There is no menu here. Just a woman behind a counter who looks at you once, decides what you need, and brings it. Khinkali, a beer, nothing else asked for. This is how it goes in the old-school spots, the ones without signage in English, the ones you find because someone's cousin mentioned it once and you wrote the street name on your hand.
The dumplings come too hot. Everyone burns their fingers the first time, this is apparently tradition, nobody warns the tourist. You hold the twisted knot of dough at the top, bite a small opening, sip the broth first. If you eat the whole thing in one go you deserve the burn. The soup inside tastes like someone's grandmother's patience. I eat six. I could eat six more.
Outside, Tbilisi has gone dark early, the way autumn cities do, all at once instead of gradually. The window has steamed over from the kitchen heat and the breath of everyone eating too fast. I wipe a circle clear with my sleeve and watch the street for a while, cobblestones wet from something, maybe rain, maybe just the cold sweating out of the walls. A dog crosses without hurry. Nobody else seems to notice him.
The camera sits on the table, untouched through most of dinner. Some rooms don't need documenting, they need eating in, hands greasy, beer going flat because you keep forgetting it. I take one frame before I leave, mostly of the fogged glass and the blur of light behind it, Tbilisi reduced to shapes and warmth. It will probably come out wrong. It will probably be the one I keep.
