Perhaps the most famous Georgian dish abroad—certainly in New York—is the khachapuri, an open bread boat fresh baked with salty, slightly sour sulguni cheese that is finished with an egg yoke and a pat of butter. As delicious as this dish is—and it is extraordinary— the idea that Georgian cuisine can typified by a single dish is a great tragedy. In truth, Georgian cuisine is is one of the finest—and most varied—in the world. As an example, the khachapuri described above is only the Adjarian version of the dish. There are at least thirteen other regional variations.
I had my first today, quite by accident. I'm in the Imereti region where khachapuri are round and closed, although the Rachuli version, which is square and more of a puff pasty, is also widely available. I walked up to a small shop with a street window advertising “fast food.” I often buy little “humburgers” there, which are made by slitting open an English muffin type roll and sliding in a cold, oniony beef patty then stuffing it with fresh cilantro and parsley, but they had recently handwritten “Adjarain” on the posted menu, so I said why not?
They wouldn't let me take it to go, unlike my usual humburgers, and gestured me to a seat inside. The told me pyat minoot, which means five minutes in the Russian older Georgians use with foreigners by default. It's a tiny place. The kitchen is open and only a few feet away. Three Georgian grannies got to work, and maybe ten minutes later my khachapuri was served. I started in with my fork, but one of the women stopped me. She gestured towards the dough handles on either end of the boat. I was to tear them off and dip them in the cheese, egg yolk, and butter slowly coagulating on the top first. That's right, they built sopping bread into the structure of the dish itself. It is the savory version of starting a meal with dessert.
Like grapes, wheat was first domesticated in Georgia, and, like grapes, Georgians are still mostly growing ancient varieties uniquely suited to their unique soils and micro-climates. Scientists will tell you that this makes the bread more nutritious, but I will tell you that it also makes the bread taste better.
Although bread is a cornerstone of the Georgian table, the gluten free set need not worry, because they also have a wonderful cornbread called mchadi, and a corn grits situation called ghomi, or, if you get them with smoked cheese, elarji. Virtually every kind of bread I have had here has been freshly baked to order. I feel like a prince every time.
Virtually all the food consumed here is grown here by small farmers on less than four acres of land—which means that all markets are farmers’ markets. Here in Kutaisi there is the famous Green Bazaar, the oldest market in the country which sprawls over more than a city block and has hundreds of stalls carrying everything from farm produce to cheeses, meats, fresh roasted coffees, locally grown tea, spice stalls, a whole wall of pickle vendors, foraged mushrooms and wild fruits, nuts, as well as second hand clothing and artisan crafts. In Tbilisi, smaller farm markets can be found on most city blocks. As a consequence, all the ingredients are fresh, local, seasonal, and perfectly ripe. This is further helped by a climate that will grow everything from citrus and figs to winter squash.
Veggie lovers will rejoice. Ubiquitous cucumber and tomato salads called kitri pomidvris—often available with a walnut sauce—never loose their appeal. For the more adventurous, pkhali are minced spinach and vegetable balls festooned with fresh pomegranate seeds, not to mention grilled eggplant rolls stuffed with walnuts, garlic, and coriander. For a meal, look for ajapsandali, a ragu of eggplant, potatoes, peppers, onions, and spices, or a mashed red bean dish called lobio that's often served with pickled bladdernuts (they're much better than they sound, trust me).
Meat eaters will be pleased by barbequed skewers called mtsvadi, often served with the divine (if homemade but still good if store bought) tkemali, which is a tart, herbal sauce made from cherry plums that can be red or green. Most of the meat, however, is to be found in rich soups and stews, like veal chakapuli with plums and tarragon, or lamb bozbashki with chestnuts, peas, and tomatoes, or chicken in a walnut bazhe sauce. They also have my favorite stuffed grape leaves, tolma, which filled with spice ground beef and wrapped a bit lazily so the leaves are still leafy.
There are a few obstacles for travelers to truly experience Georgian cuisine. As near as I can tell—and honestly I've been sequestered with my novel most of the time, so I've barely scratched the surface and apologize for any mistakes I might make—a proper Georgian meal doesn't consist of one or two or even four courses. Instead, an entire table is covered with every type of dish imaginable all at once, sort of like American Thanksgiving. Unless a visitor is eating with a party of six or more, the experience simply can't be found in a restaurant. The portions are such that if two people order three dishes, half the food will have to be packed up and taken home.
Like Georgian farming is small farming, Georgian cooking is home cooking. Most restaurants are heavily influenced if not wholly dependent on tourism—and tourists are frightened and lazy. Regional specialties are often flattened and tokenized. They get lost in the mix of ceasar salads, Mexican potatoes, and pasta that picky tourists feel safer ordering. Which is not to say there aren't wonderful restaurants here. There certainly are. But you'll need to bring ten people to get the gist, or go ten times.
If you are lucky enough to get an invitation to a Georgian home, then will you see the true strength and beauty of this culture of hospitality. Guests are sacred. They must be honored and welcomed, and the only way to welcome them is at the table.
Oh my Goodness! These article has made me so hungry! Love it!