Gabriella Opaz's Posterous Blog

The Supra and Kvevri Wines: The Soul of Traditional Georgian Gastronomy

Thu, 03 May 2012 00:40:00 -0700

Lying on the grass, I gaze at a brilliant blue sky dotted in fluffy white clouds. My hair flies above my head in thin, floating strands as birds swoop over the budding vineyards beside me. Taking a deep breath, I smile. My body melts into the ground as I inhale aromas of wild flowers and fresh spring air. It’s a stunning site, especially when greeted with the majestic Caucasus Mountains soaring behind me.

Ambling to my feet, I stretch high into the air, allowing all of my trapped tension from the previous day’s travel to ease off my skin. And just as I collect my bag, I hear the faint sound of a guitar behind me. Odd, I think, but curiosity gets the best of me, and I follow the gentle reverberations past the swaying vines to a stone house on top of a grassy embankment.

The thick wooden door, scarred by wind and rain, opens to reveal a large table piled high with food. Plates upon plates are stacked upon one another with sweet pickled vegetables; grilled meats; spiced spinach; creamed pinto beans seasoned with coriander called Lobio, onions and garlic; Khinkali, juicy dumplings stuffed with various fillings including mushrooms or cheese, but more typically spiced meat with greens, onions and garlic; sautéed mushrooms; Hacha Puri, oven toasted cheese bread; and fresh herbs and vegetables intermingled with jugs upon jugs of orange kvevri wines.

At the head of the table sits a small stocky man with a stoic expression. Wrapped in black woolen sweater, he cautiously smiles my direction. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I reply in equal measure. “Is this a celebration?”

“It’s a Supra!” he sputters, jarred by my ignorance. “Do you not know what a Supra is?”

“No, I can’t say that I do. What is it?”

As the young woman across the table translates my words, his brown eyes sparkle mischievously with excitement, and a gentle grin creeps across his face. With a deep sigh, he pushes up his sleeves and begins.

“A supra is a feast, my dear, but not just any feast. There are two types of Supra: the Kelekhi, dedicated to those who have passed on; and then there is the Keipi, a festive Supra that we are celebrating today because of our new guests. The word Supra literally means “tablecloth”, which is slightly ironic as the goal of the Supra is to flood the table with such an immense amount of food that not a millimeter of the tablecloth is revealed. Then, just when your senses are tantalized, I, as the chosen toastmaster (Tamada) of the evening, lead the feast in a series of toasts.”

Puffing up his chest, his gestures become more animated, he continues, “My job is to be your storyteller, your comedian and your charming host. We will toast to the Gods, to our beloved women, to nature, to the dead, to food, to our millennia old wines, to our family, and most importantly, to our guests. And as the night grows long, and you feel more at home with our traditional songs, we dance. We may dance the Partsa, a dance of flight and folly; the Kartuli , a dance of love and romance; the Khevsuruli, representing the constant give and take of courage, determination and passion among couples. This, is a Supra.”

Mouth agape, I stood silent, blown away by his passion and pride. I feared our American hoedown didn’t really have much on a Supra, and was stunned that this tradition still moved people with such emotion.

“But, okay, wow, I have so many questions! Let’s begin with the Orange Fanta colored wine on the table. If this is your traditional wine, what’s up with the funky amber color?”

Waiting for the translator to finish, he brought his hands together, leaned back in his chair and began, “For 5,000 years we have been crafting wine. So this ‘funky’ color, as you call it, is far from odd. We have dozens of words to help us describe this color, from amber to orange peel, each color is unique onto itself.”

“But how do we get this stunning color?” he continued in a husky voice. “We get it by having our Kvevri makers sculpt the perfect clay vessel for our wines, a long and arduous process that takes a lifetime to perfect. Similar to a giant amphora in shape, the interior of the kvevri is lined with a natural beeswax, while the exterior is painted with a lime wash to protect it from contamination. Once the Kvevri is ready, it’s buried deep into the ground with only a hole, slightly larger than a man’s shoulder width, exposed to receive the wine.”

“Once the grapes are picked, they are gently placed into a Sacakheli, a long wooden or stone trough where they await pressing. After pressing, we draw the wine from the Sacakheli into the Kvevri, while the remaining mash rests overnight. Come morning, a portion of the mash - adjusted based on the grape, sugar and acidity - is added to the kvevri. As days turn into months, and the clear juice slowly separates itself out, it is carefully racked from one kvevri to another, where it will sit under clay, sand or stone until it’s ready to be savored. Hence that captivating orange color is created when our native white grapes, like Rkatsiteli, are allowed to mingle and mix among the skins and pips. Mind you, Georgia has just short of 500 native grapes, of which a quarter are typically used to make wine.”

Accepting their traditional clay bowl filled with a freshly ladled Rkatsiteli, the wine smelled of intense dried apricot aromas accented with the gentle hints of white flower, lemon and rose. In the mouth, the wine felt round and creamy with an intense acidity that eventually gave way to candied apricots and soft floral flavors. Admittedly, not the easiest wine to appreciate at first sip, but when made well, its stunning personality shows through.

“And what of the food? If you layer the table in a massive feast, not only will someone have to carry us home in a wheelbarrow at the end of the evening, but more importantly, what of the uneaten food that these amazing women have created for the evening?”

Standing up from his chair, he faced me with a gentle grin before wrapping his thick arms around me. Here we sat for a minute, allowing our friendship to meld into one. And as he backed away, with both hands still on my shoulders, he whispered, “There is never an experience lost. The remaining food will be taken to those in need, which is customary in Georgia. And you, with your filled belly, will always be reminded that we treat all of our guests as family. What wine and food will grace our table, will always be yours to enjoy.”

He wasn't far off. Though the food did eventually slow to a halt, allowing for hours of feverish dancing, it eventually picked up again as the moon settled behind the mountains. The night was stunning and a welcome reminder of how food and wine are truly the social lubricants in forging new experiences and lifelong friendships. The key is simply keeping an open mind.

Note: This article was inspired by an invitation by Raw Fair to Georgia. If you're keen to taste several Kvevri wines, please go to the Raw Fair website for more information.

Georgia: The Cornerstone of Hospitality and Generosity #rawfair

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 04:19:00 -0700

There are places in the world that enchant you well before stepping onto their dusty soils, and then there are places you know absolutely nothing about but that lure you in with their unadulterated mystery. Georgia fell into the latter, learning only recently that Tbilisi wasn’t only the capital, containing a ridiculous surplus of “I”s, but also represented the cornerstone of philosophy and culture for much of our civilized history.

Culture, a term intrinsically related to wine, but rarely commented upon, unless in relationship to food. Not such a strange concept, I suppose, as it’s safe and well understood across all class and cultures; but Isabelle Legeron, the passionate founder of Raw Fair, brought a handful of food and wine writers to Georgia in an effort to gently highlight the underbelly of Georgian culture. Were we roughing it among the shaggy sheep and cranky donkeys, no, but we did have the pleasure of meeting a vast array of people who willingly shared their stories.

“You have city hands.”

“What are city hands?” I inquired of a handsome older man delicately cleaning potatoes, while propped on a rickety blue plastic bucket at the city market.

Holding out his giant paws, he gently cupped my right hand and began caressing it ever so slowly with his rough fingers. “These are thinking hands not working hands,” his blue eyes twinkled as his lips slowly fell into a warm smile, “smooth and clean.”

Looking down at my silver adorned fingers, with trimmed nails, I smiled, “yeah, I suppose they are.” I wondered what those huge, creased hands had seen over the years. Had they fought against the Russians, toiled against the droughts, made love among the spring flowers, or simply peeled thousands of potatoes?

Georgia for me was something more than a simple adventure, more than a cultural discovery. It was a bit of a homecoming; a chance to feel relaxed among a people I gelled with. Even at their most stoic Georgians possess a soulfulness that I’ve rarely come across. A deep sense of self, and a strong desire to reach out and connect with others.

Among the colorful stands adorning the Navtulgi Market, there was a feeling of calm, of peacefulness despite the chaotic weekend shopping whizzing on around us. Deep, rich aromas of cumin, curry, dill and tarragon filled the air as vendors dipped bright green herbs into a bucket, and with a flick of the wrist, carrots, beets, spring onions and radishes are showered in a cascade of water. Dark maroon chili peppers hung from metal support beams, alongside a rainbow of dried dates, marigolds, garlic and Chuchkhela.

Churchkhela is as ubiquitous in Georgia as olives are to Spain. Almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts and sometimes raisins are threaded onto a string, dipped in flour thickened grape juice and dried in the shape of a bumpy sausage. Displayed in a range of earth tones, depending on the grape used, the texture can vary from thick and chewy to soft and malleable. Admittedly, I wasn’t very keen on Churchkhela, finding it rather bland and uneventful when there were only a scattering of nuts in the center; but when nuts fill every crevice of its sausage shape, the flavor and texture considerably improved, especially if you’re looking for a simple non-perishable food to carry around the city.

Another surprising discovery was Tklapi, a dried leather fruit made by boiling, then pureeing, sour plums and spreading it onto a long sheet to dry. As a child, there was a brand of children’s snacks in the States called “Fruit Rollups” that were so processed and tart, I distinctly remember the corner of my jaws cinching together at every bite. Fortunately, the natural Georgian version lends to a more delicate flavor, which can be eaten raw or added to a soup and stews as a souring affect. Sweeter versions are also made with apricots and peaches.

Further into the market, thick freckled arms reach deep into a blue metal pot to extract a viscous aromatic honey that trickles ever so slowly from the small plastic spoon. Sweet, with small bursts of liquid sugar, it melts across your tongue leaving a heavenly rustic flavor.

There is a generosity that is endemic to the Georgians, a belief that to give is considerably more important than receiving. And although I deeply share this same belief, I couldn’t help but be astounded by the number of times people gave freely: plum sized chunks of cheese, thick slices of cured meats, shot glass portions of pungent sunflower oil. With only a smile, and a slight cock of the head in curiosity, delicious morsels continuously cascaded upon us.

Passing a small house emitting an intoxicating aroma of savory pastries, I encountered a gentle motherly figure popping her head through a door frame signaling me inside. Pulling a large metal tray out from the oven covered in golden brown squares of pastry puff called Ossuri khachapuri, she pulled one off the tray and into my hands. Wishing my mitts were made of Teflon, I bounced the flaky pastry back and forth between my hands before I discovered its gooey cheese and potato inside that, ever so slowly, oozed to the floor as I took my first bite. She smiled, sweetly, and waved goodbye. There was no indication of payment, of anything required in return. Instead, her payment was the uncontrollable smile that crept across my face as the rich pastry melted in my mouth.

Local markets are a wonderful place to truly get a sense of a culture’s relationship to food. It’s also a fabulous location to get a pulse on the people, and the way in which they interact with curious bystanders. And if this experience was any indication as to the Georgian’s take on hospitality and gastronomy, I’m sold!

Gabriella Opaz's Posterous Blog

The Supra and Kvevri Wines: The Soul of Traditional Georgian Gastronomy

Georgia: The Cornerstone of Hospitality and Generosity #rawfair

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