“I’m no wine connoisseur, but I know what I like.” I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard that. I’ve been tempted to respond, “I believe you, but what, in fact, do you like, and can you tell me why?” Thank goodness, I’ve resisted that temptation, otherwise I’d be a very lonely guy. Wine drinkers, all of us, know what we like, but for the most part, we find it difficult to articulate.
Part of the reason, I believe, is that we simply don’t focus our attention on the act of drinking. It’s like other aspects of our lives. How about that picture hanging over the fireplace? In detail, what is it that you like about it? The same can be said of music. Is it strictly in the background, sliding by your consciousness? Or are you paying attention and heard that waffling sound of the fifty-cent piece that the drummer spun gently on the drum? It’s definitely in the details, but wouldn’t we be more confident if we could articulate them? Why do always order that California Chardonnay? Or that Cabernet?
Another reason for our inability to define our preferences, I believe, is the intimidating, sometimes off-putting, metaphorical vocabulary of winespeak; those descriptors that wine tasters and reviewers use that sound like they belong in a physiology class (legs, body), or a chemistry seminar (acidity, tannins, balance), or horticultural meeting (floral, herbaceous). No question those wine basics have to be learned. However, when the metaphors go to lofty extremes . . . .
What if I can’t perceive, for example, that a Super Tuscan has the gentle fragrance of the “forest floor?” Or that a red from Provence evokes “garrigue” (that aromatic melange of herbs and shrubs that grow wild in the countryside)? Or that Bordeaux smells faintly of cassis, cedar, and tobacco? I don’t remember the last time I got on my knees and sniffed the undergrowth at Muir Woods. And a spice jar of Herbs de Provence might give me a hint of that red from Provence, but I doubt it.
Lastly, our palates are like fingerprints; everyone is different. What you perceive is not what I perceive. I’ve been to large group tastings, and the articulated perceptions and descriptors vary widely. But that shouldn’t inhibit you from expressing your own opinion. One man’s “forest floor,” may be another man’s “mulch pile,” while an expert’s “garrigue” may be the beginners “weedy.” And “cassis”, well, blackberry preserves sounds pretty good to me. So, here’s a thought. Focus your attention, don’t be afraid to speak your mind, and have faith in your own palate. As one English wine writer says it, “Think while you drink.”
— Tom Barras