Then there’s the menú del día. In a city where the 'lunch special' is increasingly becoming a way to offload yesterday’s leftovers to tourists, Xorús treats it like a sacred rite. For a price that seems like a clerical error in 2025, you get three courses of actual food. It might be a hearty lentil stew followed by a perfectly grilled piece of hake or a secret de porc (Iberian pork fan) that melts like butter. It’s the kind of value that makes you wonder why anyone bothers cooking at home. The locals know it, which is why at 2:00 PM, the place is a sea of blue-collar workers, office types, and grandmothers who look like they could bench-press a keg of Estrella.

Is it perfect? No. The service is 'cordial,' which is code for 'we are very busy and don't have time to hear about your allergies unless they’re fatal.' If you’re looking for white tablecloths and a sommelier to whisper sweet nothings about terroir into your ear, go somewhere else. This is a place of action. You sit, you eat, you drink the house red, and you leave feeling like a human being again. It’s a reminder that despite the encroaching tide of brunch spots and avocado toast, the real Barcelona—the one that smells of garlic and woodsmoke—is still very much alive and well in Sant Martí.

If you’re heading to the beach at Bogatell, stop here first. Or better yet, come here after you’ve had enough of the sun and the sand and you need something substantial to anchor you back to earth. Order the grilled octopus, get a side of the escalivada (smoky roasted vegetables), and don't skip the crema catalana for dessert. It’s simple, it’s honest, and it’s exactly what a restaurant should be.