His khinkali, leviathans in the world of dumplings, are classically slouchy and furrowed like brows. Inside, the meat (pork or, better, lamb) is febrile, a hot gush of black pepper, onions and fenugreek. Nip off a corner and drink the broth, then eat it up to the topknot. This you toss on the plate, the way you flip a shot glass: a show of strength.

Mr. Harias studied breadmaking on Neptune Avenue as well, under Lasha Janashvili, a baker from Dusheti in the mountains north of Tbilisi. The tone (toe-NAY) from which the restaurant takes its name is an imposing circular clay oven akin to an Indian tandoor, with loaves of flatbread clinging to its curves.

Sadly, the Manhattan branch must make do with a convection oven (building code). Perhaps as a result, elongated apostrophes of shotiko have merely the charm of respectable baguettes. Khachapuri, however, is wonderfully rich, with milk and eggs in the dough and a livid magma of mozzarella and feta inside, approximating stretchy Georgian sulguni cheese with its belated smack of brine. Penovani khachapuri is flaky and shining, practically sweating cheese from its vellum-like leaves.

Greatest of all is adjaruli khachapuri, the ends drawn thin and the climax at the center: a bulge of farmers’ cheese and butter nearly frothing over. A just-cracked egg sinks into the mass, its yolk unmoored like a fallen sun.

“Baby adjaruli,” Mr. Samalaidze said affectionately. It is a scaled-down version of its grandly sprawling Brooklyn counterparts, but make no mistake. It looks as if you could eat it all, and still it will defeat you.