A Georgian Restaurant’s Mother of All Dumplings

The restaurant’s head chef, Manuchar Tsikolia, is joined in the kitchen by Ruslan Giorgberidze, a dedicated khinkali cook (and an alumnus ofKhinkali House, a Guliani Group restaurant in Moscow), as well as Jimi Kurtanidze, a cook dedicated full-time to khachapuri. Laliko offers a few varieties, the same greatest-hits collection you’d expect to find at any Georgian restaurant: imeruli, stuffed with cheese and mint; megruli, with cheese inside and extra cheese broiled over the top; and adjaruli, the most famous and visually flamboyant variety, an open-faced boat of bread baked with an exorbitant amount of cheese and topped with an egg yolk and a whopping amount of butter, stirred together in their doughy vessel into a dairy-aisle gestalt—an audaciously rich, all-in-one efficiency of bread and spread.

As at any Georgian restaurant, you’ll want to get a glass or two of wine at Laliko. Georgia is rightfully proud of its claim to being the birthplace of wine, and its viniculture is unlike any other, with indigenous varietals that are nearly impossible to find elsewhere. Grapes are fermented—often with skin, seeds, stems, and all—in large earthenware vessels, known as qvevri, that are buried underground. The resulting nectars, often beautiful and bizarre, pair satisfyingly with Tsikolia’s cooking. I especially enjoyed a glass of amber Rkatsiteli, with fruity and grassy notes, alongside a light, spring-like stew of veal simmered with wine and tarragon, then spooned over a delicately bitter celery-root purée; a glass of tsinandali, white and apple-juicey, was wonderful with an exceptionally crisp-skinned roasted half chicken, served in a velvet pool of walnut sauce. Ajapsandali, a ratatouille-ish mishmash of eggplant, peppers, and tomatoes, is spiced sharply with garlic and floral notes of coriander seed, and served with a nutty wedge of hard cheese. I was struck by the unexpected complexity of what the menu calls “Georgian Salad,” a bowl of sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, red onion, and fresh herbs tossed in a dressing made with sultry, mellow sunflower-seed oil brought over from Kakheti, a region in the east of Georgia. I adored the pork mtsvadi, grilled hunks of meat marinated in pomegranate juice and cooked over wood smoke till they took on a distinctive char. Even better was the purple plum sauce that can be ordered as a side, puckery and sweet, bright and strange.

The dining room at Laliko is both contemporary and textured: wood cladding along one wall; vaguely medieval-feeling murals on another. A mounted ladder soars up to a double-height shelving system that holds bottles and bottles and bottles of wine. Some of the seats are chairs, and some are backless ottomans (surprisingly comfortable!), plus there are velvet-topped benches that surround a long, tile-topped communal table anchoring the room. The table, starkly modern and geometric, rests atop an antique blue-and-red patterned Georgian carpet. The metaphor is obvious but apt: the sharp-cornered present resting on the beautifully durable past. ♦