From the glove compartment, the taxi driver produces a liter of homemade red wine in a used water bottle. He fills his khantsi to the rim and hands it to me.

I’ve seen these drinking horns in almost every gift shop in Tbilisi. I didn’t think Georgians actually still used them but rather only sold them to tourists like me, a relic of their past. He invites me to try the wine, which I do, but he’s displeased with my delicate sip. He holds an imaginary khantsi, brings the rim to his mouth, and throws his head back. Clearly, I’m supposed to enjoy his wine like one enjoys a shot of tequila.

I shoot it back. It’s full-bodied and a little sweet and, from what