The Unnamed Tavern
M y grandpa looked like Joseph Stalin. Thick mustache, thicker eyebrows and the thickest high-density hair on his head. He seemed scary. And strict. And rough. But also, he had a big belly. I don’t know why but before I stepped into a college, I thought that fat people are kind people. I realized later that they can be as kind, bad, pretentious or humble as others. As everybody. As all of us. I don’t like it. But this is how it is, I guess?! My Stalin-like grandpa had that big belly. And back then, I believed that the big belly was one of the features of kindness.
He was a cook. He learned cooking in army. So did his father, my father and my uncle. All three of them were fat and had big bellies.
My grandpa opened up a tavern in a suburb when I was four. This area was not very far from downtown. It was a typical Georgian suburb with residents having their houses right next to each other, lots of stones on ground, dirty ponds, loud kids jumping in those ponds, trees and this newly opened tavern. This tavern didn’t have a name. It was an unnamed tavern in the suburbs. Small, kind of dark but clean and meticulously decorated: there were some sugar packets on tables with pictures of the seasons on them. My grandpa used to arrange these packets according to the order of the seasons — winter, spring, summer and fall. This is what I mean by meticulous decoration.
F riday evening. My mom and dad pick me up from kindergarten and we head to the unnamed tavern. My parents were there a few times before. It will be my first time there. I hear a sound of pebbles flying to different directions and I feel our car almost shaking as it moves. We are in the suburb and soon, the car stops by the tavern. There are noises of people coming outside. We open a door and a flavored heat along with more vivid noises hit us right away. The unnamed tavern is full of people. Bunch of people touch me, lift me up, hug me, kiss me on my cheek. I don’t like it. I hate it.
I am not in the mood to fake smile. I don’t even know I have to fake smile when I meet strangers, so I don’t care.
I am being aggressive. This usually happens to me when I am hungry. When I’m hungry, I become hangry. Also, I am a kid and I am forgiven for being rude. Am I rude? Not at all. I don’t fall within standards because I don’t have standards. I’m four. I don’t follow conformity. I can do whatever I want, however I want and to whoever I want. I know I will miss being who I am when I’m not four anymore.
I get liberated and start sniffing something. I’m hangry. I walk around the room. I am so small that I crush into legs of these people while I walk but nobody touches me, lifts me up, hugs me or kisses me on my cheek. I’m unpopular right now. I don’t understand why it happens. It feels sad but I get used to it and continue walking.
The flavored heat becomes more vivid and real as I get closer to a wooden bar. I go through double doors of the bar and I see my Stalin-like grandpa. He seems scary. And strict. And rough. But he’s got that big belly. He lifts me up, places me on top of the bar and hands me a Khatchapuri folded in a white napkin. Khatchapuri is a very famous Georgian cheese bread. It is like a hamburger for Americans, a croissant for French and a Balmoș for Romanians. It is something that we own. But this flavored heat I feel and smell is something my grandpa owns. This smell is his signature. It’s his trademark. It’s something coming out of the Khatchapuris that only he makes. I try to get comfortable with the slice he handed to me. It is hot. I open the top of it and blow air in it. The flavored heat comes out and steams up my glasses. I start eating. The cheese inside melts down on my lips and clothes but I don’t care. I don’t follow conformity, right? I’m four. I eat and look around the unnamed tavern:
There are people of my grandpa’s age clustered around a table. Some of them play domino, some of them cards and some of them chess. All of them have Khatchapuris in their hands or on plates in front of them. They talk, play, eat and laugh. My uncle sits around a different table with his friends. They have newspapers in their hands and half-bitten Khatchapuris on plates. They’re being very philosophical and studious. My mom socializes with her friends. She eats one slice of Khatchapuri after another and complains why she gets fat. She complains but promises her friends that she will be on a diet again from this Monday. CLASSIC MOM! My father rolls up his sleeves, removes some dirty plates from tables and joins those elders playing domino. Men together and women together. Looks strange but this is what it is, I guess?!
Meanwhile, the grandpa sprinkles some flour on a dough, flattens it with a rolling pin and pulls out some more hot Khatchapuris out of his oven. He looks like Stalin but he’s got the big belly. As all these separated-in-two people at this unnamed tavern. I’m not hangry anymore. I enjoy being here and watching. I enjoy looking at these people being one family. I enjoy feeling love and the flavored heat in the air. Maybe this cheese bread was more than a cheese bread?!
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Luka Gotsiridze is a JMC student at American University in Bulgaria. The story is written for Advanced Writing for Media class & DoR.
