A Table for Everyone: Where to Go with the Whole Family

«Jinau» in Kazakh evokes the act of gathering — harvest, people, guests drawn to a shared table. It’s a sentiment the abr team has distilled into a restaurant, guided by the flavours of Central Asia and a deeply instinctive sense of place.

In the kitchen, brand chef Ruslan Zakirov approaches regional staples with quiet authority — contemporary in expression, yet firmly anchored in their origins. The baking alone is enough to set the tone: tandoor-fired flatbread with house butter, samsa filled with horse meat or chicken and cheese, delicate gutabs, and chebureki — blistered, crisp, and unmistakably good.

From there, the menu settles into something both familiar and quietly abundant: several interpretations of lagman, manty, beshbarmak, lamb kuyrdak with young potatoes, grilled beef tongue with purée and mustard. The mangal is central to it all — lamb kebabs, shashlik, vegetables over open flame — simple things, done properly. For larger tables, there’s plov made to share, or a generous assortment of kebabs that arrives without ceremony and disappears just as quickly. Drinks follow the same line: farmed shubat, bal kumys, house-made ayran — unpretentious, grounding, entirely in tune with the food. The interiors draw on the quiet pragmatism of rural Kazakh outbuildings — granaries and barns where grain, hay and the season’s yield were once kept. Dark wood, rough-hewn beams, simple furniture arranged around a large table — the kind that seems to gather people in, and keep them there.

Conceived by restaurateur Alexander Orlov, Yurta draws on the enduring iconography of nomadic life — the yurt. It sits within a larger compound, alongside a boutique hotel and a dedicated kumys bar.

In the kitchen, chef Alexander Telesh works with a palette that has defined the region for centuries — horse meat, lamb, dough, cultured dairy — treating each with a light, assured touch. The menu unfolds with an easy sense of balance: et beshbarmak, manty with lamb and pumpkin, dolma with camel meat, kuyrdak, slow-braised oxtail, lamb tongues with tary — familiar forms, subtly refined. There are, of course, quieter surprises: horse meat pastrami paired with a Kazakh-inflected take on gnocchi, or pasta with zhilik et and bone marrow. The grill leans into its strengths: lamb, beef tenderloin shashlik, kebabs. Larger tables tend to order with a certain generosity: plov made for sharing, a whole lamb shoulder with vegetables, or khan-style beshbarmak. From the oven comes a steady rhythm of baursaki, samsa filled with horse meat, camel or lamb, alongside kutabs and chebureki. The kumys bar is something of a centrepiece. A dozen varieties of kumys sit alongside other traditional steppe drinks — shubat and saumal — sourced from farms across Kazakhstan. There’s a kumys sommelier, too, who guides you through it all with quiet ease, suggesting pairings that feel intuitive rather than prescribed. The cocktail list unfolds as its own narrative. Told in eight chapters, it traces the journey of a nomad named Sairan across the steppe — something to follow, one drink at a time.

At Alcha, the menu unfolds at the intersection of Kazakh and Azerbaijani traditions — anchored in meat, fire, and the quiet theatre of the tandoor. Two chefs shape the narrative. Damir Atmyshev works with Kazakh classics, revisiting them with a contemporary eye, while Baku-born Elin Ismailov brings depth and precision to Azerbaijani recipes and technique. There are certain dishes that set the tone: horse meat beshbarmak, manty, lamb syrne with young potatoes, slow-braised veal cheek, sturgeon syrdak, trout koktal reworked with a lighter, more considered touch. The mangal is rarely still: lamb liver, turkey, kebabs — all handled with confidence and restraint. For larger tables, dishes arrive with a certain generosity, like veal saj served to share. From the oven, a steady stream of tandoor breads: flatbreads, taba-nan, bukteme filled with savoury fillings, and baursaki served with balkaimak. To finish, something sweet: flour halva with ice cream, a pomegranate dessert with sorbet, or ice cream made with shubat and kumys. Even the bar leans into it. Ethno-inspired cocktails bring together ayran or shubat with cornelian cherry, basil, or berries.

The name Sandyq comes from the traditional Kazakh chest — a place where the most valued things were kept: jewellery, garments, fragments of family history. That idea carries through here, reimagined as a restaurant that treats cuisine as a form of inheritance. The concept is quietly ambitious: to gather Kazakh cooking as a living archive. The team has spent time tracing regional recipes and traditional techniques, bringing back dishes that long belonged to the home rather than the restaurant.

The menu leans into the classics — beshbarmak, kuyrdak, kazy, sorpa — but also makes room for rarer, more quietly distinctive dishes. Ulpershek, for instance, a meat preparation once reserved for special family occasions, appears here with a sense of quiet reverence. The interiors follow the same line. Carpets, layered textiles, carved chests, ceramics, wooden tableware — all arranged with restraint rather than nostalgia. The space reads as a contemporary interpretation of a Kazakh home, gently expanded to the scale of a restaurant.

Aqqu first appeared in Almaty in the mid-20th century and, almost without trying, became part of the city’s inner life. Poets, painters, students, musicians — it was one of those places where conversations lingered and time seemed to stretch. Older residents still recall a small pond nearby, once home to swans — the origin of the name, aqqu, meaning «white swan» in Kazakh.

The recent restoration leans gently into that memory. A fountain now echoes the lost water, while inside, a large mosaic panel of swans draws the eye almost immediately. The design comes from artist Anastasia Zharko; the mosaic itself was realised under the guidance of Gaziz Yeshkenov, known for his work on the Almaty Metro. The menu stays true to the idea of a city café — the kind that quietly carries you through the day. Mornings begin with breakfasts that feel both familiar and considered: omelettes, porridge, draniki, brioche with salmon, or the house «Aqqu» breakfast with eggs, kazy, baursaki and kaymak. By midday, it shifts almost imperceptibly into something more substantial: salads, soups, and a line-up of comforting classics — naval-style pasta, chicken cutlets with buckwheat, chicken schnitzel, salmon, seafood stew. There’s also a lighter side to it — sandwiches, hummus, aubergine with tomatoes, antipasti. The dessert display alone is enough to bring you to Aqqu — and keep you there. Buns, flaky pastries, wafer rolls filled with dulce de leche or whipped meringue, «oreshki» biscuits — a catalogue of confectionery that feels instantly familiar. And then there’s the ice cream, made to old Soviet standards: dense, creamy, unapologetically rich — the kind that tastes less like dessert and more like a memory.

Cafe Alma brings together the flavours that define Almaty today — under the direction of brand chef Andrey Titov. On the menu, unlikely pairings sit easily side by side: doctor’s sausage with chimichurri, kurt alongside croissants, buckwheat with stewed meat next to French-style breakfasts — familiar ingredients and urban cooking that, over time, have settled into a distinctly Almaty way of eating. The kitchen runs from morning through to evening, shifting almost imperceptibly with the day. Breakfast draws a steady crowd: syrniki, porridge, or the house «Almaty breakfast» with baursaki, brynza and fresh baguette — simple things, thoughtfully assembled. By lunchtime — salads, soups, and a rotation of comforting plates: handmade pelmeni, schnitzel, buckwheat with porcini mushrooms, horse meat steak, tandoori chicken. There are also tartines, an Almaty-style doner, burgers — the kind of food that fits effortlessly into the rhythm of the big city day. Desserts are their own quiet nostalgia. The display recalls old city patisseries: honey cake, napoleon, «kartoshka» pastries, Alatau sweets, nut tartlets, wafer cones. The interior follows the same line. Light-filled, restrained, in soft tones, with vintage photographs of old Alma-Ata.

Del Papa has been part of Almaty’s dining rhythm for years — the kind of italian trattoria that rarely has an empty table. By evening, the room settles into a familiar hum: conversations overlapping, plates arriving in quick succession, dinners stretching comfortably into hours.

The menu follows the same generous logic. Bruschetta with horse-meat prosciutto and stracciatella, vitello tonnato, burrata with tomatoes, antipasti with olives and salami. Pizza is done the Neapolitan way. The dough rests for up to 48 hours, is shaped by hand, and baked so the centre stays delicately thin while the edges rise into a soft, airy cornicione. The favourites are easy to predict: margherita, pear with gorgonzola, salami with mozzarella, or the richer version with mortadella, stracciatella and pistachios. Pasta is made in-house and handled with the same ease. Tagliatelle with horse meat and pistachios, fettuccine Alfredo with chicken — alongside the classics that never quite leave the table: spaghetti carbonara with guanciale, Bolognese, risotto with porcini and parmesan.

Navat is an Eastern teahouse where people tend to gather in groups around a large dastarkhan. The interior is rendered in a traditional aesthetic: carved wood, carpets, intricate ornamentation, patterned ceramics, all set against a soft, warm glow. The cuisine is built around Central Asian dishes and the format of a shared meal, where plates continue to arrive in a natural, almost continuous flow and the table gradually fills. Lagman noodles are hand-pulled and served in a range of variations — from guiru lagman to tsomyan. There are manty with meat and pumpkin, kuyrdak, naryn with house-made noodles and horse meat. For larger groups, the signature Navat plov is often the natural choice. In keeping with Eastern culinary traditions, there is a strong emphasis on dough-based dishes: gosh-nan, fried chuchvara, and hot flatbreads — taken alongside main courses or ordered for the table to share. Tea is integral, not optional. It anchors the pace of the meal. Poured from a samovar into waiting teapots, it arrives steadily — green, black, mahabbat, or Kazakh-style with milk. Something sweet tends to follow, almost by instinct: chak-chak, baklava, nuts.

Bal began as a neighbourhood café-bakery and, over time, quietly grew into a small network across Almaty. The format remains disarmingly simple — long breakfasts, a full all-day menu, and a dessert counter that almost inevitably draws you in before you leave.

Breakfast runs until 6pm, which means morning dishes carry the menu for most of the day. There’s millet porridge with pumpkin and almonds, cottage cheese pancakes with strawberries, mini syrniki, crepes. For something more substantial: eggs Benedict with salmon or zhaya, an omelette with mortadella, draniki with horse meat, a Scandinavian-style breakfast. The main menu leans into comfort, with a few unexpected turns. Shrimp cabbage rolls with tomato risotto, beef stroganoff made with horse meat, a chicken cutlet with black rice — or with potato gnocchi — Swedish meatballs, a «Caesar» chicken schnitzel. Pasta sits alongside it all, from spaghetti with shrimp in a spinach sauce to fettuccine Alfredo; risotto appears with pumpkin and shrimp. Lighter options come in the form of bowls — tuna with green buckwheat, quinoa with shrimp. But the real pull remains the dessert counter. Bal’s Napoleon cake has become something of a destination in itself. And the display, more often than not, works like a quiet magnet — difficult to pass, harder still to leave empty-handed.

Photos: restaurant websites and social media; Yandex Maps