Eat, Drink, and be Merry

From 2005 to 2008, I lived in Tbilisi, Georgia. It’s about 6,300 miles outside of Atlanta.

Nestled in the Caucasus Mountains along the Black Sea, the Republic of Georgia is a foodie’s paradise, a wine lover’s dream, and the unofficial global headquarters of dinner parties that last longer than your average relationship.

Georgia’s food is the kind of soul-hugging fare that makes you unbutton your jeans and whisper, “I regret nothing.” Georgians do carbs better than anyone. Take khachapuri, for example, a boat-shaped bread filled with enough cheese, butter, and egg to take out a medium-sized bear. It’s basically pizza, if pizza had a lawless cousin who lived in the mountains and made questionable life choices. Then there's khinkali, juicy dumplings filled with meat, herbs, and piping hot broth. Eating them requires technique: grab the dumpling by the top knot, take a careful bite, slurp the juice like a seasoned professional, and pray you don’t scald your soul. Being a bit of a dumpling fanatic, I ate my weight in khinkali during my three-year stint. I still dream often of those little magic pouches of heaven. Another favorite of mine is shkmeruli. Simply calling it chicken in garlic cream sauce would be an injustice. I’m told the secret is in the preparation of the chicken. And for all you vegetarians out there, Georgia’s got you covered, too. Lobio, a spicy red bean stew, and pkhali, a colorful medley of mashed vegetables and walnuts, are staples that somehow manage to be healthy, delicious, and sneakily wine-absorbent. 

Now, about that gvino (“wine” to you Anglophones). Georgia claims to be the birthplace of wine, which means they’ve been making (and drinking) it for over 8,000 years, basically since humans realized fermented grapes make life better. The wine here tastes like history: earthy, robust, and possibly fermented with the tears of Dionysus. They don’t mess around with fancy steel tanks, tho. Georgians ferment their wine in giant clay pots called qvevri, which they bury underground like vinous treasure chests. The result? Wine that tastes like it has opinions and a deep, emotional backstory.

But all of this – the food, the wine, and the occasional mid-dinner existential crisis – culminates in the Supra. A Supra isn’t just a meal; it’s a full-blown cultural event hosted by a tamada, or toastmaster, who guides the evening with the finesse of a philosopher-turned-stand-up comedian. The tamada delivers elaborate toasts on everything from love and friendship to cows and national history, while guests respond by emptying their wine glasses with frightening enthusiasm and shoveling down mountains of food. For hours. And here’s the catch: every toast requires a full glass of wine. And there are a lot of toasts. But the real kicker is that unless you stated the moment you walked in the door that you don’t drink, like ever, you are expected to partake in every toast, down to every last drop. You’re either in, or you’re out. Anything in-between is met with criticism and distrust. You’ll cry. You’ll laugh. You’ll hug strangers. You’ll toast to your ancestors, your dog, your ex, your neighbor’s ex, and possibly a nearby tree that looked particularly noble. The Supra doesn’t end when you’re full. It ends when you reach a higher plane of consciousness… or pass out. So, if you ever find yourself in Georgia, come hungry, bring a liver, and prepare to become part of a culinary tradition so epic, it makes Thanksgiving dinner look like a sad desk lunch. Georgia isn’t just a country; it’s an all-you-can-feel buffet for the soul. If you want to dive deeper into Georgian cuisine, viticulture, and history, check out The Georgian Feast.