Despite myself, I’m early. Barcelona is hard to navigate at the best of times, and the fierce midday sun, a heavy backpack, and my raging thirst make getting around even more tiring.

Luckily, my destination is surprisingly easy to find. I know I’ve arrived when, peering through a dingy window, I spot several empty bottles of Cantillon: the ghosts of a previous party. Around the corner of the building, Bodega Fermín’s giant sign comes into view, as does the owner, who’s scribbling on a blackboard, fully aware that he opens in just 20 minutes. He introduces himself as Roger and lets me in to wait, taking the chairs off tables and starting the morning ritual of checking his eight beer taps. They are all loaded with Spanish breweries, save for a Pilsner Urquell line and, more surprisingly, an IPA from Norway’s Lervig.

Bodega Fermín is in the heart of Barceloneta, formerly a little fishing village that separates the main city from the beach. In any other coastal resort it would have been all high-rises, hotels, and soulless restaurants. Instead, the neighborhood has a chic, slightly rundown vibe, and the rustic doors that don’t lead to apartments all lead to tapas places. I order a selection from the food menu, take the half of Naparbier Disorder Pale Ale Roger offers me, and sit down to wonder when I last found so many great beers within reach of a sandy beach.

As the tiny room fills with the aroma of baking goat cheese and garlic, I also start to wonder where on earth the kitchen is—before realizing that it, too, is behind the bar. Though working with just two grills and a microwave, the staff have managed to produce a varied menu. That baked goat cheese is served on top of a grilled, garlicky eggplant steak with chutney; pan con tomate is dripping with local, herb-infused olive oil; and a herring and artichoke bruschetta is brought alive by a swish of tangy mustard.

All three dishes are salted to high heaven and find cuts in my mouth I didn’t know about, but I don’t mind. I get through my half of Pale in about two sips, and marvel at how the sweetness—maybe even a hint of diacetyl—matches perfectly with the chutney and soft eggplant. I order Cyclic Beer Farm’s Fresita Saison and start to mop the remaining garlicky oil with my pan con tomate to a raised eyebrow from the chef. It’s clearly not the done thing, but as far as I’m concerned it should be.

When I’m three drinks deep, Roger brings over the kebabs. He knows my kind. Though they come on sticks, these aren’t normal kebabs: instead, they’re stacked with cured fish, grilled vegetables, and pitted olives, dripping into the sardine tins they are perched on. I’m starting to fill up but I finish every morsel—I’m still the only one in the bar, and I don’t want to seem rude.

I thank Roger and amble, blinking, into the sunlight again. A nap on the beach is the only thing for me now, though I’m pretty sure there’s an ice cream stall across the road, and definitely a guy selling cold Estrella cans on the corner. I may struggle when navigating Barcelona, but I can find the things that matter.