Oyuki: I Followed Reddit to a Sushi Bar in Osaka
- Stella Beckmann
- Nov 4, 2025
- 4 min read
I’d found Oyuki on a Reddit thread, which felt like due diligence. It was a local sushi spot, and people’s comments were persuasive, so I set out at dusk to find it.
I crossed a park and passed a giant “OSAKA” sign, where a group of teens posed mid-jump. Soon, the park exited into a narrow road lit up in colour and sound: red lanterns, glowing kanji, gold cat statues, posters peeling off walls. It was the Japan I’d imagined — bold, bright, and humming. The air smelled faintly of soy sauce and rain.
The restaurant must be along here, I thought. But the crowds started to thin, and the bright alley reached the main road with big streetlights and cars whizzing by. I checked my map. Now, I was slipping into a narrow alley behind a man in a suit. Anywhere else in the world, that might’ve felt like a bad idea.
The alleyway was dark except for the distant LED light of a vending machine. Then I saw a small, lit storefront with a bike parked in front of it, a cluster of houseplants, hanging lanterns, and blue noren. A handwritten poster taped to the front said “cash only.” I guess this was it. But I didn’t have cash.
After a quick ATM run, I returned, unsure what to expect.
I slid open the wooden door.
There was a small, old man in white with a bald crown and thin grey hair at the sides. He was already standing near the entrance, bowing to me, so I bowed back, and then we both kept bowing because I wasn’t sure when to stop. He eventually sat me down and disappeared behind the counter.
The space inside couldn’t have been more than four meters wide. Eight high wooden chairs lined a bar counter, each with a small blue panda cushion. There was a vase of fake flowers by the sink, and a collection of magnets shaped like sushi rolls on the fridge. The walls were covered in posters for Kirin Beer and a calendar from 2019. It felt more like a family living room that happened to serve sushi.
I didn’t know how to order. I sat there, shifting my weight and picking up my water, served in a small glass shaped like a half-sized beer mug.
A European couple entered, joining the tiny world.
“Excuse me,” I said. They looked up. “Do you know if there’s a menu?”
They looked at each other. “I think the food just… comes,” they said politely.
“Ah. I’ll just smile and nod.”
Two small TVs flickered in the background, one playing a cooking show, the other a baseball game. The chef occasionally looked up at the screen when something exciting happened, then back down to his knife and chopping board.
He reached a small bowl over the counter, saying “Aye!” as I took it. I lifted the lid to see a soft yellow pudding with mushrooms and greens embedded inside. It was soft, like jelly, as I dug my spoon in, and tasted like eggs. Next, he handed me miso soup, with another “Aye!” Now came the sushi: a small assortment arranged on a bamboo leaf — salmon, tuna, eel, prawn, tamago, a white fish whose name I didn’t know, and a couple of neat maki rolls. I savored each piece, tasting its coolness and freshness.
After we finished, he brought out a small notebook filled with scribbles in dozens of languages. “Please,” he gestured. “Write.”
The pages were a collage of gratitude — travellers from everywhere, each leaving their mark: Amazing sushi!, Danke!, ありがとう, From Paris with love. I added my own small message: thank you for the warmest welcome to Japan.
He pulled out his phone and showed us photos of past customers, then lifted it to frame us. I’d done nothing particularly memorable to invite this, but it made me feel special, like the chef truly cared. I imagined him scrolling through his phone years later, faced with hundreds of strangers at the same counter, unable to remember a single one of us. I chuckled to myself and smiled, as he snapped the picture.
As I left, he helped me with my jacket and bowed again.
Outside, the alley glowed under the lanterns. I looked back at the doorway — the soft curtain swaying, the bike still resting beside it. The whole meal had cost 1000 yen. About ten New Zealand dollars.
Walking home, I thought about authenticity. In New Zealand, there’s this pizza place people rave about because the owner is “authentic Italian,” but he was simply slightly rude with an accent. The pizza was mediocre. Here, in this cramped little Osaka spot, I couldn’t understand a single word, but I felt more connection and care than in many glamorous restaurants.
I realised it wasn’t the sushi I’d remember, but how carefully a stranger had treated me.
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