When the last attendees straggled into the supra, less than fifteen minutes late (that alone is a miracle for a Friday evening in Seattle) host Daniel Padrnos declared them already the most Georgian people there—not a punctual country, apparently.

But, as the night progressed, the two dozen strangers with me at the long table all became a little more Georgian. Nobody quite transformed into the carpet-chested beautiful men hugging it out that Padrnos described in his introduction to this ritual toasting feast. We did get awfully close, though, through sharing deeply personal stories, crying, and linking arms to take shots from hollow horns while wearing a large furry hat. “Gagimarjos,” the crowd shouted in response to each toast: to your victory!

The crowd represents Padrnos’ own victory of bringing the tradition to Seattle, with Supra Dinner Society’s weekly community feasts ($120 per person, all food and unlimited wine included) in a Madrona private event space. I came to the event highly skeptical, something Padrnos assures me is typical of his events in Seattle. I left in awe of my fellow Seattleites: of their earnestness and complete humility; of their willingness to stand up, open up, and to hear what others had to say.

A table set with walnut spreads dyed spinach green and beet red, a salad, and eggplant rolls greeted diners as we entered, quickly followed by glasses of Georgian wine. The latter flowed effusively throughout the four-hour event. As tamada, or professional toastmaster, Padrnos guided guests from awkward hellos into the structured toasts—one to gratitude, others to children, parents, love—and eventually into a free-for-all jumble of topics and feelings and heartfelt confessions.

In the US, toasting calls to mind cringy father-of-the-bride speeches or professional eloquence, but this is simpler. “It is just elevating your speech to say something that’s in your heart,” Padrnos says. Everyone is invited to speak; nobody is pressured to. “There's so few spaces where you're actually given the opportunity to say something of meaning in front of a group.”

At first, diners joined the toasting only hesitantly. They focused on serving themselves from the dishes that arrive, family style, to the table— soupy khinkali dumplings, cheesy khachapuri flatbread, and a stewed lamb. Padrnos deftly swept a first willing volunteer into a simple toast, bringing them to the front of the room and placing a fuzzy white papakha on their head.

Nobody could resist the sheepskin hat, nor the lure of linking arms with a friend and drinking out of the ornamental khantsi made from a horn. They nominated someone else, and hearing one person talk often inspired another. Suddenly, like a ketchup bottle coming unstuck, people couldn’t stop toasting, telling the others about their break-up, pet, or recent vacation.

Seattleites might not be famous for their warmth and friendliness, but they do love a bit of organization and framework, and here, the supra appeals. “The structure creates an opportunity for people to be spontaneous,” Padrnos says. It sidesteps the usual networking questions and immediately digs deeper, but in an organized way. “It's not going to be so niche or particular where you're going to alienate people, like, you're not going to toast to one company or your favorite sports team or a bit of news that might divide people,” says Padrnos. The toasts are, instead, to things like humor, love, beauty, and stories.

A woman toasted to her wife and the queer acceptance they found in Seattle, another to spending an evening with a group of friends who don’t see each other enough. Arms linked, the foursome toasted and drank from horns. “Gagimarjos, jos, jos, jos” shouted the crowd. In one night, I saw more people cry while wearing an oversized wooly hat than the rest of my life combined.

Not all the toasts were so serious: When a couple says “I love you” to each other, the group shouted “kiss, kiss, kiss,” until they giggled and complied. When the theme is roots, my brother and I drink to the fact that this is happening across the street from our elementary school. “The best toasts come straight from the heart and out the mouth,” says Padrnos. “Once the toast goes above your mouth, it gets into your head, then you start creating a PowerPoint presentation, and it's gonna get muddled.”

Few Seattleites might admit to caring about what people think about them, but seeing what happens when they check their posturing at the door and let their masks be replaced by a tall and furry hat, it becomes clear how guarded we all are. The toasts massaged away shyness and reticence, and changed the dynamic, palpably, in the room—exactly by design. “After every single supra, people ask me, ‘Is every supra like this?’ says Padrnos. “Because it really rocks their world.”