кава хотите? / want a coffee?
21st Aug, Didube bus station
I've arrived early, to wander and absorb the smells and colours of the morning market. It's 8 o'clock and there's that hushed bustle of morning that's both charged with the thrill of the day ahead and remnants of sleep. This reflects onto you, the bystander, the outsider, wonderfully anonymous and free to simply gaze at the rickety stalls and their piles of spices, salt, tomatoes, pulses, pickles, nuts without any hassle. Later in the day, when the sun has sharpened those sleep-blunted edges, these markets are not for the faint hearted. The stall holders are voracious experts in facial expressions and body language, and a slight hesitation or flicker of interest will result in a barrage of mournful cries: 'girl, girl, what is it you want, come back...' 'pretty one, try these delicious treats...'. I usually just pass on, silent, smiling, hardened by now to their pleading, while inhaling the spicey green smells of coriander, parsley, spring onions and dill, and the punch of purple basil that's heaped and bound up in sewing thread.
At 8am, however, there are no such pressures, and you feel as thoughtful as in a church. The morning sun glows through honey jars and bottles of homemade chacha*, stacked up high in clusters like precarious stained-glass windows. And through the dangling churchkhela* and dusty gloom, the eyes of sellers watch...
I return to our meeting place by the metro underpass and watch the copious flow of people; there are women, gnarled and bent, pot-bellied men and the occasional earnest-faced backpacker, who all come, locals and tourists alike, to this restless place, a sphere of eternal nomadism, to barter or travel. Here, you can take a shabby bus to the furthest ends of the country for a couple of quid, pressed up against a Georgian babushka's doughy bosom or a German hiker's hairy thigh. It's a place of seedy stares and grime, broken hopes and adventure, and I love it.
These weekend trips away always begin at Didube with an early coffee, ordered from tiny booths where the sellers click on a kettle and prepare a cappuccino from an ancient packet of Jacobs instant coffee (which I guiltily rather like...). Predictably, my friend Atticus is late and, to stave off my irritation, I go in search of one of these heinously fake coffees. But, just as I get up from my step, my nostrils are hit by a 'real' coffee smell and, seeing a man hurrying past with a small cup of dark liquid, I follow him.
Back into the gloom of the covered market I go, the wafts of coffee getting stronger, until a hunched lady shuffles out in front of me from her stall, carrying a round tray of paper cups, caked in soaked coffee grounds and a pot of sugar.
"Кава хотите?" She asks.
"Да, конечно!"* I reply.
She bustles back into her stall, delighted, and retrieves a flask of boiling water which she carefully tilts into a paper cup, swirling in sugar as she pours. I'm then handed a cup of thick, black coffee. It's taste is like nothing I've had before. Dense and silty, it stupefies my senses with such boldness, I had to sit on an abandoned little stool to savour each sip. Remarkably sweet, this coffee was one of the best I've ever had. Forget the snazzy, self-aware coffeeshops that infest each highstreet, this 1 lari (about 30p) brew touched my taste buds in almost spiritual revelation, the bare simplicity and honesty of its creation, rather poignant.
"She should be selling this coffee for 10 dollars a cup!" shouts a nearby stall holder who notices my reaction.
"Best coffee in the world" I throw back at him, and our coffee-maker beams with pride. After rejecting the offer of marriage to his son, I once more return to a now freshly arrived Atticus, who huffs apologies for his tardiness and faffing. Without a moment for consent, he's dragged off to the coffee booth and the lady is asked to make another two cups. He too is suitably stunned.
"Ребята, приходите ко мне."*
We turn, and it's the fellow stall holder who shared in my praise of the coffee. He brandishes two hearty shot glasses, and we are made to seal our degustation with homemade cognac, chased down by a slice of cucumber and salt. Bellies burning, we stumble out into the light, back towards the buses, slightly tipsy, slightly dazed, and slightly in awe of the morning's wonders.
*churchkhela: nutty Georgian sweet
*chacha: Georgian vodka
*Do you want some coffee? / Yes, of course!
*You two, come over to me
