Boat-shaped sourdough crust. Sulguni and Imeruli cheese, blistered to amber. A single soft yolk lands at the table — the server breaks it in front of you, swirls it through the cheese, hands you the spoon.
Low warm pendants, dark walnut tables, the windows open onto Pushkin Street.
Cracked open, butter swirled, yolk broken in front of you.
Folded each morning. Hold by the tail, bite the side, drink the broth.
Pork loin, Saperavi marinade, pomegranate and tkemali on the side.
Same flour. Different idea about what to do with it. Stone-finished, ten minutes.
Local, unembarrassed, poured generously. The white is Tsinandali.
The corner the regulars know — five minutes from the harbour, ten from the boulevard.
Tiramisù, built same-day. Espresso, mascarpone, cocoa. No shortcuts.
We started in Batumi because two kitchens fit in one room if you build the room right. Georgian on one side of the pass — the dough, the dumplings, the slow grill. Italian on the other — the stone oven, the same flour, a different idea about what to do with it.
The bread is ours. The cheese is ours, mostly. The wine is local and unembarrassed about it. The room reads supper-time even at lunch, because we like it that way.
Delivery is a side feature, not the headline. We do it because Batumi rains sideways some nights. Three steps, free inside the city, paid in cash on arrival.
Order from the same menu the room sees. Mix sides freely — the kitchen ships them together. Anything we couldn't do that night, we'll tell you within ten minutes of placing.
Cash on delivery, in lari. The driver carries change. If anything's wrong on inspection, you don't pay for it — we replace or refund on the spot, no callbacks.
Roughly forty minutes from order to door inside the city ring. Outside the ring, we'll quote a flat fee before the kitchen starts. Three attempts, twenty-four hour limit on each order.