La 70 is not just about partying: it's the last bastion of neighborhood food
If you're one of those who believe that in Medellín fine dining only exists in El Poblado, or that Avenida 70 is only for getting drunk on a Friday night, I have news for you: you've been missing out on the best. On Sundays, when the sun beats down hard and the city slows down, La 70 transforms. The craft beer terraces change their crowd, and among the usual facades, doors open that guard the best-kept secret of Paisa gastronomy: the fondas.
While trendy restaurants in Provenza fight for a Michelin star that will never come (and charge $60,000 for a portion of pasta), on La 70, the most honest lunch in the city is served for less than $20,000. It's not cheap nostalgia: it's cultural resistance. Here I'll tell you the exact route, the dishes you can't miss, and most importantly, how to order so they treat you like a local and not like a tourist with money.
📌 Transparency
This article contains sponsored/affiliate links. We may receive a small commission at no extra cost to you.
Spanish Bootcamp Online
Why Avenida 70 and not another area?
Avenida 70, which runs through neighborhoods like Laureles and Estadio, has a history few know about. Between the 60s and 80s, this road was the city's industrial and transport corridor. Textile factories and mechanical workshops dominated the landscape. Workers arriving from neighboring municipalities like Santa Fe de Antioquia or Amagá needed to eat cheap and fast. That's how the first "fondas" were born: private homes that opened their kitchens to serve the daily lunch to laborers.
Over time, the industry left and bars and nightclubs arrived. But the fondas didn't die. They went into hiding. Today, in 2026, while the city fills with tourists seeking "authentic experiences" from international guides, we locals still go to the same old houses. The difference is that now, the owners of these fondas are the same children and grandchildren of those first cooks. These are recipes passed down through three generations, without a trendy chef, without a laminated menu, and without an Instagram photo. Just a whiteboard with the daily menu written in marker.
Sunday is the sacred day. It's when whole families go after mass or before the game at Estadio Atanasio Girardot. It's the day they cook like in the old days: with time, with firewood in some cases, and with the generosity of someone who isn't counting calories but portions.
Fonda La Casona: the bandeja paisa that hasn't changed in 40 years
Let's start with the oldest. La Casona is not just any fonda: it's an institution. Located on Carrera 70, between Calles 44 and 45, in an old two-story house that survived the real estate boom of the 90s, this fonda has been operating since 1986. Doña Rosa, the founder, still supervises the kitchen on Sundays, even though she's 78 years old. Her son, Jairo, waits tables with a notepad and pencil, because "here we don't use those tablets that crash all the time".
The signature dish is the bandeja paisa, but not the version from luxury restaurants that add a "fusion touch" and charge $45,000. Here it's the classic: beans from the pot from the night before, rice with a perfect touch of salt, crispy chicharrón that doesn't stick to your teeth, fried egg with a runny yolk, avocado, ripe plantain, white arepa, and a piece of ground beef that tastes like real beef.
The secret, according to Jairo, is that the beans are cooked with "pork trotter and a touch of panela that no one knows about, but it gives that sweetness that masks the acidity". The bandeja costs $18,000 COP (reference price from August 2026) and includes a glass of guarapo de caña or coconut lemonade, which is what you should order if you want to pass as a local.
The schedule is sacred: Sundays from 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. They don't take reservations. No debit card, only cash or transfer to the son's Nequi. And if you arrive after 1:00 p.m., chances are there's no bandeja left. It runs out. It's that simple.
La Tertulia: the chicken sancocho that only exists on Sundays
Three blocks from La Casona, on the same Carrera 70 but on Calle 48, is La Tertulia. This place has no sign on the facade. Only a green wooden door that's always closed. If you don't know, you walk right past it. Those who know, ring the bell. Yes, a doorbell. Because this is a family home that opens its patio on Sundays to serve one of the most legendary sancochos in Medellín.
La Tertulia is run by the Zapata family, who came from Urabá in the 90s fleeing violence. The grandmother, Doña Carmen, brought the recipe from her homeland: a free-range chicken sancocho cooked since 4 in the morning in a clay pot over a wood stove. The result is a thick broth, yellow from the color of the chicken (not food coloring), with yucca, green plantain, corn on the cob, and a secret seasoning that includes cimarrón cilantro, which is not the same cilantro sold in supermarkets.
The sancocho is served in a deep bowl, with white rice on the side and a spicy ají made with tree tomato that you should add very carefully. Because it's spicy. And when I say spicy, it's the kind that makes your forehead sweat. On Sundays, exactly 80 portions are prepared. Not one more. At 2:00 p.m., Doña Carmen comes out to the patio and says "it's gone, those who didn't get any, next time come earlier".
The price is $15,000 COP per plate, and that includes a glass of aguapanela with lemon. There's no menu. There are no options. It's sancocho or nothing. And you pay after eating, because "first you trust, then you charge", says Don Óscar, Carmen's husband, who sits in a corner of the patio chatting with anyone who approaches.
A curious fact: La Tertulia doesn't appear on Google Maps. The exact address is passed by word of mouth, and in neighborhood WhatsApp groups. If you arrive and the door is closed, ring the bell and ask for Carmen. If she's not there, it's because the sancocho ran out or she had a family issue. But it's worth trying.
El Hueco del Sabor: the chócolo arepas that change your life
It's not all about main courses. Sometimes, the best part of the route is a craving. El Hueco del Sabor is, literally, a hole. It's a window in the wall of a house on Calle 47 with Carrera 70B, which opens on Sundays from 9:00 a.m. until the dough runs out. No tables. No chairs. Just a wooden window that lifts up, and behind it is Doña Bertha, a 65-year-old woman who makes the best chócolo arepas in the city.
The chócolo arepa is a Paisa institution: sweet, soft, made with ground tender corn, grilled on a budare and filled with cheese. But Doña Bertha's has a plus: the cheese is artisanal, made by herself with milk from a farm in Santa Elena that arrives every Saturday. It's not the packaged cheese from the supermarket. It's a fresh, acidic cheese that melts in your mouth and pairs perfectly with the sweetness of the arepa.
The price is $6,000 COP per arepa with cheese, and if you ask for "con todo", they add cheese, butter, and a quail egg on top for $8,000 COP. You eat it standing up, on the sidewalk, watching the traffic. And that's exactly how it should be. No utensils. You eat it with your hands, folded in half, letting the cheese drip down your fingers.
Doña Bertha has a record: on a single Sunday, during the Colombian football final in 2024, she sold 400 arepas. She doesn't charge with a card machine. She doesn't even have one. Only cash, and if you don't have it, she'll give you credit and say "you pay me next Sunday, but I'll remember your face". And yes, she remembers. It's a prodigious memory that's both scary and endearing.
Waiter secrets: how to order like a local (and not overpay)
Here's the part no travel blog will tell you. On Sundays on La 70, the golden rule is: never order from the menu. In the fondas, the menu is decoration. An ornament put up 20 years ago that no one updates. What you actually eat is the daily special, which is written on a whiteboard or announced verbally when you sit down.
The protocol is as follows:
- Arrive, sit down, and don't ask for the menu. Wait for the waiter (or the owner) to tell you: "Today we have bandeja, sancocho, or a fish stew". That's the real list.
- When they ask you "What would you like to drink?", don't order soda. Order guarapo (fermented cane juice) or coconut lemonade. They're the house drinks and cost half as much as a Coca-Cola.
- Ask for the "plato del día" even if you already know what it is. Waiters are instructed to first offer the most expensive dish on the menu to those who look like tourists. If you ask for the daily special, you automatically earn the staff's respect.
- The "tamal" is a wildcard. Almost all the fondas on La 70 have tamal on Sundays, but they don't advertise it. If you ask "is there tamal?", they'll say yes, even if it's not on the board. It's a secret code among locals.
- Tipping: in the fondas, it's not customary to leave 10% like in formal restaurants. You leave the "vuelto" (the change) or round up. If you leave 10%, the waiter will think you're a clueless gringo and next time they'll charge you more.
Another secret: if you go alone and sit at the counter (in those that have one), the waiters will come up to chat. That's your chance to ask about "off-menu dishes". For example, at La Casona, if Jairo likes you, he'll offer you a "hígado encebollado" (liver with onions) that's not listed anywhere and is his mother's specialty. But that's not offered to just anyone. You have to earn it.
And the prices? Is it really cheaper than El Poblado?
Let's do the math. In August 2026, lunch at a trendy restaurant in Provenza (El Poblado) costs, on average, $45,000 COP for a main course without a drink. If you order an appetizer, main course, and dessert, you easily reach $80,000 COP. Now, the same experience (appetizer, main course, and drink) at the fondas on La 70 doesn't exceed $30,000 COP. And I assure you the flavor is equal or better.
But it's not just about price. It's about quantity. At the fondas, the portion is generous. La Casona's bandeja paisa comes on a plate that looks like a serving platter. La Tertulia's sancocho is so abundant you'll have leftovers to take home. In El Poblado, they serve a portion that looks like diet food and charge you for the "ambiance". Here there's no ambiance. There's a Formica table, a plastic tablecloth, and a loud fan. And that's what's authentic.
If you're from out of town and want to impress a local, invite them to a fonda. If you invite them to a trendy restaurant, they'll think you're just another tourist who fell for the trap. Neighborhood food is the real luxury in Medellín, because it's made with memory and love, not with plating techniques or weird foams.
