Get invited to a Georgian supra and you'll understand why the country calls its feast table a small government, complete with its own elected leader.
A proper supra is run by a tamada, a toastmaster chosen for wit and stamina, who paces the meal through a long sequence of toasts — to peace, to ancestors, to the guests, to love — each one drunk in full from a horn or a clay cup of local wine. You don't clink glasses in Georgia; you wait for the toast to land, then drink.
The food arrives all at once and keeps arriving: khachapuri, the cheese-filled bread that comes in a dozen regional shapes, from the boat-shaped Adjaruli topped with a raw egg to the round Imeruli; khinkali, soup-filled dumplings you're meant to eat by hand, sipping the broth through a bite before finishing the rest; and pkhali, walnut-and-vegetable pâtés that turn up in more colours than you'd expect from beets, spinach, and leeks.
Tbilisi's old town has restaurants that recreate the supra format for visitors, but if a local invites you to a real one, go — it runs for hours, involves more wine than seems reasonable on a weeknight, and is the single best way to understand Georgian hospitality from the inside.
