The first time my husband Lasse gave a real toast at a Georgian table, he made it personal. He told a small story about my grandmother. He paused twice. He finished with a line that made my mother put her glass down and go quiet. The whole table fell still for a second, then warmed visibly. People at Georgian tables remember toasts like that. He gave a great one, exactly because he didn’t try to be clever. He tried to be true.
That’s the part most foreign guests miss. They think a Georgian toast has to be elaborate. It has to be specific.
This is what I would tell any foreigner about to give their first Georgian toast.
What a Georgian toast actually is
A Georgian toast is not a Western “cheers.” A Western toast is a short clink of glasses, maybe one sentence, and back to dinner. A Georgian toast is a small speech. Anywhere from thirty seconds to ten minutes. It has a subject. It builds. It usually has a small personal element. At the end, the room raises glasses, says one word together, and drinks.
That word is the one you need first.
The word at the end of every toast
The collective response at the end of any toast. Whatever the toastmaster has just toasted to, the table answers with this word and drinks. If you walk into a supra knowing only one Georgian word, make it this one.
The directed version. Used when raising your glass to a single person across the table. Same root as gaumarjos. The -gi- in the middle marks the second person.
The collective version, said about the people at the table. Useful when the toast is to the gathering itself, or to a couple in the room.
The toast subjects you’ll hear
Most Georgian toasts are dedicated to a subject. Health, family, friends, the absent dead, the children, love, the country. Below are the words you’ll hear most often, in their basic form. In a real toast they take a -s ending to mean “to X” (so ojakhi becomes ojakhs, “to the family”), but you don’t need to produce that to follow along.
The default toast subject. If a foreigner is put on the spot to give a counter-toast and has no idea what to say, “to your health” is the safe minimum. Honest, untrendy, never a wrong call.
Often toasted early in the supra, sometimes naming grandparents specifically. The Georgian word covers parents, grandparents, the generations behind the table.
Often paired with a toast to the future. If there are children at the table, the tamada will likely point to them when this toast comes.
A mid-supra toast, often full of specific names. The friend who travelled across the country to be there. The friend who has been quietly helping someone in the room for years.
The noun. Used in the toast to the love between two people present, or to love in general. Often slow, reflective, not a punchline.
A typical order, roughly
A traditional supra has a sequence the tamada moves through. The exact order varies by region, by family, by tamada. Georgians themselves don’t always agree on the “right” sequence. But the rough arc looks like this. You don’t have to memorise it. Knowing the shape just helps you not feel lost.
- To peace. Almost always the first toast.
- To this gathering and the host. Thanks the host for putting it together.
- To family. Often grandparents specifically.
- To absent loved ones, including the dead. Solemn. No clinking. Drink in silence.
- To children and the future.
- To the love between two people present. Often a couple at the table, often the host’s marriage.
- To the country, the homeland, the soldiers.
- To friendship.
- To women. Often a long toast.
- The closing toast. The tamada’s call.
If you’re a guest, you’ll likely be invited to give a counter-toast somewhere between toast three and toast nine. The tamada will signal it. Be ready.
What makes a good Georgian toast
Three things separate a good toast from a forgettable one.
A specific person or moment, not a category. Don’t toast “to family.” Toast to the host’s mother, who taught everyone in the room to make pkhali. Don’t toast “to friendship.” Toast to the friend you came with, mentioning the road trip you took together last summer. Specificity is the engine.
Build, don’t list. A toast is not a list of well-wishes. It’s a small narrative. You set up a thought, you take a small detour, you arrive somewhere unexpected. The best toasts feel like the speaker is following the thread of an idea, not reciting one.
A small personal element. Even foreigners who’ve been in Georgia a few months can give a memorable toast if they include one detail only they would notice. A specific kindness someone showed them. A moment from earlier in the evening. A small feeling about their first time in Georgia.
What to avoid
- Toasting yourself. Never. If you’re being honored, deflect to the host.
- Generic well-wishes (“to your health and happiness”). Fine as a quick line, not as a whole toast.
- Anything political. A Georgian table is not the place for it.
- Anything competitive. Don’t try to one-up the previous toast.
- Clinking on toasts to the dead. Drink in silence. This is a hard rule.
- Skipping the drink. When the toast ends and the table raises glasses, you drink. Even if it’s a sip. Skipping is read as disrespect to the toast’s subject.
Two short example toasts you can adapt
A safe first toast
“I want to thank Levan and Mariam for inviting me into their home tonight. Six months ago I didn’t know what a supra was. Tonight I’m at one, with people who have welcomed me as family. Where I come from, we don’t have a word for what you do here, the way you make a stranger feel like they have always been at your table. I am grateful. To the host. Gaumarjos.”
About forty-five seconds. Specific. Sincere. Names the host. Acknowledges that you are new and that they have made you feel old.
A counter-toast
“I would like to make a toast to the women here. To Mariam, who cooked all of this. To my mother, who is not at this table tonight but who I’ve been thinking about while sitting here. And to my wife, who has spent five years patiently teaching me Georgian phrases I keep getting wrong. The women I’ve known in Georgia have all carried the same kind of warmth, the kind that makes a stranger feel chosen. Gaumarjos.”
A bit longer. Names three specific women. The line about phrases you keep getting wrong is a nice self-deprecating beat that lands.
You’ll do fine
The first toast is the hardest. After one, you’ve crossed the line from “guest who has never given a toast” to “guest who has given a toast.” That’s a different category.
Speak slowly. Mention a real person. Drink with the glass raised. The Georgian table is unusually generous with foreigners who try, and a toast that wouldn’t pass at home will land here. The point is not the perfection. The point is that you stood up, said something true, and drank.
