Ashes in the Light

One of my favourite memories from Kakheti wasn’t a vineyard, a historic site, or even something we had specifically planned.

It was dinner.

Before arriving in Tsinandali, Daniel and I had done a little research on where to eat during our stay. Since we were spending two nights in the area, we decided that one evening would be spent dining within the hotel grounds, while the other would be an opportunity to venture out and explore somewhere local.

That was how we came across Shota’s Marani.

Located about a fifteen-minute walk from our hotel, it seemed close enough for a leisurely evening stroll. We didn’t make a reservation and simply decided to walk in and see if there was space available.

Thankfully, there was.

It was around six in the evening when we arrived. Although dinner time was approaching, the sky was still bright outside, one of those evenings where daylight seemed reluctant to leave.

The restaurant offered both indoor and outdoor seating, but we chose to sit indoors.

And I’m glad we did.

Because calling Shota’s Marani a restaurant almost feels incomplete.

It felt more like being invited into someone’s home.

The dining area appeared to be a converted living room, with only a handful of tables arranged around the space. Nothing felt overly polished or commercial. Instead, it was cosy, welcoming, and full of character.

As we settled into our seats, we realised there wasn’t really a menu in the traditional sense.

Instead, one of the owners came over and simply told us what was available that evening.

It felt wonderfully personal.

No laminated menus.

No lengthy lists of dishes.

Just a conversation.

We ordered based on her recommendations, along with a glass of wine to accompany dinner.

Then we waited.

As the evening unfolded, I began noticing how involved the entire family was in running the restaurant.

The wife welcomed guests and shared the evening’s menu.

Outside, the husband tended to the barbecue, preparing dinner over the fire.

One of their sons came over to chat with us and even offered to play the piano while we waited for our food.

And later, we spent a little time playing with their young daughter.

It was nothing extraordinary.

Just one of those small, ordinary moments that probably lasted only a few minutes.

But somehow, it made the evening feel even warmer.

As the son played, music drifted through the room while dinner was being prepared.

There was something incredibly charming about it.

Not staged.

Not performed for show.

Just part of the evening.

Perhaps that was what made the place feel so special.

We weren’t simply dining in a restaurant.

We were spending an evening with a family.

When the food finally arrived, it was every bit as comforting as the atmosphere suggested.

One of the highlights was the barbecued meat, which had been cooking outside over the fire.

It was wonderfully tender and easily one of my favourite dishes of the evening.

The rest of the meal was equally memorable.

Comforting.

Generous.

The kind of food that feels like it was cooked by someone’s mother rather than prepared in a commercial kitchen.

Each dish felt homemade, as though the recipes had been passed down through generations and were still being cooked exactly the same way today.

For much of our meal, we were the only diners there. The restaurant remained quiet and peaceful until another couple arrived shortly before we finished eating.

At one point during dinner, I remember turning to Daniel and telling him that this was my favourite Georgian meal so far.

Not because it was the fanciest meal we had eaten.

But because it felt so genuine.

The food, the family, the music, the atmosphere — everything came together to create one of those travel moments that stay with you long after the trip is over.

As I sat there enjoying dinner, I realised that this was exactly the sort of experience I love discovering while travelling.

Not necessarily the famous attractions.

Not the places that appear on every itinerary.

But the small family-run places that leave you feeling welcomed, even when you’re thousands of kilometres away from home.

It was only the next day that we learnt what “marani” meant.

In Georgia, a marani is a traditional wine cellar or winery.

Suddenly, the name Shota’s Marani felt less like a restaurant and more like an introduction.

A family name.

A family business.

A family welcoming strangers to their table.

Which, in many ways, was exactly how the evening had felt.

Sometimes the smallest moments become the ones we remember most.