When John Matthews first touched down in Tbilisi, he was a man seeking solace, his heart still heavy with the gray silence of a New Jersey winter and the echoing loss of his wife, Celia. He expected to find history; he expected to find art. What he did not expect was to find a reason to live again at the bottom of a cheese-filled bread boat.
In his manuscript, An American in Tbilisi, John recounts his first encounter with KhachapuriAdjaruli, the legendary Georgian cheese bread. As he sat in a sun-drenched cafe, watching the steam rise from a crusty, boat-shaped loaf topped with a golden pool of melted sulguni cheese and a shimmering raw egg yolk, he realized he was not just looking at lunch. He was looking at a “culinary hug in carb form.”
The Warmth of the Khachapuri
For the uninitiated, Khachapuri is the soul of Georgia. There are wide regional varieties, but the Adjaruli version is the most iconic. John describes the ritual of eating it with the reverence of a religious experience: you tear off the “bow” and “stern” of the bread boat, using the crust to swirl the egg and butter into the molten cheese until it becomes a rich, velvety fondue.
“It was the first time in months,” John writes, “that the knot in my stomach actually loosened.” This is the power of Georgian cuisine. It does not just fill the belly; it wraps its arms around you. It is comfort food elevated to an art form, a reminder that the world still holds warmth and flavor, even when your personal world feels cold.
The “Controlled Chaos” of the Khinkali
If Khachapuri is a hug, then Khinkali, Georgia’s famous soup dumplings, is an initiation rite. John’s introduction to these doughy delights was what he termed “controlled chaos.”
Guided by Anna, his friend and cultural compass, John learned the hard way that you never, ever use a fork and knife on a Khinkali. To do so is to commit a cardinal sin: letting the precious, spiced broth spill out onto the plate. Instead, you must grasp the dumpling by its “kudi,” the doughy topknot, take a small bite from the side, and slurp the hot juice before consuming the rest.
John’s first attempt resulted in a shirt stained with broth and a table full of laughter. However, in that laughter, there was a bridge. He realized that the messy, tactile nature of Georgian food forces you to engage with the present moment. You cannot eat Khinkali while brooding over the past; you have to pay attention, or you will end up wearing your dinner.
Ancient Alchemy: The Qvevri Wine
No beginner’s guide to Georgia would be complete without the wine. Long before the Romans or the French perfected their craft, Georgians were burying large clay vessels called Qvevri in the earth to ferment grapes.
John’s journey took him into the heart of this 8,000-year-old tradition. Unlike Western wines, Georgian “amber” or “orange” wine is fermented with the skins, stalks, and pips, resulting in a complex, tannic, and deeply flavorful drink that tastes like the earth itself. As John sat in a cool cellar, sipping a wine that had been made the same way since the Bronze Age, he felt a profound sense of continuity.
The Qvevri is not just a pot; it is a time capsule. It taught John that some things are worth the wait and that true character, much like wine that often develops in the dark, quiet places of the earth.
Eat First, Ask Questions Later
As John moved from the polished streets of Vake to the rugged mountain roads of Kazbegi, he noticed a recurring theme. Whether he was being welcomed into a stranger’s home or sitting at a grand supra (feast), the food always came before the formalities.
The unofficial motto of Georgia, John concluded, should be “Eat First, Ask Questions Later.” In the West, we often use food as a reward or a scheduled break. In Georgia, food is the foundation of communication. It is the icebreaker, the peacemaker, and the primary language of love. By the time the third course of pkhali (vegetable pâté) and mtsvadi (grilled meat) arrives, you are not a stranger anymore; you are a guest, and a guest is a “gift from God.”
Finding Healing at the Table
John Matthews went to Tbilisi to escape his grief, but he ended up eating his way back to health. The bold spices, the blue fenugreek, the marigold petals, and the sharp tang of pomegranate reawakened his senses. The heavy breads and rich meats provided the literal and figurative “weight” he needed to feel grounded again.
Georgia teaches us that when life feels empty, sometimes the best way to start filling it up again is with a shared plate and a raised glass.
