^{Text and Photo by Onnik James Krikorian} 

Tucked away in the middle of Mirza Fatal Akhundov Street, just a few minutes walk from the local sulphur baths, stands what residents say is the last surviving chaikhana in the city. True, there are more modern teahouses, but they cater to a more upwardly mobile clientele rather than an actual community. Georgian tea is also relatively weak and, some say, tasteless in comparison to the dark, thick brew made by those who perhaps know how to best—Tbilisi’s ethnic Azerbaijani population and possibly even ethnic Armenians, too. Until recently, another chaikhana was run by an ethnic Armenian from Ganja.

Many tea houses have sadly disappeared over the past two decades, making the chaikhana on Akhundov all the more important. Known as Sabir’s because of its late former owner, it is now undergoing a facelift. If it was difficult to find in the past, a newly painted street entrance clearly highlights the stairs to the cellar below. Its new owner, Huseyin Allahverdiyev, has yet to come up with a new name, but as a former patron of Sabir’s, it is sure to continue the tradition.

“There have always been chaikhanas in the old town,” says 56-year-old Elshan Mammadov, who also lives on the same road named after the Iranian-Azerbaijani author, playwright, and philosopher. “Now, there is only one. The others closed, and other businesses opened up in their place. Twenty years ago, Mr. Sabir opened this one, and while we could have turned it into something else after he passed away, we wanted it to continue as a chaikhana, and we reopened it three months ago.”

Tourists are welcome, he said, but the chaikhana’s main focus is the mix of ethnicities that still reside in the area. Though some historic buildings have been renovated in the area, especially following the visit of U.S. President George W. Bush in 2005, the renewed interest from foreigners has also come at great cost. In 2001, it had already missed out on recognition as a UNESCO World Heritage Site and, until 2002, was even considered by the World Monuments Fund as endangered. 

But at least there is still no clear sign of gentrification pushing local residents out, even if many buildings look close to collapse and others converted into overpriced tourist traps. “There used to be two or three others [chaikhanas]. Where else can we gather?” Vagif Novruzov, one regular, asked rhetorically. Like many others, he had helped Mammadov refresh the interior of the chaikhana. “We come here to see our friends and drink tea," he says. “This is our tradition.”

“The tea house is of great importance,” explained Elshan Mammadov, another regular who also helps the new owner run the establishment. “This is a place where our elderly should rest, play nard (backgammon), and drink tea. Young people also become more familiar [with chaikhanas]." 

Backgammon pieces are being slammed down at breakneck speed in the background while voices rise in pitch and tone above the Azerbaijani and Turkish music videos playing on the television on the wall. If everyone was speaking Azerbaijani when the game started, they’re now consistently switching between Armenian, Azerbaijani, and Georgian at a dizzying pace. This, after all, is Tbilisi—once the heart and soul of the South Caucasus and a melting pot of cultures and languages. 

“Every nation lives here,” says Mammadov of Old Tbilisi. “I can also speak Georgian, Armenian, Russian, and some Kurdish. We have been talking to each other since childhood—the yard where I lived was called an Italian yard, where 25 families of all nationalities lived like one family.” Echoing Mammadov's comment is 83-year-old Magbet Aliyev, who says he has been visiting chaikhanas since he was 17 or 18. A citizen of both Azerbaijan and Georgia, he also speaks the neighbourhood languages—mainly Armenian, Azerbaijani, Georgian, and Russian. 

The chaikhana, he says, is vital for local news and gossip, including who will marry who, who has died, and what’s new in the lives of friends and acquaintances. And old habits die hard. “Why does French President Emmanuel Macron keep getting in the way of Armenia and Azerbaijan,” he asks me after first apologizing if I am offended as he thinks I’m French. I shrug my shoulders and tell him no offence was taken. “I’m from England,” I explain. “We have our own complaints.” 

Another customer enters the tea house speaking Azerbaijani. Taking a seat, he introduces himself as Edik Petrosyan—half-Armenian on his father’s side and half-Azerbaijani on his mother’s. His life story is worthy of a book in itself, but attention reverts back to the chaikhana. “We remember the good old days,” interrupts Novruzov as he joins Petrosyan. “People should preserve, not lose their traditions,” he says. “There can’t be any conversation without chai.” 

“Keep drinking tea.”