We returned to Tbilisi in 2002 with the intention of staying one year. On that first day back, our friends took us to a chummy brick-walled cellar in Sololaki. There was enough sunlight coming down through the door to illume low pine tables and seating for fifty people max. In a refrigerated counter, menu items were displayed: beef tongue, tomato and cucumber salad, assorted cheeses, badrijani (sliced fried eggplant stuffed with a garlicky walnut paste), all the standard stuff. It was a Georgian greasy spoon, for sure, with a kitchen that would make a health inspector shudder, but the khinkali were really good, and the house wine was as decent as it comes. The name of the place was Dukani Racha. Little did we know people had been coming here for decades.

Nunu Gachecheladze, our “pickle queen” at the Deserter’s Bazaar, pickles everything on site from produce she gets at the bazaar, based on her family recipe. While they’re all outstanding, our favorites are her pickled cucumbers and carrots.

We are on the eighth floor terrace of a relatively new apartment building in the Vedzisi neighborhood, nodding our heads with joker grins like gawkers at a freak show. The view is as spectacular as they come in mountainy Tbilisi, but that’s not what we’re chuckling at. There are 43 ceramic urns – kvevri – buried almost a meter and a half into a bed of sand and perlite in what was supposed to be a swimming pool for a nine-year-old boy. But in an epiphanic moment, the child’s father, 43-year-old doctor, Zura Natroshvili, decided to build a marani in the sky instead. The father of modern advertising, David Ogilvy, once said, “The best ideas come as jokes.” Dr. Natroshvili would probably agree. His friends thought he needed psychiatric help when he first shared his idea.

“Tea,” our friend Lasha indicated with a head nod, driving past fields with rows and rows of overgrown, chest-high, bushes of green leaves. It was 2002 and we were zipping along a skinny road littered with potholes on the outskirts of Zugdidi in west Georgia, but we could have also been in Guria or Adjara or even Imereti; regions with tea fields that have also become agrarian relics. Later we visited the last operating tea factory in town, a Soviet era rust bucket of a building that Lasha said churned out leaf dust that was sold to Lipton. Such was the fate of an industry that had once provided the USSR with 95 percent of its tea. However, after decades of inaction, Georgian tea production is slowly making a comeback.

A few months ago a little storefront joint opened down the street next to our neighborhood green grocer, a mom and pop operation that has been there for decades. A varnished wooden counter behind the iron-framed windows and a few matching tables make it fit the new bohemian-chic Tbilisi style popping up the street around Rooms Hotel, the hip four-star flophouse all the travel magazines are fawning over these days. Although the wine list was not well-stocked, the food didn’t disappoint. The pork belly was not the standard room-temperature slab of bacon on a plate, but was oven-roasted and nestled on two puddles of cherry and plum sauce, zesty richness that nearly overpowered the smokiness of the pork. It was simple, bold and delicious. And it was Georgian, although not everyone will agree on that.

In the Caucasus, guests are considered gifts from God. Georgians like to call them okros stumrebi – “golden guests” – an endearment that illustrates the stature the ever-hospitable Georgians give to those they host. And whenever our own golden guests come to visit in this remote corner of the world, we never fail to entertain them in our own surrogate dining room, Shavi Lomi (the Black Lion). The cellar restaurant is an homage to Georgia’s favorite artist, Niko Pirosmani, a naive painter whose favorite subjects were animals, a singer named Margarita and feast scenes. The flea-market furniture, tablecloths and china make the Black Lion an ideal setting for anybody hankering to create a one-of-a-kind, laid-back feast scene of his own, with hearty original takes on traditional Georgian cooking.

Aging beef is not a traditional process in Georgia. So it is very likely that this beef, on display at a butcher’s stall in Tbilisi’s Dezerter Bazaar, was mooing a day or two earlier.

The year was 2001, and we were squeezed around an enormous table, together with a half dozen men in their late fifties, in a small conference room at a Soviet-era tobacco collective in Lagodekhi, near the Azerbaijan border. The director of the collective casually slipped a biography of Joseph Stalin under the table and told us the story of the farm, although we weren’t really interested. Our local host had hijacked us into the meeting, believing we could give these gentlemen sound business advice simply because we were westerners. “Our tobacco is natural, no chemicals,” the director asserted. “Yes,” another man interjected with a grin, “we have no money for chemicals.” The men all chuckled.

Editor’s note: We’re celebrating another year of excellent backstreets eating by taking a look back at our favorite restaurants and dishes of 2017. Starting things off is a dispatch from our Tbilisi bureau chief Paul Rimple: In 2001, a chic fashion designer opened up a snazzy café in the Vake Park building we were living. The low quadratic furnishings were not made for comfort, but were perfect for posing with your nose in the air and a cigarette between your fingers. It was the only cafe in this part of town and lucky us, it was downstairs.

Churchkhelas, Georgia’s traditional homemade energy bar made of grape must, nuts and flour, and dried and candied fruits add a burst of color at the Deserter’s Bazaar in Tbilisi. While the churchkhelas and dried fruits are Georgian, the candied fruits generally come from Central Asia.

We spent the summer in Georgia’s Shida Kartli region, a vast expanse of fertile terrain in the heart of the country that we have fallen crazy in love with. One day, over a glass of local Chinuri wine, we wondered aloud, “Every other region in the country has signature dishes, but what about Kartli? What are its signature dishes?” We asked our neighbors and got a lot of shoulder shrugs. Shota, a 65-year-old contractor, re-called his grandmother’s soups. “They had fruit,” he said. Seventy-year-old Maro said she too ate fruit soups as a child. Thus began our plan to dig up forgotten Kartli recipes, someday.

An important part of our chacha journey is making sure that the moonshine still is sealed with a putty made of ash, earth and water.

Tbilisi's main bazaar offers a vast array of goods, including a wide variety of the choicest pork cuts. We didn't say it was for the faint of heart! 

We recently spoke with the wine writer Miquel Hudin about his new Vinologue guidebook, Georgia: A Guide to the Cradle of Wine. Hudin was the 2016 recipient of the Geoffrey Roberts Award, an international wine prize, and was named the Best Drink Writer of 2017 by Fortnum & Mason Awards. He has also published a number of guidebooks on other wine regions. Your most extensive previous wine coverage has been about Spain. How come you decided to write a book about Georgia and its wine? Georgia has simply been a point of fascination for years. But it was frustrating to see the same handful of wines pop up time and again so I made the trip over and dived in deep, aided a great deal by winning the Geoffrey Roberts Award.

Here's a flashback to our special event in the countryside of eastern Georgia, where we learned about the process of making chacha, the ubiquitous moonshine culled from the remnants of winemaking. The day culminated in this epic feast. Stay tuned for the announcement of future dates!