Masterclasses, tastings and the supra

Some people plan a trip around what they want to see. Others plan it around what they want to eat, and Georgia rewards them more than almost anywhere. This is the hands-on version of the country: less watching, more doing, and a table at the end of every day.

In the kitchen

We arrange cooking classes in kitchens that genuinely cook this way — not a show for visitors, but a family table with an apron spare. You will pleat khinkali, the soup dumplings the mountains are proud of, and learn why the topknot is never eaten; you will stretch and fill khachapuri, the cheese bread that changes shape in every region, and pull it hot from the oven. What you make is what you eat, which is the honest test of a cooking class.

Tastings, at the source

Georgia has made wine in buried clay Qvevri for around eight thousand years, and we taste it where it is made — a cool marani cellar, the winemaker pouring wine the family still makes at home, amber on its skins beside a dark saperavi. Between cellars there is churchkhela to try, the strings of walnuts dipped in thickened grape juice that hang like candles in every market, and cheese, honey and spice to taste your way through a Georgian larder.

The supra, explained

The heart of it is the supra, the Georgian feast, led by a tamada, the toastmaster who carries the evening through a run of toasts — to peace, to those at the table, to those who could not come. It looks like dinner and works like ceremony, and most guests find it the warmest few hours of the trip. We sit you at a real one and translate as it goes, so the toasts land rather than pass you by.

What we look after

The kitchens, the cellars and the table, all booked with the people who run them; a driver so the tastings are yours to enjoy; and dietary needs — vegetarian, halal, allergies — arranged in advance so no one at the table is left out. Tell us what you like to eat and drink, and we will build the week around it, with a first draft back inside a day.