Good food and wine translates into every language.

“We are all friends here!” (Watashitachi wa min’na tomodachidesu!) is what the owner of a fabulous Izakaya restaurant shouted as we raised a glass with her and the other three customers who sat around the bar tonight. Takashi, Miyuki, and Chihiro were our new friends for the evening; Mamy was the owner of this wonderful establishment and, according to the Google reviews, she is somewhat of a local legend.

In a similar style to the sandwich café we visited the other day, this was a one-person operation, Mamy was the bartender, the chef, and the soul of this fine establishment. From the outside looking in, The Common seemed to be a small wine bar that could accommodate 6-8 customers, very well kept, with a premium feel would be thought you’d have as you walked by.

My wife and I had passed this spot earlier that evening on the way back from the supermarket; a trip solely intended to restock the supply of strawberries in the fridge, but of course, we returned with much more than that.

FYI, the name ‘Izakaya’ is a fusion of ‘i’ (to stay) and ‘sakaya’ (sake shop), reflecting its historical origins as places where customers could enjoy sake and stay for a meal. And the historical origins are exactly what we fulfilled this fine evening.

After finishing up our hard day’s graft, we decided to pop into the small yet canny, wonderfully lit bar that occupied a cosy corner of the neighbourhood we now called home. We were greeted with a smile.

“Two, please,” we politely asked, as it was clear that the three current customers had occupied the stools in a way that didn’t allow two patrons to sit together.

Now, if this were Wetherspoons on Battersea High Street, I can’t imagine anyone batting an eyelid, but immediately, a fine young chap shuffled along to the stool beside him to accommodate us—even midway through eating a bamboo triangle full of rice.

We sat down and asked if they were still serving food, or if they even served food at all. Little did we know there was no kitchen behind the wall or underneath the room we had entered.

“No drinks menu. Ask, and you shall receive!”

Maybe this was like Aladdin’s cave—close your eyes, wish, and you shall receive. In reality, it was more of an off-the-cuff vibe. If you liked red wine, they’d show you what they had in stock. Pick your choice; if you didn’t like it, then tough shit.

The one-person operation I mentioned earlier came to fruition when we ordered food. When we asked if food was being served, we were told yes. When we placed the order, I remember thinking, she didn’t write that down or knock on a window and pass over a slip and shout “CHECK, PLEASE.”

Mamy was her name. She was mentioned in the Google reviews. She owned the bar, built the interior, and cooked the food right behind the bar. The kitchen was behind the bar, and she was the one-person operation.

Fucking legend.

Tuna tartare that was literally as soft as butter and as thick as a freshly opened slab of Lurpak. Japanese radish lashed in a fine sauce, and I swear, I hate veg, but fucking hell, this was pure joy to eat. Fried chicken with a pink sauce made of beetroot, cucumber, and mayo. Absolutely scintillating, every single dish.

And she knocked it up while serving everyone drinks and entertaining the room. You would never have even known the hob was on. It was 10/10.

Using a combination of Google Translate and my wife’s golden desire to speak Japanese in our Northern English twang, we conversed with everyone and had a joyous evening. The occupations of our new friends? A lifestyle store owner in Vietnam, a computer engineer, and an emergency doctor—all blessed with the presence of two Mackems, and we were told we were the first English visitors to the bar.

The bar was only a year old a few days ago. The celebration flowers were still in the room, with glittery banners draped across them for all to see.

Proof that a love for good food and wine can bring anyone together, as long as you have Google Translate as a backup, just in case.

We invited ourselves back to see everyone again this coming Saturday. I also told them I was a writer and that I’d be writing a piece on the evening’s events. Everyone was full of positivity as I asked for permission to include the night and some photos in my daily writing.

They clearly thought I wrote for The New York Times rather than a Substack with fewer than 20 family and friends marking my articles as read in their inbox.

Sorry if you’re reading this with disappointment. I’ll be bigger than The Times eventually.

See you on the next one.