Johnny W.
Google
Nunuka cooks like it remembers something the rest of us forgot. The creamy elargi arrives molten and perfumed with chili oil, crowned with a hand-chopped tartare so fresh it feels almost illicit, a collision of heat, fat, and brightness that hits with the force of a revelation. The walnut-stuffed eggplant rolls swim in a sauce so delicate it’s practically a whisper, punctuated by pomegranate seeds that pop like tiny firecrackers of sweetness and acid. And then there’s the roasted chicken, lacquered, blistered, unapologetically juicy, soaking in a broth that tastes like someone distilled comfort and smuggled it into a Staub pan. Georgian food in Madrid shouldn’t be this soulful, this confident, this transcendent, but here it is. Nunuka might very well be the best restaurant in the city, and nights like this make you believe in culinary miracles.