Nazuki

The fairytale bread that I still think about five years later.

We left Tbilisi just around sunset, boarding our mini bus due west. We were headed to a vineyard run by two young sisters making some of the most incredible Georgian amber wines I have ever tasted. We happened to be visiting at the time of their harvest, so we planned to stay for a couple of days to learn about their ancient wine-making process and help collect grapes from the vineyard. I leaned my forehead against the window, watching the sky melt from pinky orange to indigo, and turned up the volume in my headphones immersing myself in the melodies of a new artist I had discovered the night before in a wine shop in Tbilisi. Comforted by the gentle rocking of the bus on highway roads, I snuggled up into my denim jacket and dozed off.

Some time later, the bus began to slow, and I sleepily blinked awake. Our trip leader, Noel, was standing, excitedly grasping onto the backs of two seats across the aisle. He craned his neck down to the line of the windows to view the side of the road. He directed the driver to stop, pointing to a woman waving her arms at us. I cleared the condensation on the window with the arm of my sweater, looking out to see a row of old wooden huts lining the side of the road. Waiting for our bus to park stood a matronly looking woman wearing an apron. Most of our group was still sleeping, but my curiosity pulled me out of my grog.

The bus doors opened and a fragrant sweetness filled the crisp autumn air. It was utterly enchanting. I immediately felt as though I had been whisked back to another time— perhaps even straight into a fairytale. I felt like a child again, with that giddy sense of excitement I get in my gut when I get to experience something new. I followed Noel off the bus, and we entered our stand of choice. Inside was an old television set casting a blue haze onto the dimly-lit space. The baker had brown hair and a wide smile, and she gently shuffled across her stand to take our order. The structure was open to the road and in the center stood a round tone oven.

Tone ovens are a fixture of Georgia (and this region.) They are sturdy—made from stone, and rounded with an open fire that licks flames up through the center. Bakers deftly adhere bread dough to the vertical inner walls, baking with a speed similar to a pizza oven.

I learned that the women waving down buses on the highway were baking a bread called “nazuki” which translates to “exquisite” in English. And Noel got excited because this bread is mostly only found for sale in these very stands on this strip of highway.

The recipe is simple—made from a mix of flour, raisins, yeast, honey, milk, spices, yogurt, and eggs, this bread is sometimes even whipped up by women in their home kitchens to be used mostly as a vehicle for spreads—which begged me to wonder why the bread is called “exquisite”. What I discovered is that one of its ingredients—the yogurt, called “matsoni” in Georgian, is especially popular (and very delicious) in this region of Georgia. Matsoni is different to other yogurts because it is fermented at room temperature which gives it a custard-like consistency and makes it naturally sweeter than other varieties. When added to the nazuki dough, it makes for a really beautiful texture and flavor. The matsoni may explain why this small stretch of highway is the mecca for nazuki because it is likely at its peak deliciousness.

Noel ordered a few loaves for our group, conversing with the baker as she prepared the bread. She adhered each loaf to the sides of the brick oven. The loaves browned in the dancing tungsten light, rising rapidly to completion. The baker peeled the loaves from the oven, presenting them to me in folded papers. The warmth of the bread was welcomed by my cold hands. I inhaled and a yeasty, deliciously sweet aroma escaped from the packets.

We headed back to the bus, warm vapor swirled into the starry sky. By the time we returned to our seats, a few more from the group had stirred. I handed out pieces of the nazuki and we all delighted in its flavor. This bread felt like a hug from the inside, and the journey to this bite was even better.