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Supra etiquette for guests

The Georgian table is run, not improvised: one person holds the toasts and everything else follows from that. What a tamada does, the order the toasts arrive in, when you drink to the bottom, and how to say no without cooling the room.

Reading 12 min Updated October Region Kakheti Toasts 10 – 20
An evening, toast by toast
1 Peace. Almost every Georgian table opens on it, and the room settles as it is spoken. 2 The occasion — the birthday, the harvest, the guest who arrived from somewhere else. 3 The departed. Drunk in silence, often standing, and glasses are never clinked. 4 Parents and ancestors, the living and the dead of the family taken together. 5 The guests, named one by one. This is when a visitor is expected to answer later. 6 Women and children, and the evening loosens noticeably from here on. Last Georgia, the house and safe passage home. Leaving before this one reads badly.
01

A supra is not a dinner party

A supra is a Georgian feast with a chairman. The food arrives all at once and stays — cold plates stacked under hot ones, nothing cleared, no courses — while the evening itself is organised vertically, by toasts proposed in a settled order by one person who has been given the job. Understand that single structural fact and most of the etiquette follows from it.

The horizontal conversation carries on the whole time. People talk across the table, argue, feed each other, ignore their neighbours. But when the tamada lifts his glass and begins, the table goes quiet, and it stays quiet until he finishes and everybody drinks together. Drinking outside that rhythm is the one thing that reads as genuinely rude.

Guests are not incidental to a supra; they are frequently its subject. There is an old line about a guest being a gift from God, quoted at visitors rather often, but the behaviour behind it is real. You will be toasted by name, asked where you came from, and expected to answer at some point in the evening.

What the table wants from you is attention and stamina, not capacity. Nobody counts how much you drink. They notice whether you listened to the toast, whether you stood for the serious ones, and whether you were still in your chair when the last one came round.

Kakheti: most visitors meet their first supra somewhere in this valley, at a table that was laid long before they arrived.
02

The tamada, and the alaverdi

The tamada is chosen at the start, usually by the host, sometimes because he is the eldest at the table and sometimes because he is the best talker in the room. He decides what each toast is about, in what order the subjects come, and how long the evening runs. He is not decorative: he genuinely controls the rate at which everyone drinks.

The alaverdi is his device for passing the floor. Mid-theme he will name somebody — often the visiting guest — and hand them the same subject to continue in their own words. Take it as a compliment rather than a test, keep it to two or three sentences, and finish by raising your glass so the table can drink.

Who picks him The host, at the start. Sometimes the eldest, sometimes the best talker. What he controls Subject, order and timing of every toast. Nobody drinks between them. Alaverdi He hands his theme to a named guest, who continues it in their own words. The merikipe The pourer. Ask him for a small pour — it is his job, not the tamada's. Your job Listen, wait for the end of the toast, then drink with everyone else.
If the alaverdi lands on you Short and sincere beats long and clever, and nobody expects Georgian. Thank the host by name, say one honest thing about the day, raise your glass and sit down. That is a complete toast.
03

The order the toasts come in

The sequence varies by region, family and occasion, and anybody who tells you there is one fixed liturgy is overstating it. The spine, though, is remarkably stable across the country: the table opens on peace, works through the dead and then the living, and closes on Georgia and the road home.

The third toast is the one to watch. Toasts to the departed are drunk in silence, standing at many tables, and glasses are not clinked — the ringing belongs to joy. Afterwards the mood is lifted deliberately, and the toasts that follow are warm again.

Peace Mshvidoba. Opens almost every table in the country. The occasion The birthday, the harvest, the visit — whatever put the table there. The departed Drunk in silence, often standing. Glasses are not clinked. Parents Ancestors and family, the living and the dead taken together. The guests Where a visitor is named and, later in the evening, expected to answer. Women, children Warm again, and usually where the evening loosens. Georgia, the road The country, the house and safe passage home. The closing toasts.
04

Pace is the entire survival problem

Here is the trap. Wine toasts are drained, and you are not supposed to sip between them, so the usual technique of nursing one glass slowly for an hour is simply unavailable. Your only real control is how much goes into the glass in the first place, and that is decided by the person pouring rather than by you.

So talk to him early. Asking the merikipe for a third of a glass is normal, unremarkable and immediately effective; asking after the sixth toast is neither. Eat throughout — bread, cheese, pkhali, mtsvadi as it lands — because Georgians eat continuously through a supra and the food is doing real work.

A full supra runs three to five hours and carries somewhere between ten and twenty toasts. At a brimmed glass apiece that is comfortably more than a bottle a head, which is why the pour matters more than willpower. Do the arithmetic at the second toast, not the eighth.

On the arithmetic Fifteen toasts at a full glass each is a bottle and a half. The pour is the only variable you actually control, so set it at the beginning of the evening rather than the middle.
Sighnaghi above the Alazani valley: the drive back down is the reason to declare a driver before the first toast.
05

Bolomde: when you drink to the bottom

Bolomde means to the bottom, and it is not a figure of speech. The heavy toasts — peace, the departed, parents — are drained, and the table drains them together at the same moment. Toasts later in the evening are often a mouthful, and the safe method is simply to watch what the people on either side of you actually do.

The kantsi, the drinking horn, is the exception that catches visitors out. It has no base, so it cannot be set down while full, which means that once it has been filled it gets emptied. If a horn is coming round the table and you are not up to it, say so before the pour rather than after.

Bolomde To the bottom. The serious toasts are drained together, not sipped. The departed Drained in silence. No clinking, no talking over it. Later toasts A mouthful is often enough. Watch your neighbours before committing. The kantsi A horn cannot stand up. Filled, it must be emptied — decline before the pour. Beer Never lifted to a toast. Drink it before or after, not during.
06

How to decline without cooling the room

Refusing is allowed and it happens at Georgian tables constantly. What lands badly is the silent refusal — a hand over the glass, no explanation, eyes down — because it reads as a verdict on the table rather than a fact about you. Give a reason, give it warmly, and stand for the toast anyway. The toast is the point; the volume is not.

Drivers are respected, provided the declaration comes in the first ten minutes rather than at the fourth toast. If you would rather not drive at all, hire a car and driver for the evening, roughly 100–250 GEL for a Kakheti round trip (2025), or better still sleep where you eat. Some tables dislike toasting with water; lemonade, or a glass barely wetted, solves it.

Declare early Say you are driving or not drinking in the first ten minutes. Give a reason Any honest one works. Warmth matters more than the reason itself. Stand anyway Rise for the big toasts, listen, and lift the glass to your lips. Water toasts Some tables dislike them. Lemonade, or a barely wetted wine glass. Hire the driver An evening in Kakheti with car and driver, roughly 100–250 GEL (2025).
07

What is actually on the table

Cold things come first and never leave: pkhali in their walnut paste, cheeses, tomato and cucumber with more walnut, bread in a pile. Then the hot dishes land on top of them, literally — khinkali, mtsvadi grilled over vine cuttings, a khachapuri or two — and the plates stack rather than being cleared away.

Nothing is a course, so there is no point pacing yourself by the shape of a menu that does not exist. Khinkali have their own rules: hand not fork, bite, drink the broth, leave the top knot on the plate. Refusing food is harder than refusing wine, and eating well is itself read as good manners.

Tbilisi: in town the supra gets smaller and shorter, and the order of the toasts survives it intact.
08

Five moves that mark respect

None of these require Georgian, a large budget or a high tolerance for wine. They are the things a table quietly grades a guest on, and every one of them is available to somebody nursing a third of a glass all evening.

The last of the five matters more than it looks. Georgian evenings end with a closing sequence — the road, the house, sometimes a final toast to the tamada himself — and leaving before it arrives is the one exit that reads as a verdict on the night.

Wait for the end Not a sip until the tamada finishes. An early drink is always noticed. Stand for the big ones Peace, the departed, parents. Follow the table rather than the clock. Answer your toast Three sentences thanking the house is already a complete reply. Learn two words Gaumarjos for the toast, gmadlobt for thank you. That is enough. Stay to the end Leaving before the closing toast is the exit that reads badly.
09

Five mistakes, so you skip them

Four of the five we have made ourselves, at long tables in Kakheti and in small Tbilisi kitchens, and the first is the one that quietly decides how the rest of the evening goes. None of them are unforgivable. All of them are avoided by deciding something in the first twenty minutes.

Sipping between toasts It empties the glass off-rhythm and doubles your intake. Wine on the toast, water in between. Toasting with beer The old joke says beer is for enemies. Use wine, or lift water and explain warmly. Clinking on the departed That toast is drunk in silence. Watch the table before your glass moves. The silent hand on the glass Refuse out loud, with a reason and a smile, and stand for the toast anyway. Booking a 9am departure A supra ends late. Sleep where you eat and leave the next morning open.
FAQ

Questions people ask before the first table

He is the toastmaster, chosen at the start by the host, often the eldest man present or simply the best speaker. He decides what each toast is about, the order the subjects come in and the tempo of the whole evening, and nobody at the table drinks between his toasts. If he hands you an alaverdi, he is asking you to continue his theme in your own words.

Not every time, but the serious toasts — peace, the departed, parents — are drained, bolomde, and drained together. Later toasts are often a mouthful. Because you are not meant to sip between toasts, the way to survive is to control the pour: ask the merikipe for a third of a glass at the very start of the evening, and nobody will comment.

Yes, and it happens constantly at Georgian tables. What lands badly is the wordless hand over the glass. Say in the first ten minutes that you are driving, on medication or simply not drinking, say it warmly, then stand for the toasts and touch the glass to your lips anyway. A driver declared at the start is genuinely respected; one declared at the fourth toast rather less.

There is an old joke that Georgians drink beer only to their enemies. Nobody will actually take offence, but lifting a beer during a toast will get you corrected quickly and cheerfully. Wine is the toasting drink, with chacha appearing late at some tables. Drink your beer before or after the supra rather than during it.

Probably once, as a guest, and usually through an alaverdi from the tamada. Nobody expects Georgian or eloquence. Two or three sentences will do the job: thank the host by name, say one honest thing about the day or the house, raise your glass and sit down. Gaumarjos at the end is all the flourish anybody needs.

A small gift for the house is welcome — flowers, cake, something from home — and a bottle is fine anywhere except a winemaking household in Kakheti, where the house wine is the entire point of the evening. Arriving hungry is more useful than arriving loaded: a guesthouse supra runs roughly 50–100 GEL a head (2025) and there will be more food than you can finish.

In short Control the pour, stand for the big ones, stay to the end Drink only when the tamada says so, ask the pourer for a third of a glass at the start, eat continuously, and never lift beer to a toast. Declare a driver in the first ten minutes and nobody minds; leave before the closing toast and everybody does. Kakheti Back to the journal