The Soup Stalin
A terrifying run-in with The Khinkali Communist
I’ve done a bit of research on that Joseph Stalin chap, and I’ve concluded he was rather unpleasant.
A damning assessment I know, but I’m going to nail my colours to the mast on this one.
To the dismay of (most) Georgians, he was one of theirs and not Russian, born not far out of Tbilisi, Georgia.
Tbilisi is a secretly wonderous city with more soul and depth than I ever imagined.
Visiting Tbilisi (and Georgia) is not like travelling to another country. No, you are visiting a far-off land.
Before the advent of air travel, it was exactly that; tucked away under the Caucasus Mountains, across the Black Sea, and at the far east of Anatolia.
In an obscure corner in the labyrinthine streets of Tbilisi, lies an underground restaurant owned and managed by another native Georgian. Known infamously as The Tbilisi Terror or The Khinkali Communist, but in more hushed, whispered tones, as The Soup Stalin.
Not unpleasant in the Stalin-esque murder, torture, impoverishment sort of way, but a somewhat surly character all the same, which Adrian and I learned the hard way.
We wove our way through the streets of Tbilisi and descended into his intimate subterranean eatery, the soft lights and rich smell of garlic and onion a deceptively warm invitation.
After taking our seats, The Soup Stalin came to take our order.
“Can we have another two minutes?”
He turned and walked off with visible disgust.
A place like this but maybe not this place. You go and find out.
A hushed silence fell across the room. Other diners turned away, avoiding eye contact.
An old Georgian lady clutched her crucifix and muttered a silent prayer.
“Should we just leave now?” I nervously asked Adrian.
“No, we’ve already come too far. Just make sure we’re ready when he comes back.”
A few minutes later he returned, threw his small spiral notepad on the table, and leaned menacingly over the table to take our order.
Adrian ordered the fish with walnuts, the Ostri with fries for me.
“You want bread with that?” he asked.
“Just the fries, thanks.”
“Ok, you don’t want bread” he replied, pausing with a raised eyebrow.
It was more of a terse statement than a question. A test of character, worth - and I was failing.
Time collapsed as I panicked and shot a “save me” glance at Adrian, who quickly interjected.
“Yes, we’ll have the bread as well”. The room exhaled as he defused a potentially explosive situation. He’d been here before and knew how to handle himself.
The Soup Stalin repeated our order: “Fish with walnuts, Ostri, fries. And bread”.
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“Ok, rules: cash only, no card.” He paused. “And no split bills.”
“No split bills.”
As he delivered the last line, he eyeballed us both with a ‘don’t even fucking try it’ intensity.
“No split bills” we nodded in terrified, complying unison.
A shiver went down my spine as I imagined the fate of the first hapless tourists (probably English) that tried to split their bill; un-personed and condemned to live out the remainder of their pathetic lives in a Siberian salt mine (still an upgrade on their bleak little island).
We finished our meals and approached the counter to pay; our heads bowed in solemn dread.
I handed over a bundle of Georgian Lari, damp with fearful sweat from my palms.
He glanced at our cash like money was beneath him.
“Dammit, the notes are too crumpled” I thought.
He took our cash and turned away, not even a grunt in acknowledgment.
“Thanks, that was delicious” we offered pleadingly.
It was no use. We were already dead to him.
Authors note: For the unaware, ‘The Soup Stalin’ is a play on a classic Seinfeld episode ‘The Soup Nazi’ and intended purely in jest. Amazing food and memorable establishment.
