The restaurant critic gets Acharmed at Acharuli

Unexpected news. The Pushkin restaurant Acharuli — I reviewed it back in 2020 — sits in the local top ten (if not for brilliance, then for sheer recognisability, at least in my head): big, expensive, about forty per cent above expectations, and less than half Georgian. It has taken over the room the Chinese Yangtze rented for years, and two pan-Asian places before that. What a setup! And now the sign carries the same name, only in a normal, human spelling — Russian letters, not that alphabet soup.

The refit is good work. Miles pleasanter than the Chinese. Excellent furniture — though the sofas are begging for cushions, they would fall right into step with the softness of everything else — superb lighting that flatters the food whether or not you are shooting it, and does away with the gloom of a dull semi-basement. High praise from me. Even with the inconveniences I had a nice time. Even the mosquitoes (the door stands open) bit painlessly, the first one and the fourth, like a good nurse: "What, you've done it already?" Professionals. And not only the bloodsuckers: the open sugar bowls on every table feed the other little creatures too. I shooed mine away; the neighbouring tables were hosting a banquet. No other complaints — nothing wobbles, everything is pleasant, from the lavatory to the pepper mills and the soap dishes. Then in the evening somebody decided to "make it romantic (cosy)": the lights in the main room went off, imitation candles appeared on the tables, and how one is supposed to exist in there nobody thought through. Thank heaven the second, small room — three tables in all — kept its bright ceiling spots. I would have walked out, honestly. They must have had a reason for the decision. Not the electricity bill, surely?

The prices surprise you — happily, only the royal ones in Tsarskoye Selo: vitello tonnato 1,300 ₽, bread basket 500 ₽, lamb ojakhuri 1,400 ₽, lyulya 1,150 ₽. On Chernyshevskaya they have SENSIBLY set them twenty to thirty per cent below Pushkin, and — even more SOUND — cut the menu right down. But the menu. Georgian cuisine everywhere, in the chain's name and on the sign; there is hummus, but no satsivi, no gebjalia, no lobio, no pkhali. There is mezze. I'm not going to order a Caesar, so the starters section removed itself from my life. Piti — but it arrives in a bowl, whatever the pot in the photograph promises; fine, I asked, I strike it out and change my order. Beyond that it's lagman, ugra-osh, lentil soup. Nothing except kharcho? There is plenty of Azerbaijani otherwise: sadj, kutabs, gyurza. And the thing I assumed couldn't be there is: ojakhuri is on the menu, but without the classic — no pork: chicken or lamb. I went through the whole menu and found not a single pork dish. If you know another restaurant with "Georgian" on the sign and rules like these, tell me. I can only remember Golden Cafe, but that was the kosher Georgia on Lermontovsky, where every familiar dish kept to the rules.

Whoever priced the drinks deserves a kiss: beer from 220 ₽, and that's Löwenbräu; wine 260–400 ₽; lemonade 375 ₽; water from 150 ₽, same as the coffee — I'm astonished. Excellent mors at 150 ₽, which these days is a rarity of rarities. The tea list, though — a booklet, the way chain restaurants do it — doesn't quite belong here, neither in format nor in its perfectly ordinary 440–550 ₽ for half a litre. What is it doing here?

Kharcho (475 ₽). Twenty minutes. You could warn a man: you don't expect a pause like that when you are the only guest. Twenty-five. Come over, say you're reheating it carefully, it won't be long. Bring a scrap of bread — small, two centimetres by two. Thirty: time to apologise, but there is nobody at the table, so am I to go and ask myself whether they've forgotten me or I should keep waiting? Thirty-two: the aroma is atomically good, the taste sits on the balance — the most expensive balance there is, between sour and hot. It says "320 ml", and how much more generous it feels: when the impressions outweigh the grams and the calories, that is a fine thing. Value for money, unique. It cost 260 ₽ in Pushkin when I went; now it's 600 ₽ there. Such is life.

At the tenth spoonful came the thing I hate more than a fly in my soup — the chef walked up: "I saw you taking photos and video, what's that for?" Quite apart from the rule that you never ask a guest anything while his mouth is full, the question itself about filming stopped being decent somewhere around 2012. It became bizarre in an age when everyone is on social media and that's where information comes from. "A problem? I can leave." My second least favourite came after I asked for the bill: "we have an offer — leave us a review and get a coffee and baklava." Thank you, no. And now I have stopped believing every review, even the truthful ones: are they written right here, at the table, and shown for a present? Which makes the question about my filming odder still, since they encourage guest activity themselves. On the second day nobody offered me this unpleasant deal: the promotion died, or they forgot?

Beef salad (515 ₽). "Walnut, suluguni, baked beetroot, garlic, mayonnaise": generous in portion and in proportion, rich in texture, pleasantly substantial, not made of primitive flavours. For some reason I kept imagining prunes — wanting them badly, probably — and a light smokiness, which came from the cheese, I think, rather than the beetroot or the oven. Tasty.

Khinkali at 125 ₽ each, and you may order any number you like — all as we love it. Another difference from Pushkin, where the minimum is three. With no pork version, it's beef and lamb, one of each. Delight! Big ones. Not like you-know-where, but very substantial. Magnificent dough, and magnificent everywhere it matters; full, not hollow; broth with the traditional Georgian two per cent over-salting; the filling in perfect form — neither grainy crumbs nor a little meatball. Some of the best I've had all year. The kind of impression I want to get everywhere. Always.

Traditional lamb plov (650 ₽). An aroma to fall in love with; butter — for the first time since Taverna Grolle — exactly as much as needed, no more, no less: I could have kissed this plov and its raisins. Badly under-salted, so there is nothing to carry the spices, nothing to underline them, but the meat is out of a dream and the yellow carrot is lovely. Sweet, as was the plov, until I salted it three times. Plenty of it, tasty, and you should have it anyway: better than most of the impostors. Perhaps price it slightly higher and add pickles or a little salad? Set it off, so to speak.

Chanakhi (650 ₽). I rarely order it; few places here do it well, few let the dish marry — vegetables with meat and its broth. "Careful, very hot, straight from the oven." And really from the oven, under a cap of thin dough that helps it all settle. Very good; stir it and the broth, full of suspended goodness, rises to meet you. Sharp, delicate, pleasant, not empty — and, as with the plov, no salt at all. Do the hot-line cooks not taste their own food? A big portion. I salted it three times.

Five people at the bar — the staff having a get-together in an empty restaurant. Why call that many onto a Sunday lunchtime shift in a small dining room? As if by mistake. While there was no music I listened to young people discussing their lives. And envied them, greatly. Until the Georgian songs came on. They bring the plates, they take them away in silence, and they ask your opinion only when it's time to pay. Normal service, young, without the special Georgian warmth — but without the Georgian slapdash either. The second shift was three young men rather than three young women: again more staff than occupied tables. Attentive enough, well spoken, but a dirty plate stands there for seven minutes and there's no catching anyone for the bill. I couldn't leave until I got up and went looking. Or this: I place an order, and five minutes later it's cancelled — "the kitchen has run out of beef for the lagman." I had to change course on the spot, on their advice, from a soup to a main.

Fondant, San Sebastian, lava cake. I see no dessert for me here, so I'll draw my conclusion. I won't say they charmed me, though they genuinely surprised me with the kitchen — but they definitely Acharmed me: it has been a long time since writing was this interesting. A dense text, never sagging, with a plot, with turns and cliffhangers. Different from the others. And the place is a positive one. Recommended.