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!
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