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Wine: The Tasting Experience?
The following is a fictious account of a man's earnest visit to a vineyard he has read about in one of the few, stellar wine periodicals. This story serves two purposes: first, to display the oft-romanticized ideal that has been created around wine and wine production, albeit with little or no understanding or appreciation of what we are actually consuming; and second, to expose, in most instances, the intimidation factor in understanding wine because of the current lingo associated with fermented grape juice. Before beginning the story, let's request you stick around a bit, as we'll try to draw some conclusions at the end as to what this all means. And hopefully, when you are confronted with racks of wine at your local super-store, it's not only about judging the book by its cover, but also understanding a little of the story inside. OK, let's begin... Tuscany. The tires of your Alfa Romeo rental car crunches gravel as you pull to a stop. The cloud of dust dissipates, and through the looking glass of your windshield a picture perfect postcard, larger than life, is painted before you. Left to right, rows of meticulously trimmed green bushels of leaves climb a hill. The toasty, golden sun is at half-mast above that hill and the last lines of green fade to black in the shadow of Cyprus trees. Sitting in the distance is the aging facade of two sun burnt buildings that permeate the colors of the contents of what's hidden behind their walls - the red, orange rust of red wine. Instead of losing yourself in the view for two seconds longer, you consult your guidebook. For vine country visitors that book is a dog-eared copy of Wine Spectator that has been purchased to provide this moment. You read. Once inside, you will be greeted with damp, temperature controlled aromas so thick that they will stick to your clothes. Rows of French oak barrels will reflect in towering stainless steel fermentation tanks, and germinating sleeping inside those barrels will be glass-staining red wine. You exit your car and expect an older man, in shabby cellar clothes, waving at you from the portal. But instead you are led through the arches of a red painted door by the smiling face of the winemaking daughter. You also expected the inside of the barn to be a bit more rustic, but as the Spectator stated, the space is sanitized. Deeper inside, you are handed a glass, etched with the winery's crest. Your host politely fills your glass directly from a tasting barrel. The glass pipette she uses to extract the juice tips your rim and the sound echoes in the high-ceilings of the museum quality confines. "I prefer to taste and talk. The wine is the history of this place. I hope you don't mind," she states. Not at all. You like the way this woman thinks, but she makes you nervous. Your mind bounces with the echo of glass touching glass as you try to remember rule number one of the wine taster's ritual. Dammit. You spent six hundred bucks on that course. The actions of the woman jog your memory. Maneuver the glass under the light, stare down the center of the bowl in your hand and check the intensity and clarity of the color. "The wine has been aging for 24 months. Still very young," she says. "The density runs all the way through." Yes, you see that. You think. "My family has been producing wine on this site for almost one hundred years. However, back then, the wine was being shipped to other producers who had the foresight to blend and bottle it." The ritual continues. Your host, stem pinched between pointer and thumb, swirls the wine and sticks her nose deep into the glass. You follow suit, weary of splashing and making a fool of yourself. Nose in the glass, your eyes on the woman. You inhale deeply as she does. She lifts her head. "Fruit forward, don't you think?" You nod in agreement. "Mountain berries. Currants. Cassis." How would you know, you haven't seen a forest since summer camp or stopped at a fruit stand, for as long as you can remember - but you do know that the fruit and flower displays that paint the corners of the Upper West Side of Manhattan don't count. "When my parents met in a restaurant on the other side of town, it was the eve of Italy's involvement in the Second World War. My father survived the fight, but the restaurant didn't. My father was a romantic. He wanted to relive the night he met my mother; so, he sold off some of the vineyard, borrowed money from family and friends and proposed to my mother with the idea of opening up a restaurant." Another dip of the nose in the glass. A second whiff. "A little leather and tar. Consistent with the color." You look for cowhide trotting on the thick black top of wine in your glass. "A bit toasty. Some would say that this is the influence of the barrels we use. French oak but aged two years. We want to preserve the freshness of the fruit and allow the wine to stand on its own without the heavy influence of the barrels." French oak. Back to the forest, you think. Why does wine have so many forestation references? And is France the only growers of the old oak tree? "You are standing where the dining room of the restaurant used to be. My mother worked in the kitchen, and my father hosted the door, waited on tables and tended to the vines. He produced enough wine to be sold here at the restaurant. The wine was never bottled, just poured from a cask to a pitcher and brought directly to your table." It's now time to taste. It was a long ride and you are thirsty. You consider asking for a straw so you can suck vigorously like a child at McDonald's restaurant. But, that would lift your cover. The Spectator reports - over the past ten years, the wines from this vineyard have been rewarded cult-like status. Taking home a bottle or two is the privilege of the select few who take the two-hour pilgrimage from Rome's Leonardo da Vinci Airport or have the wherewithal and a friendly relationship with the best of the local wine shop proprietors. Be cool. "When my mother passed away, my father's interest in the restaurant waned and he soon followed her to heaven. My brothers and I had spent our lives walking, running and playing in these vineyards. We had no restaurant experience, but had a loyalty to the vines, so we decided to try our hand at winemaking. We struggled at first; the initial bottlings were rotgut to be honest. But years passed and we developed a knack for it, but our limited wisdom finally gave way to hiring a consulting enologist that took us to the next level." Eyes crossed in the bottom of your glass, you pull enough for a mouthful and begin the chewing process. "Chew" is a term you remember from the wine class, and always thought it was funny referring to a liquid, but you hope that sloshing the wine in your mouth for an extended period will provide you the time to formulate a worthwhile response. "Do you experience the balance on all sides of the tongue? This equilibrium begins at the vineyard level when the grapes are carefully pruned to minimize yield and provide a consistent quality. This is important to allow them equal footing in the fight for their natural resources." Less is more, you think. And you try to recall your elementary schooling about taste buds. Sweet, sour, salt, bitter. But how does this relate? Your host breaks your concentration. "This is a quality vintage. Perfect weather in 2002. We are in a valley with south-facing slopes. It is drier down here and the microclimate is optimal for producing bigger, deeper, richer wines." Your head bobs up and down as you continue to slosh the wine in your mouth and summon sounds of agreement with your host's comments. Hmm. Hm, hmm. "It's bone dry," she says, "a reflection of the terroir - a stony, clay and fossil ridden limestone soil that provides the body." You swallow and the bitterness of the wine's natural tannic preservative puckers your mouth and think of the T-Rex you may have just consumed. She smiles. "Remember, the wine is still young so it has the kick of steeped tea." The alcohol burns the back of your throat. "Give it a second, the finish will provide you with a sense of the wine's elegant balance when you lay it down to age for five or ten years." You agree. This is a high quality wine that needs some lying down. This is your chance, she likes you and you haven't offended her with your ignorance. Reach for your checkbook, this will impress the friends at home. - So this is what it has come to, impressing your friends. Continued...
Wine Post (1 of 3) - August'05 Back to home...
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