Understanding Khachapuri Types Across Georgia

The first time I tore a piece from a still-hissing khachapuri, I felt like I was eavesdropping on a secret. The crust crackled; hot steam rose with the scent of real farmhouse butter; the cheese pulled into satin ribbons, elastic and generous. By the time the yolk broke—golden, warm, and just on the edge of cooked—I had already fallen in love with Georgia’s most eloquent bread. But what I learned as I traveled from the Black Sea to the central highlands is that khachapuri isn’t a single dish. It’s a language of dough and cheese with many dialects, each shaped by geography, grazing animals, and a family’s sense of celebration.

If you’ve ever wondered why one Georgian khachapuri looks like a small boat with a sun caught inside, while another is a flat moon pressed with slashes, this is your map.

The Cheese Map of Georgia

Georgia’s cheeses are the beating heart of its bread. Walk through Tbilisi’s Dezerter Bazaar, and you’ll see wheels bobbing in brine like pale moons: Imeretian cheese (imeruli) with fresh-acid brightness, soft and squeaky; Sulguni from Samegrelo, more elastic and slightly tangy, built to melt; the buttery curls of tenili from Samtskhe–Javakheti like a ball of silky yarn. Cheese isn’t just an ingredient here—it’s a story about altitude and humidity, about the fields where cows graze and the salt levels of village wells.

Khachapuri needs cheese that melts without melting away. In the west—where the air is damp and subtropical, with tea bushes creeping up slopes—Sulguni is king. It’s what gives Megruli and Achma their stretch and gloss. In the central belt and Imereti, where markets bustle with crisp apples and little jars of adjika, imeruli cheese holds court—mild, white, briny, and forgiving. In Adjara, you’ll often meet a blend: imeruli’s friendly creaminess married to sulguni’s elasticity, giving that iconic flowing center.

Cooks obsess over ratios. A baker in Kutaisi once told me she starts at 60/40 imeruli to sulguni, then adjusts like a musician tuning by ear: if the day is humid, she leans saltier; if the cheese is fresh and bouncy, she raises the sulguni proportion so the melt is lively, not runny. Across the mountains in Shida Kartli, Ossetian-style pies fold in mashed potato with the cheese—an adaptation that suits a cooler climate and produces a pillow-soft filling that holds heat like a secret.

No two households agree on exactly how much salt to rinse from cheese, or whether an egg belongs in the filling. They do agree on one thing: taste the cheese first. Every decision flows from that moment.

Imeruli: The Democratic Heart of Khachapuri

If there is a common language of khachapuri, it’s Imeruli. Round, flat, and straightforward, Imeruli is the bread Georgians measure their day by—something you can eat for breakfast at a bus station or share for dinner at a table filled with pickled jonjoli and walnut-stained pkhali. In Kutaisi, I watched an older baker thump dough into a neat circle, pile on crumbled cheese, then draw the edges together into a tight pouch. She pressed it flat with the heel of her hand and slid it onto a stone—no theatrics, just calm competence.

When it emerges, Imeruli is golden with those handsome freckles you only get from a hot surface. The crust is thin and flexible, with a whisper of smoke if it was baked in a tone—a deep, clay oven that funnels heat like a volcano. Inside, the cheese is creamy but not oozy, warm enough to release a baked-milk aroma. Imeruli tastes like everyday generosity. It’s the khachapuri you bring to the office, the one you carry as a hostess gift, the one schoolchildren nibble on bus rides.

Flavor-wise, Imeruli’s simplicity lets the cheese speak. When the cheese is young and squeaky, Imeruli is bright and slightly lemony; when it’s older and saltier, the bread softens it like a hand smoothing the bristles of a brush. It’s also the baseline shape that many other styles riff on.

How to recognize a good Imeruli:

• The dough is thin but not brittle; you can fold a slice without it cracking.
• The filling is evenly spread, with no bare dough pockets.
• No oil slicks. Butter is brushed sparingly on top, not poured inside.

At a roadside eatery between Kutaisi and Zestaponi, I once met a trucker who swore by a ritual: pinch off the edge and swipe it in the small puddle of butter that pools on the top crust. “Cheese needs a little sun,” he said, meaning fat and warmth. Imeruli gives you both in harmony.

Adjaruli: The Boat That Carries the Sun

Adjaruli makes strangers at a table become conspirators. It arrives as a boat—edges rolled into proud rails, bow and stern pinched—loaded with hot cheese and crowned with a quivering egg yolk and a plug of cool butter. In Batumi, as the sea throws salt into the air, this bread feels like the city’s edible emblem: the Atlantic-orange yolk is the sun about to set; the cheese is the water catching its light.

The etiquette is tactile. You tear off the pointed ends first—those “ears”—and stir them into the molten center until yolk, butter, and cheese become a glossy emulsion. The smell at that moment is heady: dairy sweetness with a salty, maritime breath, a little like fresh mozzarella rolled in warm butter, only bolder. Each bite is both airy and luscious; the crust has the snap of a good baguette heel but surrenders quickly.

There’s room for personality in Adjaruli. Some bakers prefer the yolk nearly raw, to be mixed at the table into the cheese cauldron. Others set it a touch by dragging the bread to the hotter wall of the oven just before serving. The butter can be salted or cultured, changing the fragrance from creamy to tangy. In Batumi, the famous Retro restaurant serves a larger-than-life version that could feed three; at smaller neighborhood bakeries, you’ll find personal boats—still plenty indulgent, less theatrical.

Pro tips for making or ordering Adjaruli:

• Ask about the cheese blend. A 50/50 imeruli-sulguni mix melts best—stretch without grease.
• Don’t wait. Adjaruli is a live performance; the cheese sets as it cools.
• Eat with your hands. A fork turns this into work; fingers make it a celebration.

Adjaruli earned its fame for good reason. It doesn’t whisper. It sings.

Megruli: Double-Cheese Drama

If Imeruli is diplomacy and Adjaruli is theater, Megruli is the power ballad. Originating in Samegrelo (Mingrelia), where sulguni is practically a birthright, Megruli khachapuri doubles down—cheese inside and cheese on top. When it bakes, that crown blisters into caramel-brown freckles, a toasted cheddar-like perfume carried by sulguni’s milky tang.

The first slice reveals cross-sections of comfort: gleaming white strands under a golden canopy. Megruli is weightier than Imeruli, not because it’s clumsy but because it’s dressed for an evening out. The top cheese layer, sometimes brushed with melted butter mid-bake, forms a delicate crust you can tap like a drum skin. Bite in, and you meet a gradient: crisp top, fluffy dough, then the rich, stretchy pool underneath.

In Zugdidi’s central market, I watched a cheese seller lift sulguni from brine and tear it like soft taffy for a young couple planning their Megruli for Sunday. The grandmother leaning on a low stool advised them—half-joking, half-serious—to mix in a spoon of matsoni (yogurt) for softness. “But only if you’re generous,” she said. Megruli is a dish that rewards generosity.

You’ll sometimes see Megruli with a trail of butter poured over the top the moment it leaves the oven. The aroma then becomes unstoppable: browned dairy, toasted wheat, a whisper of fermentation, and the savory-sweetness that only comes from Maillard magic on cheese.

Achma: Silk Stairs of the Black Sea

Achma is not shy about its labor. It’s a layered, butter-lacquered marvel—part lasagna, part pastry—beloved along the western coast, especially in Adjara and Abkhazia, and often baked in Megrelian households for holidays. Unlike most khachapuri, it’s built with sheets of dough that are par-cooked in boiling water, cooled, then stacked with generous handfuls of grated sulguni and dabs of butter.

When you lift a square from the pan, sheets separate like leaves of silk, satin-slick from butter but somehow buoyant. The cheese threads into the layers, so each bite alternates between noodle-soft and elastic. Achma smells like a bakery and a dairy collided: warm butter, caramelized edges, a faint sweetness from flour, and the tangy perfume of sulguni.

A home cook in Batumi once talked me through her rules:

• Boil each dough sheet only until it floats; any longer and you lose tooth.
• Salt the water the way you’d salt for pasta, then ease up on the cheese brine; balance matters.
• Save one sheet unboiled for the top—it bakes into a crisp cap.

Achma is not spur-of-the-moment food. It’s built for celebrations: New Year’s tables shining with tangerines and walnuts, weddings where toasts stretch late into the amber hours. The pleasure is deep and cumulative—you feel it in the hush that falls at the first bite.

Guruli: New Year’s Moon, Sliced with Luck

Travel west to Guria at the turn of the year, and you’ll find half-moons cooling on windowsills. Guruli khachapuri is the holiday soul of the bread family, traditionally made for Kalandoba, the New Year. It’s folded into a crescent and slashed across the top as if to invite light in. Inside: a filling of cheese often blended with chopped boiled egg—soft, creamy, and deeply comforting.

Where Adjaruli shouts and Imeruli smiles, Guruli hums. The aroma is milky with a hard-to-place sweetness—maybe it’s the warmth of the egg or the way the filling sets like a custard against the crust. Some families add a whisper of fresh herbs—dill or parsley—for scent, though purists keep it to cheese, egg, and butter. When you cut into a warm Guruli pie, the steam carries the scent of a winter kitchen: butter melting on warm bread, a gentle saltiness, and the promise of long evenings.

There’s also a ritual in the slashes. “They’re not for show,” an aunt in Ozurgeti told me. “They let it breathe so we all breathe easy next year.” She brushed the top with egg wash to deepen the color, so the half-moon came out polished and burnished.

Guruli isn’t the most famous style outside Georgia, but locals speak of it in tones reserved for lullabies. Eat it with tea late at night, when the year feels tender and new.

Osuri (Ossetian-Style): Pillow from the Highlands

North of the central plains, you’ll meet Ossetian-style khachapuri (often called Osuri), a cousin that blurs into the broader family of filled breads. Flat and round like Imeruli but thicker, Osuri wraps a smooth, comforting mixture—mild cheese often blended with mashed potato—into a soft dome. The top is thin, almost translucent, with a small vent in the center.

Break it open, and the scent is pure hearth: butter, cooked milk, a hint of earth from the potatoes. The texture inside is plush, yielding as if it had been steamed. In some households greens appear—beet leaves or wild herbs—bringing a meadow aroma. Osuri’s charm is its gentle character; it’s a bread for the cold, designed to travel wrapped in a towel on long rides, still warm when unbundled.

While purists argue about whether to count it among khachapuri proper, everyday eaters vote with their appetites. At a small stop near Gori, I watched travelers order Osuri as breakfast—hot, split, with a pat of butter melting into the cut. Sometimes the boundaries of a category matter less than the joy of the bite.

Penovani: City Lights in Puff Pastry

If you’ve spent any time in Tbilisi, you’ve met penovani: khachapuri’s urban, flaky cousin. Instead of a simple yeasted dough, penovani is laminated—a Georgian nod to puff pastry. Triangle or rectangle, it shatters at the first touch, leaving a snowfall of crumbs on your shirt and a grin you can’t quite hide.

Inside, the filling is a compact slab of salty-sweet cheese that bursts into warmth as soon as the crisp layers give way. The smell is a duet of butter and brine. Penovani is a bakery window’s best friend—stackable, transportable, impossible to ignore. It’s the kind of thing you grab between errands, clutching a paper packet as you weave through Rustaveli Avenue traffic.

Technique matters here. Good penovani keeps its layers distinct even as the cheese melts; poor versions collapse into greasiness. Look for a honeyed sheen on the surface and ears that have puffed without deflating. Tbilisi’s Sakhachapure №1 is famous for reliable penovani, but the city’s smaller tone bakeries often surprise—especially those that laminate their own dough and bake in deep heat so the layers puff on instinct.

Where Khachapuri Ends—and Doesn’t

Spend time with Georgian cooks, and you’ll end up in conversations about borders. Is Achma really khachapuri? What about lobiani, the bean-filled bread of Racha with its smoky ham-scented beans? And Kubdari from Svaneti, a meat pie that crackles with wild cumin? Strictly speaking, khachapuri means bread (puri) with curds (khacho or kveli). Yet Georgian tables are generous by nature. A host might place Achma alongside Imeruli and call them all khachapuri because, in practice, they belong to the same beloved ritual—flattening dough, filling it, baking until the kitchen smells like a promise.

What that means for the curious eater: let locals lead you. In Zugdidi, a woman might call her layered Sulguni pie “khachapuri” even if a cookbook says otherwise. In Tskaltubo, a bakery might label a bean-filled triangle as a khachapuri because that’s what customers ask for. Language here is soft and social, defined at the table more than on the page.

How to Choose Cheese Like a Georgian Market Pro

You can approximate regional styles at home if you start with the right cheese. Here’s a traveler’s cheat sheet I learned from friendly (and opinionated) vendors who insisted I taste before I bought:

• For Imeruli: Seek a fresh, mild, semi-soft white cheese—young enough to squeak. If you can’t find imeruli, mix low-moisture mozzarella with a splash of brine from feta to add salt and tang.
• For Megruli and Achma: You want stretch. Combine mozzarella (for elasticity) with a small amount of a tangy brined cheese (like a well-soaked feta) and a touch of cream. Avoid aged, oily cheeses—they break and leak.
• For Adjaruli: A 50/50 blend of mozzarella and a drained brined cheese works. Salt the mix just shy of perfect; remember butter and yolk will add richness and perception of salt.
• For Osuri: Fold in equal parts mashed potato and mild cheese. The potato should be warm, dry, and well seasoned.

On salting and soaking:

• If your cheese is very salty, soak it in cool water for 30–60 minutes, changing the water once. Taste after each soak; you’re aiming for seasoned, not bland.
• Crumble, don’t puree. Rough curds melt into a network; pureed cheese tends to separate.

Dough Matters: Texture First, Rules Second

Talk to ten bakers, and you’ll hear twelve dough formulas. Some use pure wheat flour, water, yeast, and salt; others add a spoon of oil for tenderness; still others stir in matsoni (yogurt) for a tang that pairs beautifully with brined cheese. What matters more than a universal recipe is feel.

A few guiding ideas:

• Elastic but gentle: Knead till the dough is smooth and just elastic. Over-knead and you’ll fight it when you try to shape thin disks.
• Fermentation: A short bulk rise (30–60 minutes) keeps things lively. Khachapuri dough shouldn’t taste of yeast; it should taste of wheat and heat.
• Thickness: Err thinner than your instinct. Good khachapuri is about the relationship between dough and cheese, not a bready shell with a timid filling.
• Baking surface: A pizza stone or steel mimics the Georgian tone oven’s fierce bottom heat. Preheat longer than you think necessary.

Shaping cues:

• Imeruli/Megruli: Center the cheese, gather edges into a purse, pinch tight, then flip and flatten with your palm. A quick roll evens it. Vent with a tiny poke if you’re worried about steam.
• Adjaruli: Roll an oval, coil the long edges toward the center to form rails, pinch ends into points, fill the center with cheese. Bake, then add butter and yolk at the end.
• Guruli: Fill, fold into a half-moon, crimp the edge, then slash three or five vents across the top.

And one home truth: your first attempts will be tasty even if they look lopsided. Khachapuri loves imperfection because imperfection means it was made by hand.

Comparing Regional Styles at a Glance

• Imeruli (Imereti): Round, flat; fresh milkiness; imeruli cheese. Everyday, shareable.
• Adjaruli (Adjara): Boat-shaped; molten blend; butter and raw yolk stirred in. Dramatic and indulgent.
• Megruli (Samegrelo): Round with cheese inside and on top; browned, deeply savory. Statement-making.
• Achma (Adjara/Abkhazia/Black Sea coast): Layered, par-boiled sheets; buttery, lasagna-like; celebrations and Sunday tables.
• Guruli (Guria): Half-moon; cheese with chopped boiled egg; New Year’s tradition.
• Osuri (Ossetian-style): Round, thicker; cheese-potato filling; comforting and portable.
• Penovani (urban bakery style): Laminated puff pastry; sharp flakes; quick and portable.

These categories blur in practice. You’ll find family variations that bend rules—the kind of bending that keeps traditions alive.

What to Drink with Each Khachapuri

Georgian drinks are as regionally expressive as the breads. Pair thoughtfully and the cheese transforms.

• Imeruli: Try a crisp Imeretian white like Tsolikouri or Tsitska—stone fruit and freshness to cut through dairy. For a non-alcoholic option, tarragon “Laghidze” lemonade’s herbal sweetness works surprisingly well.
• Adjaruli: A dry, aromatic white such as Krakhuna stands up to butter and yolk. If you’re by the sea, a cold beer with restrained bitterness is traditional and refreshing.
• Megruli: Ojaleshi from Samegrelo—fruity, gently tannic—echoes the cheese’s depth without overwhelming it.
• Achma: Amber qvevri wines, especially skin-contact Rkatsiteli, add texture and tea-like tannins that play against richness.
• Guruli: Chkhaveri rosé from Guria sings with the pie’s delicate egg-and-cheese custard, keeping the mood festive.
• Osuri: A light red like Aladasturi or even a cup of black tea with lemon is perfect. Comfort meets comfort.

And then there’s chacha, the grape spirit that arrives like a dare. Save it for toasts, not pairings, unless you’re looking to turn lunch into a legend.

Eat It Like a Local: Rituals and Etiquette

• Hands first, forks later. Khachapuri is engineered for tearing and sharing. The tactile act is part of the pleasure.
• Hot is not optional. Most styles have a short window of perfection—especially Adjaruli. Don’t wait for stragglers before digging in.
• Edge strategy. With Adjaruli, start with the ends (they’re built for dipping). With Imeruli and Megruli, begin at the edge so steam escapes gently.
• Share the center. In a culture that prizes hospitality, the heart of the bread often goes to the guest.
• Breakfast is fair game. In many towns, morning khachapuri is normal—paired with strong tea and something pickled to spark the palate.

Where to Taste the Real Thing

You don’t need a white tablecloth to find brilliance. Khachapuri lives in markets, side streets, and humble bakeries with windows fogged from heat.

• Batumi: Retro is notorious (in the best way) for Titanic-sized Adjaruli. For something more intimate, wander a block or two inland from the boulevard—look for a tone oven’s soot-darkened chimney and follow the smell of butter.
• Kutaisi: Near the central market, small family bakeries turn out Imeruli with impeccable balance. Buy a loaf of warm imeruli cheese next door and plan your own experiments.
• Zugdidi: The market sulguni is reason enough to visit; ask vendors who bakes the best Megruli that day and follow their nods.
• Tbilisi: Sakhachapure №1 popularized penovani for a reason, and several neighborhood tone bakeries along Agmashenebeli Avenue still knead and bake like it’s a craft, not a line item.
• Guria: Around Ozurgeti before New Year’s, Guruli pies glow on windowsills. A polite knock and a smile may get you a slice and a story.

Wherever you go, talk to bakers. They will tell you when the next batch is due, and they will insist you wait for it. They’re right.

Troubleshooting at Home: From Soggy Bottoms to Cheese Rivers

• Soggy base: Preheat your stone or steel at least 45 minutes. If you’re using a sheet pan, preheat it too. Moisture needs an escape route.
• Leaking filling: Seal the dough seams with conviction. A little flour under your palm when flattening helps the bottom grip and expand, not slide and tear.
• Tough crust: Your flour may be thirsty. Increase hydration slightly and knead less. Rest the dough between rolling attempts; gluten relaxes with time, not force.
• Greasy melt: Your cheese is too high-fat or over-processed. Blend with a drier, fresher cheese and keep the heat high for a quick set.
• Blandness: Season judiciously. A whisper of salt in the dough, balanced brine in the cheese, and a final brush of butter can brighten everything.

A Personal Map: Four Bites, Four Memories

• Imeruli in Kutaisi: The baker’s hands moved without drama. When she slid the bread to me, it was as if she’d given me a blanket. The first bite tasted like someone had tidied a whole day and put it on a plate: warmth, order, softness.
• Adjaruli in Batumi: The waiter hovered to see if I knew the ritual. I tore the ear and plunged it into the center. Butter met yolk, and the world went quiet; the sea kept talking outside, but we were busy.
• Megruli in Zugdidi: The top had bronzed to a leopard’s coat. I ate too fast and burned my mouth—worth it for the caramel snap of browned cheese.
• Achma at a family table in Kobuleti: Each layer was a whisper, the kind that means you lean in to hear better. The conversation around the table grew softer, slower, the way butter slows time.

These memories are why I trust bread to tell me where I am. Khachapuri is a compass: point it toward the Black Sea and you get a buttered tide; aim it toward the middle of the map and you find balance and kindly calm; climb toward the north and it turns into a warm pillow to hold against the cold.

The Story the Dough Remembers

When a Georgian baker presses dough flat with the heel of a hand, she’s compressing habit and history. Wheat milled not too fine, to keep the flour alive. Brines kept by taste, not timer—salt is measured on tongues here. Cheese that changes from week to week depending on cow pasture and weather. In this sense, khachapuri is a live, regional archive. You can taste re-settlement patterns in Adjara when Achma shows up at a Megrelian table. You can sense trade routes in the puff of penovani, a city style that echoes European technique yet smells unmistakably Georgian once it opens.

Even the word “khachapuri” hints at crosscurrents: puri for bread, kveli or khacho for cheese/curds—terms that shift from dialect to dialect. What never shifts is the bread’s emotional assignment. It appears for comfort and for celebration, as casual breakfast and as centerpiece. It’s the first dish many Georgians learn to bake, the one that meets new babies and new years with the same warmth.

If you bake it, you’ll learn a secret designers and grandparents share: constraints make magic. A circle, a boat, a half-moon; cheese, salt, flour, heat. The world narrows to essentials, and you feel, in the rise and blister, how much expression still lives there.

The last khachapuri I ate before leaving Georgia was at the edge of dusk in Tbilisi, a quick penovani from a bakery where the ceiling fan squeaked and someone’s child slept on flour sacks. The pastry shattered, the cheese tasted like the day’s last bright thought, and I walked out into a street that smelled of basil and exhaust. A city sang around me; in my hands, a little heat.

If you start anywhere, start there: hot bread, good cheese, and whatever sky your window offers. Georgia has many languages, but this one is easy to learn—best spoken with your fingers, shared with a friend.