Nana’s House
RECOMMENDED TRACK: Niaz Diasamidze & 33A – Mravalzhamier
My body was still thrumming from the hungry way Misha had been staring at me when we reached our destination. The restaurant was narrow, nestled tight between a laundromat and a taco joint. It was signaled only by an anemic blue awning with the almost-completely faded name “Nana’s House” on it. I glanced at Misha, but he strolled up to the door and threw it open like he lived there.
“Nana! Ya doma!” he bellowed.
The place was larger than it looked from the outside, and sweltering even in November. Several groups of people, families from the look of them, sat at formica tables scattered around with mismatched chairs. An elderly man sat at a corner, and three women were gossiping nestled into one of the two booths. The walls were lined with old newspaper clippings, photos of men in traditional costume, and a pretty acrylic painting of the sun setting over a city labeled Batumi.
As I took these in, a tiny old woman, at least a full six inches shorter than me, waddled out from the back of the restaurant muttering in another language. When she saw Misha, she put her hands on her hips and clucked before shouting a couple of things in what I assumed was Georgian before repeating them in Russian, which I recognized even if I didn’t understand much of it. She stomped in our direction and reached up for Misha, who bent down so she could grab him by the hair and chastise him again as he groaned theatrically.
Oh. This wasn’t just a restaurant. This was family. Unofficial family, maybe, but family.
I plastered a smile on my face and tried not to look nervous as she fussed over him in a nagging tone that he pretended to hate.
What if she thinks I’m not good enough for him? What if I say something rude by accident?
“Ya koye-kogo privyol,” he said, gesturing to me. “I brought someone. This is Emma,” he said in English. “Emma, this is Nana.”
I swallowed my fears and reached for something, anything. “D-dobryy vecher,” I stammered as her sharp eyes seemed to pierce right through my soul. “Sorry, I don’t know any Georgian greetings.” She paused and side-eyed Misha. Oh god, I already fucked up.
“Ona umnaya,” she told him. I knew she was saying something about me, but there was no indication of what. I looked at Misha for some kind of guidance, but he was just grinning.
“Yes, she is very smart,” he said, throwing me a bone.
“Pretty, too,” Nana mused in English, her accent thick. “Too smart and pretty for a prokaznik like you, Mishiko. My grandmother, she would say ‘ne po Sen’ke shapka.’” She reached for my hands and gave them a squeeze. “For you, I’ll find a better man, yes?”
“Dazhey ne dumay,” he groaned, extracting one of my hands and tugging me away. “Don’t even think about it.”
Nana clicked her tongue,waved her hand dismissively, and turned back to the kitchen. “Kargi, kargi. You can sit in the booth. This time.”
Misha led me there by the hand and settled into the side opposite me. He barely fit, but he leaned over the table to stage-whisper. “She likes you.” He sat back, settling in comfortably. “I almost never get to sit in the booth. She likes to treat me like a disobedient child, nags me to go to class more.”
I let go of a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “I thought I’d messed up already,” I said.
“You are kidding.” He sat back with a chuckle. “You actually know Georgian is different from Russian. She probably wanted to marry us on the spot and tell us to make smart, pretty babies.” He rubbed the back of his neck while I let out a relieved breath.
“Maybe some other time,” I joked, and for once I thought he blushed. “What did that thing she said mean? Something shapka?”
He snorted. “It’s an old saying. She’s full of them. ‘The hat is not Senka’s size.’ Means you’re too good for me.” He tapped my foot with his. “She may be right.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “So…is there a menu?” I hadn’t seen one anywhere.
Misha flicked a hand dismissively. “Menus are for tourists. Nana knows what to bring.”
“Mostly knows,” Nana cut in, tottering out to the table with two glasses of water. “You want the samovar? And wine?”
“Nyet,” Misha shook his head. “We don’t want to keep you up past bedtime, babulya.”
She cuffed him on the ear affectionately. “I am not your grandma, malchik! And what is the point of sleeping at my age? This one,” she said, turning to me and pointing her thumb at Misha. “Is ukheshia. Rude. But you, tavaziani, you are polite. Respectful. Too good. My sister has a grandson your age, he—”
“Nana,” Misha said in a joking growl. At least, I was pretty sure it was joking.
“See? Ukheshi!” She snapped. “You do not deserve the samovar anyway.”
And then she disappeared into the kitchen again.
“Why no samovar?” I asked. “I thought that was traditional.”
“Very traditional. But the tradition is for chatting like a marathon,” Misha explained ruefully. “Nana is lovely. Her food is good. But I do not intend to be here in three hours.” He leaned forward and squeezed my knee under the table with another grin. “The plan is dessert after, remember?”
I suppressed a shiver. Nana came up and smacked his shoulder, setting a pair of teacups in front of us.
“Do not dare do that at my table, perverted malchik,” she grunted.
Misha slumped dramatically back in his seat. “You definitely are not my grandma,” he complained. “You treat me much worse.”
“Pah,” Nana scoffed. “Your babushka, I bet she looks down on Nana from heaven and says, Nana, hit him harder, my prokaznik grandson!”
Misha shook his head as she left again. “She is a tough old hen,” he said, but the corner of his lips were tugging upward.
“I can see that,” I agreed. “Has your grandmother really passed?”
He leaned his head to one side and sighed. “Yes. Maybe ten years ago.”
“Was she much like Nana?”
He considered that, turning his hand back and forth in a so-so gesture. “A little, maybe. Strict like her. But she was softer.” His smile turned brittle. “Maybe because everyone else around was so hard.”
I took a sip of my water. “Like who?”
Misha paused for a second, like he hadn’t realized I might ask and he wasn’t sure how to answer. “My father, mostly,” he said in the tone of someone admitting something. “And his friends and brothers. But Dariya, my little sister—once she was old enough to play with, she was sweet. Always has been.”
“Tell me about her,” I prompted, getting the feeling she was a safer topic than his dad would be.
Sure enough, he eased up immediately and let loose with the details about Dariya—Dasha. A mischief-maker who dreamed of playing violin in one of the major orchestras, like the Vienna Philharmonic, maybe. “She is fun, but very driven. Dedicated. She did not learn it from me,” he joked. “But you would like each other, I think.”
“She sounds like someone I’d like,” I agreed.
“But you will never meet her,” he declared with a dramatic—but controlled—slap of his palm on the table. “Nikogda. Never. You two would gang up on me and I could not stand it if you liked each other better than me.”
I laughed.
Nana dropped off two plates of what I immediately identified as the famous khachapuri, a kind of raft-shaped bread that served as the dish for a pile of cheese, butter, egg, and spices.
It smelled incredible.
I ate as much as I could, and probably more than I should, but Misha watched me dig in happily. He didn’t balk at sharing our mealtime with Nana, who came by and pelted me with questions about myself, my family, and my studies. Misha listened closely as I explained my post-grad plans again.
By the time the check came—it was cheaper than breakfast so I insisted on paying this time; Nana was so amused by it that Misha couldn’t argue—I had relaxed completely in the older woman’s presence without even realizing when it had happened.
I had been trying very hard not to think too much about what it would be like to be with Misha, about the possibility of this thing being more than a few fun whirlwind days.
But as Nana waved us off from the door of her little restaurant, demanding I come back again, I couldn’t help marveling at how being with him could be so exciting and so comfortable, at the same time. My intrusive thoughts got quieter the longer I spent with him.
Maybe if they hadn’t, I would have seen what was coming.
Bonus Content:
Nana’s Khachapuri Recipe
Author’s Note
B-Side Track: Chillng Pig – Golden Hour (Piano Instrumental Cover)
FUN FACT:
I didn’t know khachapuri existed until I was writing this chapter, but it’s the national dish of Georgia. I became so obsessed that I had to hunt down a restaurant that offered it near me, specifically Adjaruli khachapuri— there are lots of regional variants. It looks like this:
Yum.
So! Emma is settling in, maybe a little too quickly.