Merendero de la Mari

The name is a lie, or at least a very old joke. A 'merendero' is supposed to be a simple seaside shack, a place where you shake the sand off your flip-flops and eat sardines with your fingers. But Merendero de la Mari, perched in the belly of the Palau de Mar, is having none of that. This is a white-tablecloth operation sitting on some of the most expensive real estate in the Mediterranean, staring directly at the kind of yachts that make you question your life choices.

Walking toward the restaurant, you pass the Museum of History of Catalonia, a massive brick sentinel of the old port. The air here smells of salt, expensive diesel, and the unmistakable scent of garlic hitting a hot plancha. It’s a place that shouldn’t work—it’s too close to the tourist maw of the harbor, too perfectly positioned to be a trap. And yet, for decades, it has remained a bastion of serious Catalan seafood, largely because they do one thing better than almost anyone else in the city: monkfish.

The 'Rape a la Mari' (Monkfish Mari-style) is the reason you’re here. Monkfish is a notoriously hideous creature—a bottom-dwelling nightmare with a face only a mother could love—but its flesh is the poor man’s lobster: firm, sweet, and resilient. At Mari, they treat it with the reverence usually reserved for religious relics. It comes bathed in a rich, dark, savory sauce that tastes like it’s been reduced until it’s practically a concentrate of the sea itself. It’s messy, it’s decadent, and it’s the kind of dish that makes you forget the price tag for a few blissful minutes.

Then there is the terrace. If you don’t get a table outside, you’ve missed half the point. You sit there under the canopy, the rigging of the sailboats clinking in the breeze like a metallic wind chime, watching the parade of humanity shuffle past. You’ll see the wealthy locals who have been coming here since the 90s, the ones who know the waiters by name and don't look at the menu. You’ll see the wide-eyed tourists who stumbled in by accident and are currently having a heart attack over the price of the red prawns. It’s a theater of the port.

The service is exactly what you’d expect from a place that’s seen it all. It’s professional, brisk, and occasionally indifferent. These guys aren't here to be your best friend; they’re here to deliver high-quality protein and keep the machine moving. If you want coddling, go to a boutique hotel. If you want a fideuá with a crust of socarrat so perfect it cracks like thin ice, stay put.

Is it expensive? Yes. Is the wine list a bit predictable? Sure. But there is something undeniably 'Barcelona' about sitting here as the sun dips behind the Montjuïc hill, the lights of the Port Vell beginning to shimmer on the water, while you mop up the last of that monkfish sauce with a piece of crusty bread. It’s a reminder that even in the most crowded, tourist-heavy corners of the world, there are still places that refuse to compromise on the plate. It’s not a hidden gem—it’s hiding in plain sight, and it’s all the better for it.