Monday, March 19, 2012

A Georgian feast

Last weekend we went to a supra.  A supra is a traditional Georgian feast and an important part of Georgian social culture. In Georgian, "supra" literally means "tablecloth.”  Large public meals are never held in Georgia without a supra; when there are no tables, the supra is laid on the ground.  The Rector of the Academy where I work, Deputy Minister Andro Barnovi, invited several of the department chairs (all Georgian, of course) and the entire NDA Advisory Team (that’s us Americans) for a supra.  He rented the entire restaurant for the supra and it was very elegant and impressive.  What I remember of it, anyway.  And I blame that shortcoming on the tamada.  Regardless of size and type, a supra is always led by a tamada, or toastmaster, who introduces each toast during the feast. The tamada is elected by the banqueting guests or chosen by the host. A successful tamada must possess great rhetorical skill and be able to consume a large amount of alcohol without showing signs of drunkenness.

There are various levels of formality in a supra. The most formal supras usually mark weddings, baptisms or funerals. Usually these are men-only; the women serve and cook and may have their own supra in another room.  The only exception is at weddings where the bride, and occasionally the mother of the bride, joins the table.  The level of formality also depends on the location (usually a village supra tends to be more formal) and the age of the participants (older = more formal).  This supra was what I’d call semi-formal.  There were rules, but there was also a lot of “making it up as you go.” 

When we arrived (on time, of course) we entered an empty restaurant.  That’s because Georgians follow GMT – Georgian Maybe Time.  They may be on time; most likely they won’t.  Dinner started at 7p; the first Georgian showed up around 7:40.  That’s about right.  We’ve learned that a meeting scheduled for 11 means “11-something” – 11:15, 11:30, 11:50; it’s all the same to the Georgians.  At first the American in you gets annoyed; after all, in the US 11 means 11.  Then you learn not to sweat the small stuff and to stuff a magazine in your bag so you have something to do while you wait.  Fortunately, bottled water, tea and/or coffee are usually served while you wait, along with a bowl of nuts, fruit, or chocolate.  Sometimes I deliberately show up early for meetings just for the refreshments.

When you arrive at the supra, the table is already set.  That means, of course, the first course is cold.  On our table were plates of fried fish (cold); fried chicken (cold); chicken salad; beef tongue (cold); olives; a large variety of cheeses; Georgian salad (cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes); breads; and pastry horns stuffed with a mixture of cream cheese, sour cream, local cheeses, and herbs.  As the supra goes on, more food is brought out.  The food keeps coming, but the empty plates are not removed so, by the end of the meal, the plates of food are literally stacked on top of each other. 

The second course is stew and soups.  We had a “choice” (I put “choice” in quotation marks because you really don’t have a choice.  You’re expected to at least try every dish.  You have to try everything in small doses, though; otherwise you’ll fill up fast.) of lamb stew, a tomato-bisque kind of soup, and fish soup.  The next course is liver. 

Of course, each of these courses is interrupted by toasts.  When Andro arrived, he assured us that no alcohol would be served at the table.  Silly me forgetting that Georgians don’t consider wine alcohol.  (What Andro meant was, there would be no vodka at this supra; a huge distinction and sacrifice on their behalf.)  The wine is as important as the food.  Georgians claim that they invented toasting (as well as wine itself), so it is taken very, very seriously. As I said, at the beginning of the supra, the tamada (accent is on the first syllable) is named. Usually, this is the most respected, most eloquent person at the table. The tamada is part ringmaster, part comedian, part storyteller, and part referee. He is expected to give beautiful toasts and keep the supra-goers entertained at all times. Most importantly, the tamada must always drink the most at the table but can never act drunk.  Our tamada was the Dean of the Academy, a large, serious man who rarely says anything at meetings.  Prior to the supra, I had considered him bereft of a sense of humor or personality.  Again, silly me.  We quickly discovered that the Dean is a force to be reckoned with as tamada.  He did a superb job, offering what are considered the prerequisite toasts – to Georgia, to the U.S., to our families, to the President of Georgia, to the President of the US, to the Georgian Army, to the US Army, to the women (four of the department chairs at the Academy are female, so they joined us at the table; another reason why this supra could be considered semi-formal), and to future generations.  After the required toasts are complete, each of which requires the diner to completely empty his/her glass so it can be refilled for the next round of toasts, the tamada then has his fun – he calls on various members of the table to give their own toast.  We had been warned that this was a tradition so every American had a toast in mind, ready to be called on.  Problem is, you’re not allowed to repeat a toast.  So if your buddy jumps up to offer a toast you had planned, you have to come up with another one quickly.  Then, after the diner has submitted his/her toast, and glasses emptied, the tamada offers a toast to the toaster.  You just can’t win.


In some rural supras, the third course is offal – sweetbreads, liver, kidneys, hearts, and lungs.  Sadly, our third course was limited to chicken livers sautéed with onions.  It was wonderful.  So, let’s review – a first course of cold appetizers, with toasts; a second course of stews and soups, with toasts; a third course of chicken livers, with toasts.  And during all this, the plates are piling up on the table.  I’m not sure of the protocol, but after some courses our plates were exchanged for new plates.  After other courses, clean plates were simply placed on the plate containing the prior course.  So you have a stack of plates containing food growing precipitously in the center of the table and a smaller stack of plates in front of each diner.  That’s important because we still have three courses to go. 

The fourth course is beef and lamb (in some supras, fish comes before meat, adding an additional course and opportunities for more toasts, but we went directly to the beef and lamb round).  We had lamb chops and beef medallions, served separately in hot, crackling pans.  Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.  The meat is staying on the table about as long as a balsa wood chair in Rosie O’Donnell’s dressing room.  Oh, yeah, and more toasts.  We’ve already toasted the chef and restaurant staff, the farmers who raised the meat, the butchers who cut the meat, grocers in general, the construction crew who built the restaurant, the highway department for maintaining the road to the restaurant, the guy who dug up the clay for the restaurant’s bricks, and the inventor of the flush toilet.  But still we soldier on.   

For the next round, it’s pork; in this case, pork chops, pork medallions, and roasted pork.  There aren’t a lot of vegetables or starches with the meat – it’s just meat, grilled or fried mostly, with onions and herbs.  Sometime during the evening, a large bowl of fried potatoes, along with a smaller plate of stuffed mushrooms, and another of eggplant have found their way to the table, but who cares about those?  I’m there for the meat.  And I’m loving it.  I would have shoveled it in with both hands, except I have to leave one hand free for the toasts.  We had begun the evening with a rose wine.  For the pork course, it was changed to white.  It all comes in large carafes that look like they should be carried by two men and a small boy.  Each carafe must hold at least 6 liters of wine (about a gallon and a half).  The carafes are manned by restaurant staff that leap forward to fill your glass the instant it touches the tablecloth. After all, the evening’s young and a toast’s a toast.

The end of the supra is signified by serving fruit.  The fruit is pre-sliced and arranged beautifully on large platters.  It is, of course, accompanied by a dessert wine with which we make more toasts – these to the berry farmers, banana growers, and merchant marine captains who transport the produce.  (At least I think that’s who we were toasting; my memory’s a bit fuzzy.  We could have been toasting the ghost of King David the Builder and his horse for all I know.)  When the last morsel of fruit is consumed, the supra ends.  We all make one final toast (well, actually, it’s about four final toasts) to the host, to the tamada, to our continued friendship, and to a safe trip home (sounds kind of ironic, doesn’t it – drinking wine to ensure a safe car ride home).  There are hugs and handshakes all around, and then we stagger back to our bus (we’re no fools) for the trip home. 

Our supra lasted about four hours. I managed to make it through this supra without making too many mistakes. The supra table is one place in Georgia where the rules actually apply, but Georgian hospitality trumps tradition and they're forgiving when the foreign guest looks a little clueless.  (OK, a lot clueless and more than a little inebriated.) 

I would say this was a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime experience, but knowing the Georgians, it won’t be the last time we meet again at the supra table.  Especially since it’s now our turn to host the next one.  Anyone know a good, non-alcoholic wine? 

Thanks for reading.  And, as the Georgians say with each toast, Gaumargos!



Saturday, March 10, 2012

Pushing pawns at the Chess Palace

I like chess.  I know this isn’t the most popular of confessions.  For some, chess is so slow, dull, and boring, it makes selling corn dogs at the Goshen Fair seem like a stint in the double-0 sector of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  And I’m not even that good at chess.  Yet, even though I am not a very good player, I am drawn to the game.  The idea of competing one-on-one, my strength against yours, has always been very inviting to me.  So it should be no surprise that, during one of my weekend walkabouts through Tbilisi, I found the Tbilisi Chess Palace, home to the Georgia Chess Federation (my wife thinks I thought they misspelled it and was drawn to it for more nefarious reasons). 

Georgians love chess.  It has been a part of their national identity for over a century.  Stalin was a passionate pawn pusher as is the current president.  And they’ve been good at it.  Georgia has produced a world champion, Tigran Petrosian, in the 1960s, two women’s world champions (in the 1980s and 1990s), two US champions (in the early 1980s), and two world junior champions (1970s and 1980s).  Not bad for a country of less than a couple of million players.

The Chess Palace is an unappealing two story building of typical Soviet architecture.  It severely cries out for maintenance and a new coat of paint.  In the lobby sits a small table of chess books, pocket chess sets, membership applications, and large TV screens mounted on two walls.  It was a bit of shock – this decrepit building, with its bare bulbs swinging from single wires in the ceiling, chipped and cracking concrete staircases, and two state of the art flat screen TVs mounted on peeling, cracked plaster walls.  The TV was showing a large room, filled with children doing what children do – running around the room, yelling, playing, etc.  The room is also filled with 46 chess boards.  I walked around the lobby of this building but quickly became irritated.  A group of chess enthusiasts were standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories.  I had to leave because if there one thing I can't stand, it’s chess-nuts boasting in an open foyer.  Sorry, that was a bad pawn, I mean pun.




Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yes.  With just a few questions to the woman manning the table in the lobby, I was escorted up to the board room (yeah, I know; they’re getting worse) even though all the other adults had to be satisfied with standing in the lobby and watching the TV sets.  It turned out that yesterday was the qualifying tournament for the city’s upcoming Junior Chess Tournament.

A quick sidebar here – how, you may ask, did I get to go up to the room where the kids were playing even though I didn’t even had a kid in the tournament, when the parents couldn’t?  That’s an interesting anomaly of Georgia.  Georgians are much attuned to the English language.  They like the British and western Europeans as a species, but they love Americans.  Americans are treated special here, often being given perks that are unavailable to all others; for example, it’s not uncommon for bars to “forget” to add a round to your tab once they hear you speaking English.  Restaurant hostesses sweep the “reserved” sign off the best table to give it to Americans.  I’m not sure if it’s because they think all Americans are rich, or if they’re laying the groundwork for the day when Georgia asks the US for a favor.  Anyway, it does come in handy once in a while, like when you want to watch kids play chess.

So I was escorted into the tournament room.  Every table was filled with two kids waiting to start play.  They’re matched up by age and experience, I’m told.  Gender is not considered; in fact, at most tables it seems boys were competing against girls.  The ages range from eight to 12.  At precisely 11am, the arbiter (head official) calls out and play begins.  I’m immediately taken by the different styles of the kids.  Some are aggressive, slamming pieces down onto their new positions.  Others move the pieces almost shyly, embarrassed, it seems, to be making such a move.  Some favor attacking, pushing their pieces rapidly into enemy territory, while others build strong defenses and wait for the attack.  All are deeply in concentration.  No one’s looking around, leaning back in their chairs, or talking.  All are focused on the board.  Occasionally, you hear a chair squeak as a game ends and the participants report the results at the arbiter’s table.  Other than that, it’s just the sounds of wheels turning, and electrons sparking. 

When the game ends, the personalities come out:  some kids grin maniacally and high five other winners.  Some losers shrug as if it doesn’t matter, while others burst into tears.  Others take a more business-like approach and look for their next opponents.  Some, freed from the burden of acting as an adult, sprint outside to play on the neighboring park’s swing set.  The personalities of the parents’ also come out when the games are over.  Some beam with pride as they escort their future world champion out the door.  Others immediately whip out pocket chess sets to analyze their prodigy’s game.  A few merely fold the newspaper they were reading, pull out their “to do” list, and move on to the next item.  A few, sadly, berate their child for losing.  It’s a lot like Little League parents in the US, actually, but no one yells at the referee.  All the parents, it seems, are happy to be the Fischer of men (OK, that’s a REAL chess pun; just google Bobby Fischer, if you didn’t get it.  If you don’t want to take the trouble, trust me – that was funny.).

Sorry.

After the tournament had ended, several children approached me, some out of curiosity, some out of a desire to practice English, and some to challenge me to a game.  I ended up playing three games:  one against an 8-year old boy (Win in about 20 moves!  Yes!), another against a 10-11 year old boy (Another win!  Woohoo!), and a final game against a 12-year old girl (wearing a red sweater in the picture below, and yes, she is, too, 12; I asked her twice) who proceeded to wipe the board with me in about 30 moves (OK, you can’t win ‘em all).  At that point, discretion being the better part of humiliation, I left the Chess Palace. 



But not until being invited back to the adult qualifying tournament in April.  Time to get my game on. 

And as for the puns, I had hoped that if I worked in ten puns, a couple might actually draw some laughs.  Alas, no pun in ten did.  Thanks for reading.



Saturday, March 3, 2012

Taking the baths in Tbilisi

As I might have mentioned in a previous posting, Tbilisi sits atop a hot sulfur spring.  In fact, the name “Tbilisi” is literally translated as “warm place.”  As legend has it, in the 5th century King Vakhtang I was hunting in a forest with his trained falcon.  The falcon caught a pheasant but the weight of the bird dragged both the hunter and the hunted into a hot spring where both birds died.  King Vakhtang was so impressed with the discovery that he decided to build a city on this location.

Fast forward to yesterday.  There are still numerous hot spring baths in the center of town.  They’re quite popular and some are pretty opulent.  I’ve been curious as to what they were like so yesterday I took the plunge (pun intended and, hopefully, appreciated).  It was a good day for it as well – about 40F, snow flurrying around, and the wind going off in more directions than Don King’s hair in an electrical storm. 

You walk into what appears to be a hotel lobby:  reception desk, a waiting room with a TV blaring (all TVs produced or imported into Georgia have only two volume settings:  off and ear-splitting), and a small bar.  There’s a bill of fare posted behind the reception desk – in Georgian, of course, which makes me wonder if Americans don’t frequent the baths (my guess) or if there’s intent to discourage Americans from frequenting the baths.  Either way, between a mixture of English, Georgian, German, and pantomime, I rapidly deduce the cost to be 30 Lari (about $18) for your basic bath. 

A small sidebar here – besides English, I speak passable French and pretty good German (that is, of course, my opinion.  My wife would tell you I speak passable English, embarrassing German, and French that would make a Parisian stick hot candles in his ears rather than hear me butcher his language any further.)  My point, however, is this:  as Tbilisi becomes more westernized, the number of polyglot business owners has increased dramatically.  It makes for a comedy sketch, therefore, when I walk into a store asking, in very rapid order and without waiting for an answer between questions, my standard opening litany:  “Gamorjaba (hello in Georgian)!  Does anyone speak English?  Sprechen-sie Deutsch?  Parlez-vous Francais?”  Nevertheless, I eventually get more point across, usually in a combination of Georgian, English, and the ever popular pantomime.

So back to the baths.  As I’m being escorted to the bath area, the lady behind the counter asks me if I want a “scrub massage,” to which I say sure, why not?  Then she asks if I want towels.  Well, duh, I think; it’s a bath, of course I want a towel.  Then, I’m offered tea which I also accept.  All of these, of course, are extras, driving the cost of my bath to an eventual 40 Lari ($24). 

Another sidebar – sorry, but I’ve had two Diet Cokes this morning and I’m a bit caffeinated.  This business method of adding “extras” to a basic menu is standard in Georgia.  If you go to a restaurant, for example, you’re asked if you want bread while you peruse the menu.  That’s extra.  Do you want ketchup or some other condiment?  Extra.  Would you like rice with that order of curry?  Extra.  How about some nuts with your beer while you wait?  That’s extra, too.  It’s never a large addition to the bill – all those items I’ve just named might run a total of 2-3 Lari, about $2 extra at most – but it’s the standard way of doing business here.

OK, so I’ve decided I want the royal package – an hour’s bath, a “scrub massage,” whatever the hell that is, and towels.  I’m led to a small room with a chair, couch, coffee table, and a black and white TV showing a soccer game with the volume set to the “off” option.  On one wall are mounted coat hooks over a small shelf.  Next to the hooks and shelf is a door.  The lady motions that I’m to get undressed here and go through the door to the baths where I’m supposed to take a shower.  As they say in the furniture business, sofa so good. 

I undress and enter the room and am quickly taken back to 11th grade English class where we read Dante’s Inferno.  In the room is a square marble tub, 6’ x 6’ x 4’ deep.  There’s a marble slab affixed to one wall, and a single CVC pipe from the ceiling running a stream of unbelievably hot water.  There are no valves to change the temperature or pressure of the water.  Presuming that to be the shower, I jump in and out of the scalding water until I’m wet.  The room smells like rotten eggs (the sulfur, obviously) and there’s a misty fog of steam throughout the entire room.  I ease myself into the tub.  There are no jets like a Jacuzzi, just a single pipe that pours water continuously into the tub, the overflow running into a series of drains across the tiled floor.  The steam rises to a domed ceiling and out vents at the very top of the dome so there’s a constant layer of steam across the baths visible from the street. 

The water is hot.  Not Jacuzzi hot, but HOT.  It’s the hottest water I’ve ever been in (well, there was that one time when I came home late and a bit under the influence, but that’s a different type of hot water…), and I have to ease myself into it by degrees.  Finally, I’m sitting on the shelf built into the tub, soaking in the sulfurous waters.  You quickly stop noticing the rotten egg smell, and just sit back and let the warmth soak into you.  It’s quiet in the baths and the water has a bit of a feel to it sort of like mineral oil.  It’s not a thick texture, but it’s heavier, it seems, than normal water.  For 45 minutes, I sit in the tub, sipping hot tea, letting my mind wander and feeling more and more relaxed. 

The door opens and a very large man enters wearing a bath robe.  This guy must be close to a Shatner and a half.  I probably need to explain that.  In Iraq, a “Shatner” became a unit of measurement for weight.  A Shatner is about 300 pounds and is named, naturally, after the actor William Shatner of Star Trek and Boston Legal fame.  We developed the unit of measurement after seeing Shatner on a talk show.  He was, to say the least, a large man.  You could sell advertising space on him, and he was using the Equator as his belt.

So the robed man goes a good 350 pounds, 90% of it gut.  He’s carrying a bucket which he sets down and hangs up his robe.  Wearing nothing but boxer shorts and shower shoes, and holding his bucket, he motions me to the marble slab.  As I walk, reluctantly, to the slab, the man dips the bucket into the tub and pours water onto the slab.  I lie down on the slab face down.  Mr. Shatner then puts on a glove with a coarse loofa imbedded in it and proceeds to scrub me from head to toe.  It’s not a massage, and it’s not rough or unpleasant.  When he’s done with one side, he slaps me on the hip, grunts something in Georgian, and steps back.  I take that as my cue to roll over.  He scrubs my front and motions me to sit up.  As I’m sitting there, Mr. Shatner scrubs my head. 

For the second round, I’m motioned to lie back down on my stomach.  A large mesh bag is placed on my back and Shatner pulls on another glove, this one consisting of what must be 40-grit sandpaper in the palm.  The routine is repeated, except this time with soap and the sandpaper glove.  It is, essentially, a dermal abrasion as my first layer of skin is removed.  Finally, Shatner sits me up, finishes scrubbing me and pours two buckets of water over my head.  He motions me back to the tub, bows, and leaves.  I’m bright red from head to toe.  My skin (or what’s left of it) is undecided if it should tingle or burn.  I hop back into the tub, the water even hotter this time as there’s no layer of skin to protect my internal organs from being braised in the tub.  After about 10 minutes comes a knock on the door.  My bath time is done. 

You don’t get dressed right away after a bath like this.  Instead, you put on a towel which really isn’t a towel after all but a bed sheet torn in half.  You’re expected to wrap it around you like a toga and sit in the outer room until your body temperature returns to normal.  I imagine this lesson was learned the hard way after watching several clients collapse with heart attacks after transitioning from the heat of the baths to the winter temperatures outside.  Thus, the TV – it gives you something to do while you wait.  After another ten minutes or so, I dry off with the bed sheet (now there’s a challenge – bed sheets don’t absorb water like a towel as much as they move it from one part of your body to another.  Essentially, you’re air drying while standing like a Roman statue), get dressed and leave the baths.

I feel wonderful – I’m energized and relaxed at the same time.  I have the same feeling I do when I get out of a sauna – drained almost, but vigorous.  And thirsty.  I stop at a local market and buy two bottles of water, chugging them one after the other while walking to the bus stop.  On the bus, I’m so relaxed I almost fall asleep and come close to missing my stop. 

It’s a terrific experience and one I’m looking forward to repeating since it appears winter has decided to stay a while longer this year.  It’s definitely not a summer experience, but for a relaxing way to spend a winter’s day, you can’t beat it. 

Thanks for reading.