Arriving at the bus station in Tbilisi, we immediately felt like outsiders. Most of the signs were in Georgian, the characters beyond our comprehension, and almost no one spoke English. My husband, Luke, and I were looking for a minibus to Shilda, a city in Georgia’s Kakheti region, known for wine production. We planned to spend the night in wine country with Keti and her family, and this was the most affordable way to get there.
We found our minibus after some difficulty, but couldn’t communicate with the bus driver to confirm our destination. I messaged Keti, and she kindly called back and asked to speak to the driver. After they spoke, he nodded, returned my phone to me, and accepted our payment. Keti sent a message to tell us where to sit on the bus.
With her help, we were finally on our way. Crammed into the middle row of a hot van, we settled in for the four-hour drive to Shilda. The minibus would stop without warning, picking up people where there weren’t any bus signs. People clambered in or out at each stop, sometimes pulling down a folding chair to sit in the aisle or even standing by the door when all the seats were taken. Throughout this, I listened to music, head leaning against the window, trying to fight the rising nausea from the constant swerving of the van.
As we approached the four-hour mark, I started to worry we had missed our stop. We were some of the last remaining people. Finally, the driver stopped on a residential street, and he gestured for us to get out. We stumbled out of the vehicle, eager to be on land again. I was starving and nauseous, ready to move on to the next part of the trip.
Keti was waiting for us when we exited. Apparently, she had instructed the driver to drop us off directly at her house.
Keti’s House
The house was nestled near the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains. It was modest but comfortable, made of grey stone with sheet metal covering the roof. A dog greeted us in a yard full of greenery. Grape vines hung in rows over the backyard. The air was clean, the neighborhood quiet. It felt a long way from the choking pollution and cacophony of Tbilisi.
She showed us to our room, which was off a separate kitchenette and living area from the family. I was a little relieved, unsure of what to expect from staying in a stranger’s house.
After giving us a minute to freshen up and settle in, she returned, bearing a pitcher of amber wine from their vineyard. I couldn’t seem to shake the nausea from the bus ride, and felt wholly disappointed that I wasn’t more excited to try their wine. I took small sips to avoid being rude.
With Keti’s instruction, we made khinkali. We rolled out dough for the lovely, fat Georgian dumplings filled with a mix of ground beef and pork, while comparing lifestyles and learning about Keti and her family. The dumplings have a “handle” at the top where the dough is pinched together several times to seal the meat inside. We struggled to finish a couple while Keti deftly prepared hers. The bulbous dumplings were carefully submerged in boiling water and removed shortly after floating to the top.
Keti and her family had prepared a feast for us. Besides the khinkali, she set the table with shoti puri (Georgian bread), tomato and cucumber salad, beets, cheese, and stuffed trout. As hungry as I was, the nausea hadn’t subsided. I stomached as much as I could, hating to leave any of the delicious food she made behind. Finally, I admitted defeat and returned to the bedroom to rest and spend the night vomiting into the trashcan.
The next morning, after a restless night of sleep, I wasn’t feeling much better. We planned to visit the nearby Shaverge winery. I nibbled on breakfast apprehensively, contemplating how I would make it through the day.
Visiting a Winery in Kakheti
Shaverge winery was a short drive from Keti’s house. Fields of grape vines bordered the road on both sides. Though the grapes had mostly been harvested already, the leaves were painted in bright oranges and deep reds. The landscape expanded on all sides, except to the North, where the Caucasus Mountains jutted out of the earth, separating Georgia from Russia.
Keti turned down a road lined with narrow coniferous trees standing sentry, leading to the idyllic winery. Irregularly shaped stones bordered in red brick made up the outside of the structure. Under the same roof, a large covered patio with quaint red brick arches provided the perfect place to take in the vineyard and distant mountains. A lawn stretched out in front of the winery, where a pair of wooden bench swings sat overgrown with leafy vines. Strands of lights adorned the area.
Georgian wine is made in large clay pots, called qvevri, buried underground to keep the wine at a consistent temperature. The winemakers, a husband and wife, showed us their qvevri room. The brick floor had 14 holes for accessing the mouth of each vessel, where the grape skins, seeds, and stems are added to ferment. Racks of wine bottles lined the edges of the room.
We toured the rest of the property, including the bottling station and the grape vines. They picked forgotten grapes from the vine for us to try. They were small and sweet with crunchy seeds in the middle.
A Georgian Wine Tasting
A table on the patio was covered in Georgian staples such as cheese, bread, and cucumber and tomato salad. Placed before each seat were three wine glasses and a shot glass that made my stomach churn with anticipation.
We sat down, feasting on the expansive views before us, feeling very far away from home but content. The husband of the winemaking duo opened one of the bottles. He did not speak English. His wife, with the help of Keti, translated for him.
We started with a saperavi, the most abundant wine in Georgia. Saperavi means “to give color.” Both the skin and flesh of the grape are red, and both are added to the qvevri, giving the wine its dark red color that looks almost black. I smiled to myself, thinking how different this was from other wine tastings I’d done, where we’d always started with the lightest wine. He poured us both a large glass, not exactly tasting size.
They taught us the Georgian version of “cheers,” gaumarjos, which translates as “to victory.” The Georgian people are incredibly proud of their country and their independence, which has been hard-fought and continues to teeter on the edge of a cliff, with Russia already occupying 20% of their country.
I sipped the wine gingerly, slowly washing it around my mouth. It was not our first time trying saperavi, so I welcomed the familiar taste of the robust, fruity liquid, reminiscent of all the enjoyable moments we’d had in Georgia thus far. When the first sip went down without issue, I risked another, and then another.
To Victory!
The conversation diverged from wine to other things. It had been a difficult year for their harvest because of an unusual hailstorm, and the conversation turned to climate change. Luke and I shared our experience of traveling the world for the last six months, and how everywhere we went, the local people mentioned unusual weather patterns, temperatures, and storms. Conversing required a great deal of translating and explanation. Keti’s English was good, but occasionally we had to pull out Google Translate for a complicated word or phrase.
We moved on to the amber wine, a rkatsiteli. Georgians consider amber wine their version of white wine, because it is made with white grapes. The wine is amber in color because the skins are not removed before the grapes are added to the qvevri. I took a sip, swirled, and took another sip. The wine was settling surprisingly well in my stomach after the previous night. I branched out from eating only bread to trying some of the salty Georgian cheese.
The wine flowed with the conversation. We spoke of families, home life, and hobbies. Keti’s family is all rather musical, and she told us about how they sing and perform together. My family, excluding myself, is also musical. I marveled at how we can have so much in common with people who live on opposite sides of the world. We all care about the same things: our families and friends, our livelihoods, our hopes and desires.
Finally, we arrived at the shot glass. Chacha, a distilled spirit made from the pomace remaining after the wine is removed from the qvevri, is similar to Italian grappa, but less regulated. The husband laughed joyfully, his cheeks pink, claiming that Georgian winemakers drink chacha in the morning instead of coffee. He poured us each a glass.
I steeled myself. How could I not try his chacha after they had shown us such hospitality?
“Gaumarjos!” We exclaimed before throwing it back. The strong spirit burned as I swallowed it. Luke, with an interest in spirits, complemented it, prompting another bottle to appear on the table, this one with a golden tint: aged chacha. It went down a little bit better.
I was still wary of my stomach, but feeling better, so I declined any more chacha but continued to enjoy another glass of wine. They seemed completely content to share all of it with us, if we so desired. The winemaker continued to graciously pour whatever we liked, despite not being able to understand anything we said. The food was refreshed as well, new plates of bread and cheese replacing the empty ones.
We drank and talked until long after we had tried everything on the table. The vineyard cats joined us, mewling for scraps. Eventually, it was time to leave so we could catch our minibus back to Tbilisi. I wished that we could stay a little longer now that I was finally feeling improved. Whether it was the wine, the chacha, the local food, or the delightful company, I didn’t know.
Before departing, we strolled around the vineyard a little more. I swayed on the bench swing, taking in the picturesque scenery and feeling grateful for the hospitality and kindness of Keti and her friends, sickness forgotten. I’d been unsure what to expect from staying with strangers in an unfamiliar country. The experience certainly wasn’t perfect, but the imperfection made the good parts all the more special.
Much more by this author in her own blog at https://thewayfaringfoodie.com/19-must-eat-foods-in-georgia/
