Like everything else about the Georgians, their picnics are different, and the one I went on this summer was more different than most. For a start, the driver of our mini-bus - whose name appeared to be Foto - was the country's arm-wrestling champion, and built accordingly. Happily he was also miraculously good at his job, avoiding the potholes, suicide drivers, stray cattle and horses and carts which form part of any Georgian journey. In the front seat was a jovial, slightly less bulky but even more remarkable figure, Tamaz Kandelaki. As the rather serious director of the State Viticultural Institute under Communism, he was the only person to know the value of all the country's 450,000 acres of vines, which, unfortunately, were often planted in unsuitable regions using over-productive varieties.
It's a strange place, Georgia. Most people know very little about it and even less about its cultural and viticultural past. Very few people eat Georgian food or have any idea of the fine tradition of wine-growing and cooking that exists. It's a poor country - people sell vegetables and fruits from the boots of their cars - yet the breadth and range of the food and wine is astounding. So many times when I was there and the sun was going down and the traditional music was alive in the air, I was quite bemused by how replete I felt. The beauty of the country, the sensation of the tastes, of the coriander-based peppery stews and rich cheese-filled dumplings, the intake of breath as the dark Saparavi red wine hit the back of my throat, intrigued me. I was full of admiration for the race of people who just refuse to be anything but independent and, despite their warrior history, kind and generous.
But it's been a struggle. Tamaz Kandelaki tells me, as the minibus bumped over the endless potholes, that when Georgia regained its independence in the early 1990s he was asked by a dynamic young Georgian, Levan Gachechiladze (now living in Tblisi as leader to one of the small parliamentary parties to oppose the rule of Edouard Sheverdnadze) to establish a new company, Georgian Wines & Spirits (GWS). 'The company,' says Tamaz, ' was not just an emblem of our independence but also a celebration of our wine because we have been producing it for hundreds of thousands of years.' There is evidence to show that the production of Georgian wine goes back at least 600,000 years. Sophia Gilliatt, the associate director at Vinopolis, the temple of wine on London's South Bank, recently displayed many of the ancient golden artefacts associated with the history of Georgian wine. And thanks to her efforts and Hugh Johnson's book on the history of wine, Georgia has now been accepted as 'the cradle of wine'.
However Georgia is not without its difficulties and so Levan, who is still involved with GWS, lent us one of his bodyguards, a small, solid figure straight out of a classic spy thriller, complete with a brace of pistols. These were not just for show. For our route took us first to the country's best vineyards in Kalkheti, 100 miles north of Tbilisi, and then on to within a few miles of the frontier with Chechnya, breathtakingly beautiful, but still the scene of some bloody battles.
Tamaz is very keen on foreigners visiting the vineyard. Like most wine producers he wants to improve the quality to make his wine suitable for the international market. His aim is to avoid the trap into which other producers from behind the former Iron Curtain have fallen and to compete, not on price, but on quality and originality. He can obviously not export wines made from all the 500 or so indigenous grape varieties, all with unpronounceable names like Rkatsiteli and Dzvelshavi. But Georgia as a country was helped, albeit painfully, by the break-up of the Soviet Union in their role as the main supplier of wines to the whole of the Union. Today only a third of the former acreage is under vines, and increasingly Tamaz is planting Saperavi, the black variety responsible for the country's finest red wines and hailed as 'the new Sangiovese' by Oz Clarke. In one way he's right: just as the Sangiovese-based Chianti is good at cutting through the richness of spaghetti so Saperavi - available here through GWS's Tamada brand - does have the balance of fruit and sharpness require to cope with rich Georgian food.
When we arrived at the picnic site, a clearing by the side of an icy river shrouded in trees, we found long trestle tables groaning (there really is no other word for it) with all the deliciousnesses which make up a traditional Georgian meal. The hot spicy meat or fish with walnut sauce are not for the feeble, for Georgian food is fit for, indeed designed for, warriors. In the eloquent words of a slim, anonymous Georgian cook book: 'The unpredictable necessity for the Georgians to put aside the hoe and fight the enemy in full armour, determines the significance of a full-blooded nourishment for them.'
Georgian meals are served in quantities which make the terms 'ample' or 'copious' seem Scrooge-like, to any visitor. Not surprisingly, everything is accompanied by generous quantities of wine. This is required not only to balance the spicy, salty foods but also for the toasts which accompany any serious Georgian feast where all the food is piled on the table at the same time, a truly daunting sight. The proceedings are directed by the Tamada, the head of the table, who sets the pace by proposing the first toast to the guests, who of course have to respond. The whole thing can easily get out of hand. Tamaz alleges - though I have no very clear recollection of the occasion - that at this banquet 30 toasts were drunk and that I proposed five of them. The danger for the guests is greater because they each have to drink a full horn of wine, containing a third of a pint. I think I may have had more than one.
The dishes are influenced from areas as diverse as the Mediterranean, the Near East and Iran, India and Central Asia. As a result of almost being at a geographical crossroads, the country benefited from the spices that were being grown or transported along the route, while the country's Georgian farmers took the chance to cultivate all the fruit, vegetables and herbs used by the travellers. When it came to milk products the Georgians were not too proud to latch on to the possibilities of yoghurt and feta cheese (they use a Greek-style yoghurt they call Matsoni which, combined with onions and an egg makes a delicious soup). By contrast their own cheeses are hard and tend to be rather salty, though a soft cheese called sulguni does make a delicious fondue called Elargi. To these were added products originally imported from the Americas, like tomatoes and potatoes.
In an odd fashion, the country's relative poverty has also helped preserve the quality of the food because no one can afford the fungicides, pesticides and other chemicals. The only sign of chemical treatment I saw was the copper sulphate on a patch of tomato plants. Great meat eaters, fish is the only exception to the country's natural profusion of goodies, although there's excellent salmon from nearby Azerbaijan and sturgeon from the Caspian - deliciously rich when boiled and served cold with walnut sauce. Such sauces, made with garlic or, most appetisingly with damson, and served with every type of meat, add an interesting piquancy.
The true, awesome array, the variety, quality and sheer quantity of Georgian food is most obvious in the central market in the capital Tbilisi. An immense, sprawling, two-storey concrete block is surrounded by the hundreds of cars and vans which the growers have used to transport their produce. Each section of the market has its own surprises, the masses of tarragon - a favourite Georgian herb which they even use in a local spirit - the endless rows of chickens, the gleaming mounds of carrots, the whole half-acre seemingly devoted exclusively to cornflour arranged in piles like enormous sand castles. The bread is equally awe-inspiring and they bake some of the best ciabatta outside Italy.
But the most appetising sections are devoted to salads and fruit, both essential elements in a Georgian meal for refreshing the palate (and the liver) attacked by the main dishes. These are not necessarily meat-based: they serve aubergines which are either fried or boiled and then seasoned with walnuts. Oranges are plentiful in spring and in summer the variety and the purity of taste is overwhelming; their apricots were astonishing.
The traditional necessity to be able to whip up something ample and tasty at a moment's notice combined with the country's relative poverty means that the cooking tends to be simple. The many stews rely heavily on garlic, coriander, and to a lesser extent on other spices and herbs - including saffron - often combined with vinegar. But the most typically Georgian specialities are khachapuri and khinkali. Both are simple, both based on dough. Khachapuri could be described as a Georgian blend of pizza and cheese omelette, a vast circle of leavened dough, using, as the recipe insists, very fresh yeast, covered with a cloth and left in a warm place for three or four hours to allow it to rise. The dough is then rolled into eight-inch circles and filled with a mix of egg, butter and finely grated cheese, then fried in a little very hot butter on both sides - first with the pan covered then open. The result, served in vast slices, is deeply satisfying, though, like all Georgian food, best eaten on a cold day or after a lot of exercise, or both.
For me khinkali is the most moreish of all, a local variant of dim sum. Essentially they're dumplings made from unleavened dough and filled with minced pork, beef and a good dose of onions (see recipe). The result, eaten hot, provides the guest with an irresistible combination, the warmth of the dough and the simple taste of the meat, and the juice within thedumpling. They should carry a warning because the liquid from the meat is searingly hot and, worse, spurts out once the package has been opened. It takes a lot of practice and mess to copy the locals' ability to direct the flow into the mouth.
Our picnic seemingly included most of these dishes and once we were (over-) full, we clambered into the bus to move to a small wooden jetty in another ridiculously picturesque riverside clearing, to be serenaded in the darkness by a group of Georgians singing in the close harmony which seems to come naturally to them all. They finished their short and charming concert with a traditional song hymning the charms of a long-dead Queen called Sophico, the Georgian translation of Sophia, a little number chosen in recognition of the contribution made by Sophia Gilliatt to the success of their wines. At the end, I could swear I saw Tamaz smile.
Khinkali (dumplings)
300g chopped beef
200g chopped pork
3 onions
500g wheat flour
salt and pepper to taste
Cut the meat into pieces and mince it together with onions. Add ground black pepper and salt, approximately 1/2 cup of warm water and thoroughly mix. Sieve wheat flour, add some salt and a cup of water gradually and knead to a stiff dough. Roll out the dough to a thin layer. Cut out round pieces in the size of a dessert plate. Put a tablespoonful of the meat on each paste piece, collect the edges to a bunch, twist them and slightly press into the shape of a bulb. Put the khinkali into a saucepan with salted boiling water and boil them. Stir carefully from time to time with a wooden spoon, preventing them from sticking to the saucepan bottom. When the khinkali are afloat boil for another 6-7 minutes. Remove them from the saucepan with a perforated spoon. Serve hot and sprinkle with black pepper if desired.
• There are two Georgian restaurants in the UK. The best and most authentic is: Little Georgia, 2 Broadway Market, London, E8 (020 7249 9070). There is also the more basic Tibilisi, 19 Holloway Road, London, N7 (020 7607 2536)
