The Georgian Supra

“The first thing we pray for,” he said, “is peace. Without peace you have nothing. Peace is everything. So I pray for peace for you, for us, for Georgia.”

And we drink. 

I’m at a supra, a Georgian feast. Maybe technically I wasn’t, as I’d imagined a feast needs at least ten to twelve people, and there were only three of us. But I asked my hosts when their last supra was, and they said we’re at one now. 

So I’m at a supra.  

Turns out, the only prerequisites for a supra are a table full of food, a series of toasts, and a ton of alcohol, all of which we had. 

My hosts are Beka and Vlado, two Georgians that I met by curious circumstances. I hastily published an email at 6am announcing I was in Georgia — the country, not the state. My friend (Lexi Crotty, shoutout) messaged saying she has a law school colleague who’s Georgian; this colleague is married, and her husband’s best friend lives in Tbilisi. His name is Beka. 

I got in touch with Beka. I told him I’ve been super curious about Georgian cuisine but that, being on my own, I felt I hadn’t truly experienced it, and that I’d love the guidance of a local. And here we are, on the veranda of a beautiful Georgian restaurant in Tbilisi, the capital city.

“At a supra, one person is designated the tamada, the toastmaster,” Beka said. Upon hearing this, I did think of those public speaking meetups in WeWork conference rooms. He continued: “One thing that makes me sad, though. The toastmaster is usually the oldest or wisest guy in the family. Big belly, big mustache, lots of stories. But the younger generation, at weddings for example, they are hiring a professional to do it. A professional! They don’t even know the family. How could they do this?”

At one of these weddings, he told us, everyone was eating and the toastmaster didn’t realize his microphone was on. He was sitting with his buddy, and he started muttering how badly he wanted to bang the bride. This was broadcast to the entire wedding. 

“Served them right,” I said. 

The supra, I learn, is an integral part of Georgian culture. It’s how people gather and connect. And it’s all centered around food, wine, and conversation. 

Georgian food is one of the things that brought me here, after all. My first night in Tbilisi, I went out to eat and I was dazzled by the dishes: chicken with plum sauce, sausage with pomegranate, cucumber and walnut salad…combinations I’d never seen before. On top of this, there’s the mother of all gut bombs, the legendary katchapuri — a Georgian bread boat filled with melted cheeses, butter, and uncooked eggs. 

The other thing that pulled me here was their reputation for hospitality. Back in Brooklyn, I met a man from Tbilisi. I asked him what made the city special, and he said: “In Georgia, the guest is a gift from God.”

And tonight, the food and hospitality were in full force.

Beka did the ordering and the table was covered in food: three different cheese plates, pkhali (various spreads with cornbread-like toast), a green lentil salad, katchapuri, and of course Saperavi, the traditional Georgian red wine. There wasn’t an inch of free space on our table, and this was only the first course.

Beka’s in his mid-40s. He’s bald with dark eyebrows and a grey goatee. He’s got brown eyes that beam with both sincerity and intensity, depending on the angle. He owns a pharmaceutical company in Tbilisi and has seen the world. Vlado is much younger, in his early 20s, and works for Beka. 

They taught me a ton about Georgia that night. Georgia’s had a history of constant conflict; since it’s located on enviable trade routes, they’ve always had some sort of invader, be it Turks, Persians, and more. Even their greeting, gamarjoba, which I took to mean “hello,” actually means “May victory be yours.”

Beka alone has seen three wars in his lifetime, and they weren’t the “cute” wars we experience in the US, where we see television clips of some remote conflict in the Middle East. No, Beka’s wars meant rockets raining, food being rationed, and three hours of electricity each day, for years.

And not to mention, Russia. 

In 2008, Russia marched in and took 20% of the country. They’re still occupying these regions, to this day. You can’t walk three feet in Tbilisi without seeing anti-Russian graffiti: Russians not welcome here; Fuck Russia; Go back to your ugly country. 

There’s a ton of Russians in Tbilisi, many of whom are in protest of the invasion, or defecting from having to enlist. And many Georgians, from what I’ve learned, don’t seem to like it. 

One night I went to a jazz bar. On the bar’s website, they had a tab titled, “For Russians.” If you were Russian and wanted to enter the bar, you had to check each box on that page, which included avowing your hatred of Russia, declaring Putin a chauvinist, and disagreeing with everything they’ve ever done and ever will do. There’s even one box near the bottom shrewdly left blank, which you must leave blank to ensure you’ve actively read and complied with all of the above. 

I shared this with these guys and they laughed. “When Russia’s your neighbor,” Beka said, “you’re always on edge.”

“That’s why we put so much expectation on the younger generation,” he continued, looking to Vlado. “This is the first generation to grow up in peace. They have nothing stopping them. It’s them we pray will turn the direction of this country.”

“How’s that feel?” I asked Vlado.

“It’s a pressure but we accept it,” he said. “We know we are lucky. We didn’t grow up as they did. So we will do our best.”

Another toast. To the next generation. 

Things were starting to get mushy. The wine was flowing. We’d moved onto the meat course: a plate of pork chops and beetroot salad, potatoes with meat stew, and lamb meatballs. 

We talked of family, of travel, of work and life. They taught me that Tbilisi means “hot water,” as back in the day, the King was on the march, stumbled across some hot springs and said, “this place seems pretty good.” We even talked about basketball, as it turned out, to my deep and utter delight, that Vlado knew ball. 

We finished the meats and Beka called the server over. I’m not sure what he said, but he had a little glint in his eye. The server brought a tray of shots. 

Every country, I’m learning, has a liquor. It’s a clear liquor that’s kept in an unmarked jar, tastes like gasoline and gets you wildly, stupidly drunk. 

And in Georgia, it’s called cha cha. 

We got three shots. You know it’s something when you see how giddy the guy gets when he’s ordering it. Ours were served cold, which helped. We raised our glasses.

“Goodbye,” said Beka. “This is the end.”

And we drank. 

We let it settle. The room is feeling warm. Beka fills our wine glasses. He has one last toast. 

“Some people collect money, some collect cars. Here in Georgia, we collect memories,” he said. “Memories are the most valuable thing you have. When you’re older, what do you have left, what do you exchange? You share memories.”

“I wish you to have good memories,” he said, “and I hope tonight is one of them.”

Cheers.

Beka then turned toward me. “And now,” he said, “it’s your turn to toast.”

Oh God, I thought. 

I truly hoped he’d forget. I know what he said, the toast must come from the heart, but I’m not always a “from the heart” kind of guy. If something has stakes, or if I’m afraid to fail, I’ll pre-plan the shit out of what I want to say.

But that’s not how a toast works and these guys can sense it. So fuck it. I had cha cha in my veins and love in my heart. I let it flow. 

“Look,” I said, “You guys don’t have to be here. You don’t know me, you don’t know my family. You don’t owe me anything. I’m just a guy visiting Georgia. But when you’re traveling in a foreign country, so far from where you’re from, it can get so lonely. So you guys inviting me here, telling me about your history, asking about me, showing me your food…it touches me deeply. It means so much.”

I raised my glass. I was shaking.

“Thank you,” I said. “Truly.”

We all took a sip.

There was a slight pause, and then Beka smiled. “That was a great toast, man.” 

“It was,” Vlado said. “I could feel it.”

Ugh.

Relief poured through me, everything relaxed. To hear that, from the toastmasters themselves…look, I could eat all the katchapuris and climb all the mountains, but to get that nod of approval will forever be my crowning Georgian achievement. 

It was getting late, and I was trashed. The bill came and Beka paid. He then called a cab to take me home. He asked for my address, because several weeks later, he’d send me four bottles of Georgian wine. 

“This is your country,” he said. “We welcome you here. This is your home. If you need anything, anything at all in Georgia, you call me.”

And with that, I got into the cab, giddy and drunk, and I went home, feeling like a God.