Hemingway once wrote, “And Barcelona. You should see Barcelona. It is all still comic opera… Barcelona makes you laugh.” He wasn’t wrong. The city has always marched to its own beat, a little louder, a little more irreverent than the rest of Spain he so adored.

When I revisit my one-time hometown, I carry this quote with me. It frames the way I look at the food here—how Catalan chefs toy with tradition, nudging it just far enough to feel fresh but never so far that it becomes unrecognizable. Innovative, but not molecular, still warm-blooded. On a recent return, I ate well.

Morning in Spain welcomes fried pastry. I ducked into Artchur in Eixample, a bright corner shop busy challenging the humble churro.

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