The restaurant critic gets acquainted with Laliko

A new place. The refit looked nice and fresh: I glanced in for a second a couple of months ago, while hurrying somewhere else entirely. Then I watched the information about a new Georgian place opposite the Leningrad Centre appear, bit by bit, on the map services. I put it on the plan in the end — and that alone is a sieve of one in ten.

And then, and today, it all looks a little different. A new restaurant, and yet it feels retro — was the style chosen on purpose? To inspire trust, to broadcast reliability? But there are also "unfinished bits". Four doors around the room that look like the lavatory, and all of them are back rooms: naturally I tried every one. In three months you could hang up at least a sign, at least a piece of paper. A tip: the right door is the first one from the porch. The lighting is odd — there seem to be enough fittings, but none of the lamps are above the tables, they're between them. And the sconce behind your back, because there's a wall behind your back, is guaranteed to spoil the view with shadows; even the menu is hard to read in broad daylight. Or this, for the first time in many years: a blocked, water-filled washbasin. A banquet for a dozen guests, children, aunties, music at three times the background volume, toasts in the main room. And a second celebration in the small banquet room, which doesn't disturb anyone. As soon as my water arrived I started trying to cancel the order, because I couldn't sit there even five minutes. They persuaded me it would be over shortly, "as soon as we've finished the toasts." So I stayed. Small things, and I'm sure they belonged to that Saturday alone — but they weigh on you in sum. One day only: on the second visit I already knew where to sit to avoid the sconce, what to do, which door to try. Experience is a great thing. Unexpectedly the second visit was not on Saturday but on Sunday: twice as many guests in the evening, almost a full house. Two free tables, one of them reserved. That's a success! Theirs, and mine — I got a comfortable seat.

The menu isn't over-inflated; there are few strangers on it, and compared with other places one simply wants to say thank you. The same goes for the prices: cheap, genuinely cheap. I haven't eaten ojakhuri at 500 ₽ for a long time. Drinks are closer to average: coffee 200 ₽, water 300–340 ₽, mors 250 ₽. Kompot and the house lemonades come by the litre only: single diners are not expected at all. Nor are tea drinkers: tea here costs what most of the dishes do, 500–600 ₽. Am I being told, "drink the house wine" at 300 ₽ for 150 ml? Or the pretty Kazbegi lemonades at 320 ₽? Service at cafe level: one set of cutlery for three courses. I wiped mine with a napkin after a sauce — but they asked for my opinion on both visits, so I got to share it. Yes, in the end, the cutlery is the only thing I'll put in the minus column.

Satsivi (490 ₽). A huge portion by today's standards, the sauce thick and not homogenised like mayonnaise — these days they whip it in a blender, all delicate, to hide a cheap product and their economy; here it is classic, with expensive grated walnut they did not spare. The chicken, a handsome thigh, is excellent, appetisingly seasoned — I'd have devoured it without the sauce. I forgave the decorative peas, and you know what that costs me. A classic. Beyond doubt.

Gebjalia (550 ₽): a fresh starter, assembled for the guest, at room temperature rather than out of the fridge, and that gives it warmth as a counterweight to formality. A huge portion; I can't remember rolls of that size. A PITY the suluguni was boiled to such rubber that it hardly cuts — I was afraid of murdering the dish with the knife! And afterwards it chews only with great effort. I left one roll, but the waitress, having listened to all this, didn't touch it. She'd have understood everything from that. A failure. Will she pass it to the kitchen or not?

Kharcho (490 ₽). The opposite of those praiseworthy sizes: half the portion I expected, less than a centimetre and a half from the bottom — I measured with the spoon. And an unlucky bowl: four centimetres of empty wall, so it looks even smaller than it is. Delicious, concentrated, as though reduced on purpose, and the salt, the way Georgians like it, at the pleasant (to me) limit; not much meat, but every bit of it on target. Yes, it's cheap, and I'm used to 610–750 ₽ even in democratic chain places, but let's have twice as much? Just understand that kharcho cannot be a little puddle. Tasty all the same. Order it.

Ojakhuri with pork (530 ₽): another riddle of a price. I can't remember an equivalent in years. Not only is the portion very large, the proportion of potato is a rarity: for the first time in 22 years I'm writing — too little potato. And the wedges are half the size of the pork, so they seem to get lost in the richness. Spices, slow-braised pepper, not much of it, a red-hot ketsi that is not decoration at all here, oil at the bottom. The onion in exactly the right condition, a duet of raw and fried, fragrant. One piece of advice: the expensive plum tomatoes were laid on top, as the classic demands, but they don't give the juice that tomatoes half the price would have given to everything else. I'm spoiled. I'd have praised this dish at 830 ₽ too.

Unexpectedly, in the centre, opposite the Tauride Garden, a real charcoal grill: they swore to it, offered to show photographs or, so I'd have no doubts, to carry my phone to the coals. And lamb lyulya at only 550 ₽ — how could I not test it for aroma? Big, handsome, best of all in the texture of the mince, which is a benchmark for me; on spices, rather "for everyone", but what delicious juice soaks into the lavash. Superb! Better than the ones I've eaten at 1,100 ₽.

Prices below average. Below my average, anyway. Never mind. The desserts are "international" only, so I draw my conclusions. The classic small Georgian restaurant. The kind that existed in 2005, in 2015, in 2025, and will exist in 2035. With its little minuses. But those fit into the impression too. The impression of something Real.