Chama Mama

The egg stirred into the boat

The egg meets the cheese at the table before Tamara Chubinidze , chef at Chama Mama in Brooklyn Heights, New York City, lets the dish become explanation. The adjaruli khachapuri arrives as an oval of bread, its center holding a dairy blend, butter, and raw egg, then the server folds the heat through it until the filling turns soft enough to pull with the crust. It is the clearest station in Chubinidze’s project: Georgian memory made legible through dough, cheese, herbs, and the pace of a shared table. Chubinidze is the founder and co-owner of Chama Mama, a role she has held since 2019, when the first restaurant opened in Chelsea. The Brooklyn Heights room followed in July 2023, carrying the same Georgian grammar onto Montague Street without treating the food as a museum piece. Her own line, “Chama Mama is my love letter to Georgia,” gives the emotional frame, but the work is practical. Khachapuri, khinkali, jonjoli, vegetable spreads, stews, and breads carry the reference points.

House bread as the first language

The method here begins with bread and moves outward. Chama Mama’s menu is built for small plates and à la carte gathering, with house-made breads, spreads, dumplings, kebabs, soups, and stews arranged so the table works as a pass. Adjaruli khachapuri is the anchor, not because it is theatrical, but because its timing matters. The bread has to hold its shape, the cheese has to stay loose, and the egg has to be stirred while the heat still has something to give. Around it, the Taste of Georgia sets a different rhythm: spinach, eggplant, and red bean preparations with pillowy bread and smoky cheese, a vegetable-forward lesson in texture before the heavier dishes arrive. Khinkali brings another discipline, with dough gathered around filling and eaten by hand, the broth kept inside until the first bite. The kitchen also works with tkemali and adjika, plum brightness and chile heat, as part of the same Georgian register. The wine program keeps to that line, with Georgian bottles, flights, Qvevri blends, and Saperavi chosen to sit beside cheese bread, walnut sauce, herbs, and lamb rather than above them.

A Montague Street room near the open kitchen

The Brooklyn Heights room is warm without softening the work. A sleek bar runs its own line with Georgian wine and cocktails, while social tables and smaller nooks let the meal move between group and private conversation. Near the open kitchen, the bench has a different pull: bread moving out, dumplings landing, servers pausing long enough to finish the khachapuri properly. The noise stays conversational, which matters for this food. Georgian dining asks for passing, tearing, dipping, waiting, and returning to a dish after the first heat has settled. In that setting, the room supports Chubinidze’s translation rather than decorating it. Nothing needs to announce Georgia before the food does. In Brooklyn Heights, the egg in the adjaruli khachapuri remains the last gesture.