Best of Beshumi

The best thing about arriving at this house is that I had indeed arrived.  I was treated like royalty and introduced to everyone in the extended family. The worst thing about this house was that I had officially resigned all control over my own actions for the rest of the evening and most of the next day.  But this is the way things go when you’re desperate to sleep anywhere after contemplating curling up in a culvert a few hours earlier.Everyone was quick to introduce themselves to me and started to swarm me when suddenly it was as though the seas parted and everyone cleared way for the patriarch of the family, the grandfather, to greet and embrace me, and act as official interpreter.

“Aleksandr!” he exclaimed in perfect Russian.  He was absolutely ecstatic to talk to someone in Russian because it’s nice when all those years in school finally pay off, you know?  I certainly do.  So he had been in the army and actually loved the Russians.  And why wouldn’t you?  They are so cute and cuddly when you ignore any of the political issues that exist between the Russian and Georgian governments. 

So we sat around in the main room of the house watching Georgian Idol while one woman cooked a meal for about twenty people.  I am not even joking, there were twenty people crammed into this one room.  We talked and laughed and toasted and drank and the grandfather translated everything for me. During the toasts, which lasted about 1-5 minutes per toast and consisted of a nonstop stream of Georgian, the old man would turn to me and simply explain, “To our mothers” or “To old friends” and then we would be expected to drink our entire glass from top to bottom.  As the night wore on and he got progressively crunk, he would slap my back, pinch my cheeks, smile widely and say, "Aleksandr!  Sacha!  Sachenka!!!!"

Dinner was greatest thing that has ever happened to me before or since.  It was pure joy.  Perhaps I should explain the nature of the village: they lived there three or four months out of the year because the rest of the time it was snowed out.  They brought their cattle up to graze on the delicious grass that coated the hills above the treeline.  The men were engaged in directing the grazing and driving the cattle, and the women passed the time processing the milk into delicious dairy treats.  I suppose they eventually sell this stuff in the market but I can’t see how after the sheer quantity of food we ate.

Every single item on the table seemed to utilize fresh cheese curds.  Do you have any idea how incredibly fortuitous it is to be served a meal in which this is the leading theme?  There was boiled pasta—with cheese curds stirred in; there were French-fried potatoes—with a cheese curd sauce poured on top so that it was both smooth and creamy but also had chunks of cheese in it.  Poutine 2.0.  There were vegetables with cheese curds.  Bread with curds.  I honestly can’t even remember because it was, to date, the best tasting food I have ever had.  They apologized profusely for not having any meat for me (the cattle slaughter would be the next day) but my Russian was at a loss to explain that less in my belly merely meant room for more fresh cheese curds.

After the women and children were allowed to descend on the table (prompting an overly exuberant twinge of guilt in me as not only was I suddenly made painfully aware of my pre-disposed position in this village, but doubly so because I had done absolutely nothing to contribute to it or anything else) we continued to polish off wine and cha-cha—a grappa of sorts if you don’t have a Georgian friend who brings over a 2L Pepsi bottle full of it every night—before suddenly and without warning several beds materialised and sleep was heavily encouraged by the exhausted woman who was most likely tired of putting up with our shenanigans.