I Swear I'll Stop Writing About Georgian Food After This Post: Brick Oven Bread

I know you're all probably tired of hearing about Georgian food by now, but wandering along Brighton Beach a few weeks ago, my friends and I came across "Brick Oven Bread," a Georgian bakery on a residential block, just east of Coney island Avenue.

Photo courtesy of Robyn Lee

Completely and utterly full from a long day of butter and cream-filled Russian treats, we decided to simply note the location before vowing to return as soon as humanly possible. Unfortunately, Thanksgiving and preparation for a trial got in the way, but I was finally able to return with my friend Lizzie and two colleagues of hers visiting from London.

As we walked inside, Lizzie's friends started asking about Georgia and Georgian food. "That's where Stalin was from," I said, summing up about 50% of my Georgian knowledge.

"Stalin?" He replied. "He was a bit of a tinker, wasn't he?"

Take what you will from that, but a "tinker" was described to me as a "cheeky fellow."

More Georgian Food at Mtskheta Cafe

Once again I've found myself overly complacent. Mtskheta Cafe, a new Georgian restaurant near the end of the D train in South Brooklyn (in what may or may not be Bensonhurst) blasted onto my radar with a review in New York Magazine of all places. A scouting trip with Jared Cohee of Eating the World in NYC that same day confirmed that I should probably return.

That Friday, we showed up with a large group for a birthday party where we ordered much of the menu (and also had much to drink). Then, I sat on my post. Subsequent write-ups by Jared, Wilfrid of At the Sign of the Pink Pig and Dave Cook at Eaten in Translation showed that I really had a lot to add to the conversation.... Regardless (I've sold this quite well, I'm sure), I'll add what I can (having been to a lot of Georgian restaurants in the city, I believe my self-proclaimed expertise means my voice should be heard).

At the first meal with Jared, we decided to keep our order lean and mean with kupati, khachapouri and a Georgian salad. Also, the all-Russian menu was daunting, so we just named a few dishes to try. Our young, English-speaking waiter pushed the garlic chicken, but we'd already ordered too much. This type of food requires alcohol. I was unprepared, but ran to the Rite Aid down the street, where the best of a bad selection was Heineken tall boys. Those would do.

I returned to chewy lavash bread and soon our khachapouri arrived. It was buttery, almost like movie theater popcorn and overflowing with cheese, but otherwise unremarkable. Stick with Pirosmani or Georgian Bread for khachapouri.

Leading the Way to Tamada

Tamada is the latest stop in my halfhearted attempt to try every Georgian restaurant in the city.

Steve, who arrived first to an empty restaurant, was eyed skeptically by the owner. To convince him of the seriousness of our cause, Steve said "we're here for Georgian," and then angrily broke two plates with a bottle of Georgian wine (I may have condensed the timeline for the sake of narrative convenience). Oh, speaking of the wine, we purchased a bottle of red, Alaverdi Pirosmani 2005, which was inoffensive, meaning its the best Georgian wine I've tried. And, after one sip of the dry white wine, Tsinandali, I wisely decided to stick with the red. We also purchased the necessary amount of honey pepper vodka (to stimulate our appetites, of course).

Blurry Georgian Nights at Tbilisi Cafe & Bakery

A train ride into Bensonhurst led us to the narrow and unassuming Tbilisi Cafe & Bakery where my friend Liz had arranged for a massive Georgian dinner (also known as a Supra) with some of her friends from the Peace Corps. Liz knows how much I love khachapouri, and this is just another step in my plan to eat at every Georgian place in the city (and an excuse to drink).

What follows is an illustration of a proper Supra. 

Initially, I'd like to note that these meals are fueled by alcohol, and due to my inebriation stemming from a strict compliance with the rules of a Supra, my pictures suck (and to be honest, my memory of this dinner is hazy, at best). Shaky, grease-slicked hands make for blurry photos, so I'll use them sparingly. 

Along with multiple shots of honey pepper vodka, we (or, I) alternated between overly sweet Georgian wine, vodka and beer. It's all about variety in consumption. Oh, before I go any further I should note that the two rules for drinking at a Supra are: (1) everyone drinks at the same time; and (2) everyone must finish what's in their glass. I'm proud of myself for not throwing in a Fight Club reference right there. I think it's a sign of maturity. 

A Supra also requires a Tamada, or toastmaster. Liz claims she was the Tamada. Since I don't have the energy to argue with her, I guess I'll let it slide.

We began the meal with a simple salad and badrijani. The thin slices of eggplant stuffed with walnut paste went down well on top of an incendiary shot of honey pepper vodka.

Georgian Bread (or, How I Made Everyone Love Me at the Super Bowl Party)

While I've tried two of the established Georgian restaurants in Brooklyn (Pirosmani and Tbilisi), the omission of Georgian Bread, a tiny bakery on Neptune Avenue in Brighton Beach serving khachapouri, haunted me. Yes, I'm at that point in my life where I'm haunted by places I need to eat at...

A video shot in the bakery posted on Chowhound convinced me that I could wait no longer. I invited my friend Liz, who at this point may think I only talk her because she speaks fluent Georgian, to come along. We also met up with Robyn and Alex for lunch before the Super Bowl. Robyn also took all the wonderful pictures below.

I anticipated the bakery would be small, but you don't get a feel for the size of the place until ten people are crammed into the tiny counter area. The old baker runs the store with his assistant. In between placing loaves in the tandoori oven, the baker takes peoples orders and gives change with cracked, flour covered hands. There's a small refrigerator case with dips (according to liz these are called pkhali) and a shelf with various condiments.

Pirosmani: Stalin Would Approve

Living in New York City has allowed me to expand my culinary knowledge by an order of magnitude on an almost daily basis. Though the curve has started to flatten out lately (yeah right), there are still massive gaps in my food IQ. This includes pretty much all of Eastern Europe, and while I'd been meaning to trek out to Brighton Beach, friends had repeatedly quit on me at the last second (you know who you are).

Luckily, our friend Liz, who joined Steve and I on our dinner at Vinegar Hill House (and is helping us with the more technical aspects of our blog), worked for the Peace Corps in Georgia (so she knows the food and language). Liz insists that Georgian is the best of all quasi-Russian cuisines (be sure not to mix up Russian and Georgian, however, if you don't want to get killed). Her friend Seke joined us. He was in the Peace Corps with Liz, and had just returned from a visit to Georgia a few weeks ago.

After a 30 minute trip on the Q train, we emerged as the unlikeliest posse walking through Sheepshead Bay that night: two Jews, a Korean, a gay Black man, and a blonde vegetarian. Together, we were a rainbow coalition of eaters, or some kind of twisted model UN.

It was only a short walk from the station (and a detour to the liquor store), before we arrived at Pirosmani, or what appears to be Rupocmahu to a non-Georgian speaker.