Yashima

Les Corts is not the Barcelona of the postcards. It’s not the winding, urine-scented alleys of the Gòtic or the salt-sprayed chaos of Barceloneta. This is a neighborhood of wide avenues, banking headquarters, and people who wear suits without irony. It is gray, it is functional, and it is exactly where you find Yashima—a bastion of uncompromising Japanese tradition that has been quietly schooling the city on what real sushi looks like since 1989.

Walking into Yashima is like a sudden, violent drop in blood pressure. You leave the roar of Avinguda de Josep Tarradellas behind and cross a threshold into a world of cedar wood, stone, and silence. There is a Zen garden that actually feels like a garden, not a corporate lobby decoration. This isn't a place for 'sushi rolls' stuffed with cream cheese and drizzled with neon-orange spicy mayo. If that’s what you’re looking for, there’s a conveyor belt place down the street that will happily take your money. Yashima is for the grown-ups.

The Yamashita family, the architects behind this place, were pioneers. They brought authentic Japanese cuisine to Barcelona before the city knew it needed it. Today, it remains one of the best Japanese restaurants in Barcelona because it refuses to pivot to the trends. You have three choices here, each a different kind of theater. You can sit at the sushi bar and watch masters work with fish that looks like it was swimming an hour ago. You can sit at the teppanyaki counter, which, thankfully, lacks the 'volcano onion' theatrics of American chains, focusing instead on the precise, searing heat applied to high-grade Wagyu. Or, you can do it right and book a tatami room.

The tatami rooms feature horigotatsu—sunken floors—so you don’t have to worry about your legs falling asleep while you eat. This is where you order the sukiyaki. It is a slow, methodical ritual. A cast-iron pot, a simmering broth of soy and mirin, and plates of beef so marbled they look like topographical maps of the Alps. The server prepares it at the table, swirling the meat through the liquid before dropping it into a bowl of raw, whisked egg. To the uninitiated, the raw egg is a hurdle; to those who know, it’s the silky, fatty velvet that makes the whole dish sing. It is rich, salty, sweet, and deeply satisfying in a way that makes you want to close your eyes and ignore your dining companion.

The tasting menu is a journey through textures you didn't know existed. The tempura is a whisper of crunch, not a leaden coat of grease. The toro sashimi is a cold slap of pure ocean fat that dissolves on the tongue. It’s the kind of meal that demands your full attention. The service is formal, bordering on austere, but it’s a mark of respect for the food. They aren't here to be your best friend; they’re here to ensure the dashi is perfect.

Is it expensive? Yes. It’s a Japanese restaurant in Les Corts that imports its standards and often its ingredients directly from the source. You are paying for the decades of experience, the quietude, and the fact that they haven't compromised their soul to please the 'fusion' crowd. It’s a splurge, but it’s an honest one. If you want to understand why Japanese food conquered the world, skip the tourist traps near La Rambla and take the trek out here. Sit down, take off your shoes, and let the sukiyaki do the talking.