Meet Suckin’ Diesel: the most authentic Irish pub in Moscow. Across the hall stands its older brother, Ye Olde Shed—an English pub with a unique selection of imported and locally brewed cider (over 20 taps!). These pubs are brothers in a quite literal sense: they share the same owners, building, team, and regulars. Suckin’ Diesel opened in spring 2022, Ye Olde Shed—in the thick of the pandemic. Today, the elder pub is celebrating its fifth anniversary, and with that as an excuse, I want to recall the January celebration of Burns Night. Why do both pubs attract a constantly growing community of British culture fans and expats? How do their regulars imagine the British pub—traditional and modern? It’s January 25th, and as guests gather for the festivities, I’m getting ready to bombard them with questions…

Having finished my conversation with Mikhail, the pub’s founder, I mentally sort through the information I’ve gathered, all the while examining the wall décor. Among the regulars, a legend long circulated that the entire interior of Suckin’ Diesel was bought from a bankrupt pub somewhere in the British countryside. Alas, it’s just a legend: the furniture really did arrive in Moscow straight from Ireland in a 40-foot container, but it was custom-ordered. Does it matter that all that much? Let’s find out.

As my gaze glides over cups, engravings, and books, I accidentally make eye contact with a young man at the bar. Judging by his expression, it’s his first time here. “I had no idea places like this existed,” he says. “A friend told me about it.” He then enthusiastically shares what he just learned from the bartender: all the furniture here is from Ireland! Well, yes, the modular wooden counters from Ol Irish Pubs company do their job.

Notably, this very bric-à-brac, full of quirky homeliness, is the first thing expat James mentions when asked what’s authentic about Suckin’ Diesel. Next on his list is the food: “There are so many dishes here you’d never find in English or Irish pubs in Moscow.” I get it! I reach for the menu to refresh my memory. Haggis, fish and chips, salt beef, Scotch egg, steak and kidney pie, pickled quail eggs, and “toad in the hole”… I glance at my friend: she’s demolishing that very “toad” with an expression of pure bliss. No doubt, it was worth the long wait at the bar. More and more guests are arriving by the minute, and there are no waiters in the pub. That’s a matter of principle.

Back in the early days of Suckin’ Diesel, there were heated debates about food: should a real pub even serve it? One argument: “Otherwise we won’t survive—our people can’t go without food.” Another: “You have to educate the customer.” The result was a compromise: a perfectly curated menu of authentic (or slightly adapted) dishes, but no restaurant service. Every pub-goer knows there have never been and never will be waiters here; you order at the bar, and you get your beer right there and then. Co-founder Fyodor aptly defines a pub as “a place for conversation.” So, beyond the atmosphere and quality product, a real pub gives visitors a chance to be independent: you study the menu yourself, order yourself, carry it yourself (and spill it yourself, too). Most importantly, you choose where to sit, whom to chat with, and whether to talk at all.

At this point, I’m distracted by the first guests in kilts. Today, wearing national dress earns you a free pint. I’d like to believe that at least half of these Highlanders were just nonchalantly swaying in a metro carriage or striding down Lesnaya past the packed Depo in regular jeans and hoodies… Or maybe they were greeting people on the street, bringing genuine community spirit to a January night in the city. Meanwhile, showing off your kilt in a crowded space proves tricky: you have to dodge not just people with drinks, but dancers, too.

They’re performing Irish dances right in the aisle, weaving between tables. It’s hard to tell if they’re professionals or just seasoned amateurs: their moves are precise, but nothing feels staged. People are simply enjoying themselves, so they dance. Why not? Drop in on a weekday and you’ll hear classic Brit-rock and Brit-pop, but tonight it’s live, fiery folk: fiddle, flute, guitar, bodhrán. By the way, a pint at Suckin’ Diesel isn’t just for kilts: it’s a common barter for the folk jam sessions that are a staple of the pub’s music program. “It’s a very traditional thing for Ireland,” Mikhail says knowingly.

I seize the moment to ask how this place began. “With Mini Coopers,” he says. Seeing my puzzled look, he explains: “In 2009, my friends and I drove our Minis to a brand festival at Silverstone. When it ended, we had time to spare, so we drove around Scotland, taking the smallest roads, avoiding highways and big routes. We crossed all of Scotland in 5–7 days. Then we rented a minibus and spent two weeks in Ireland. The routine was: wake up, have breakfast, drive. At noon the pubs open—we stop at the first one we see. Everyone gets a pint, the driver a half-pint. Then on to the next pub… All day. In the evening, we would have a party. It was a blast! And we wanted to create something like that here, infused with the spirit of Scotland.”

All I can say is: the plan seems to have worked. Regulars scan the room for familiar faces, wave, hug. More and more empty glasses appear on tables, and a stack of paper cups grows by the stage—they were just used for a pint-drinking contest. We’re truly at the epicenter of good-natured revelry, befitting the pub’s name (“suckin’ diesel” means “everything’s grand!”, a wink to native speakers and a jolt to Russian linguistic intuition as it evokes a well-known curse word).

What else becomes obvious when you watch closely: a place made for the soul and with soul touches something deeply personal in people. No wonder Suckin’ Diesel, conceived as a “local pub,” a cozy third place for an after-work pint, has witnessed all sorts of transformations. Asked about memorable stories with regulars, Mikhail and Fyodor list: new friendships, weddings, divorces.

Later, senior bartender (and more) Yura tells me about his own transformation: “In almost three years here, I’ve gone from a guy who didn’t drink beer to head bartender. I’ve learned about cider, beer, and spirits—we do regular tastings, because the pub always hired people with no experience and trained them from scratch. Recently I became the resident sound engineer for all our events and the SMM manager. I’m also designing our merch line (so far just hoodies and T-shirts, strictly made to order).”

You can sense the vibrant backstage life in these stories. And the respect and affection the Suckin’ Diesel team has for each other! I ask Fyodor how they learned the right recipes for authentic English dishes. “The right way to cook? Just do everything with soul, like Artyom and his kitchen team do.” Meanwhile, chef Artyom admits he came here because he was “tired of the pretentiousness” after working in Michelin-starred restaurants and wanted “to give people simple, tasty emotions.”

And there’s plenty of those emotions to go around: when a team is this passionate, their fire keeps the warmth alive, drawing in all kinds of people. Some stumble in by chance, like the young man I spoke to earlier. Others cross the city on purpose, because it’s just that good here. At the window table, an IT guy, a philologist, and a biker meet; at the bar, conversations spark on any topic—simple pleasures, a warm approach to life, to each other. And a dash of playful immersion in another culture, but with total sincerity.

And now—the sound of bagpipes! The procession circles the tables and ends up on stage, where a voice rings out:

“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
 Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!”

I look around at everyone gathered: pure delight on their faces. They’ve completely forgotten about Moscow—their favorite portal to another world has opened once again. All it took was:

• memorable trinkets (the more, the better);
• food made with soul (as much as you can eat);
• good alcohol (negotiated with your future self);
• live music (at least an hour!);
• banter at the bar (by mutual agreement);
• readiness to be yourself and share the space with others (generously);
• a playful spirit (just a pinch).

I slip my phone, brimming with freshly made notes, into my pocket and unclip my camera from strap. In a week, I’ll be in London. I wonder, will I, over a pint in one of its pubs, feel that everything here is somehow overdone? Will my improvised recipe for the perfect pub stand the test? But even more interesting—what do our readers think of pub culture? After all, assimilation is one thing, but in-betweenness is a constant of expat life. And thank goodness: from this vantage point, you can see so much! The best of both worlds.