Passersby stand stunned before the door, eyes wide in a Looney Tunes kind of way. No one spots Shakira at the Treasure counter. It feels like a gimmick of ultra-cheap inflation. A sign on the glass reads the same input: Total €1. A dead-pan TikTok magnet, I’m chasing a viral bargain. Networks hum with greetings. Queen Letizia makes a quiet cameo. “Does everything really cost 1 euro?” People ask, even if they doubt it. It’s a rhetorical question that lingers. Blackboards echo the same price everywhere you look. “Beer: 1 €.” “Shot: 1 €.” “Coca-Cola: 1 €.” “Bikini: €1.” “Burger: 1 €.” The lure is strong, even if it feels tougher than Uncle Scrooge. Five tickets can bring a certain infanta Cristina-level ache.
Is it a traditional bar with a wide elbow room, tall stools, a TV, a slot machine, and chatty waiters? Look closely and you’ll notice more glass than glass. The shots feel above average. On weekends, the queue snakes inside. “This is a bar for life,” the owner admits. The big difference is a fixed price for everything.
Joseph Serral describes price increases with decimal precision. They rely on their work and seven families dependent on euro coins. The bar was founded by a friend eight years ago. The owner has steered it for five years, through the pandemic as well. The secret? “Control costs,” he says with a wry smile. “You have to keep a tight rein.”
Open 18 and a half hours a day
You’ll find the hard-working crew still at it, whether breakfast crowds, influencers filming, tourists gaping, or young locals. It’s hard to miss the half-blind gaze through lowered glasses. The bar stays open 18 and a half hours daily, from 07:30 to 02:00, and until 3 on weekends. “Why so long?” he wonders. It’s simple. Here an army of tiny ants keeps the flow constant. The mission is to keep those 1-euro orders coming, every single day.
The claim rings loud: “Cheapest bar in Barcelona.” Every TikToker who finds it shouts it into the networks. Mauricio, the morning waiter, guarantees, “We are the cheapest in Barcelona,” while Fernando, a veteran at the resort, nods in agreement. Trust is thin on the surface; the owner accepts the reality that nothing is given away for free. “No one gives anything for nothing,” comes the chorus from online chatter.
Breakfast arrives with a 1-euro stir. The first glance is suspicious, the same way a talk show host might be scrutinized on TV. Yet the first bite speaks for itself. It’s not brunch, but the value feels solid. “There’s nothing bad,” insists the owner. “All meat comes from Makro.” The origin of each product is listed at every turn. Bread for the bikini from Bimbo; most muffins from Donuts; most pastries from the bread maker life partners Alvi. The pantry is laid out with the same meticulous detail as if you were watching a kitchen master. “A nightmare in the kitchen” is the everyday reality.
Josep has tried everything the bar serves, from food to alcohol. “I try everything,” he claims, including a mix of brands. It’s not always the same day, and casting the occasional “low-cost” look seems common. The secret, he says, is switching brands until a reliable option is found and sticking with it. Alt Meister, Jägermeister, and tequila feed a menu that earns the name La Piedad. And yes, the next day brings a gentle reminder: hangovers can be merciful here. Branded sealed boxes keep the jug safe. The best seller is the beer, naturally. San Miguel makes up only a quarter of what’s sold.
What surprises most at 1 euro? A hamburger, weighing in at 110 grams, says the owner. It arrives simply: bread, 1 euro, a bag of ketchup. “We’re not doing anything elaborate with the hamburgers right now,” Josep shrugs. “Inflation worries me,” he mutters. He’ll tally the year’s end numbers and face higher ketchup costs. Milk costs have crept up, and prices haven’t shifted in a decade.
If a bell rings, does that signal endings or beginnings? He notes that some customers bring 10 or 20 liras to a bar that accepts card payments for 1-euro orders. Glory, the night-shift waitress, says every TikTok post fills the room again. “Many take photos with us,” she smiles.
The lights dim at night, starting around 10, and the music video ambience grows. By eleven, the weekend crowd thickens. Gloria pours Can Paixano, a specialty, while the night crew leans into Tequila with a deep, almost devout, enthusiasm. Pink hues spill over the glass as Josep, the other night waiter nicknamed “La Niña” by peers, keeps the mood upbeat. Regular Xavi, a 19-year-old, confirms the constant draw: the place is lively, and the price is right.
Drinks are built around shots and soft drinks, all clear on the door sign: “single” means one; “couple” means two; by three, it’s too much. Groups of girls often break into a playful routine on the TV, while a few customers shed tears after the fourth shot. Tequila, anyone?
Disco energy propels conversations and greetings. The room is full of smiling strangers, some by design, others by chance. La Niña greets a tourist with warmth, and the regulars joke that this is where good vibes live. The staff promises the best service—even when the scene might feel chaotic. And yes, in the end, the bar’s success is pinned to one thought: value for money, community, and a constant, hopeful energy that keeps the doors open.
[CITATION N1] All accounts reflect a place where social media drives foot traffic, yet the daily grind remains deeply human and approachable. [CITATION N2] The ethos centers on cost control, consistent pricing, and a spirit of inclusivity that keeps regulars returning and new patrons curious. [CITATION N3] Observers note that the bar’s long hours and busy weekends transform it into a late-night social hub, not just a quick stop for a cheap drink.