I recently joined two friends at a wine bar where, when presented with a wine list, I chose a bottle with a description that read “gentle notes of tar and rose petal”, much to my company’s discomfort. Thankfully, the barolo that arrived reminded no one of asphalt or the soap in our grandmothers’ bathrooms; it tasted like a good red wine.
But that’s not to say that we all experienced it in the same way: everyone’s sense of smell and sense of taste is different, and our senses change with age. Plus, how a wine tastes is influenced by what we might be simultaneously eating, so my friend who had a soppressata panini would’ve described the wine differently than the other friend who ordered a sandwich with prosciutto and pecorino cheese. (The wine definitely tasted different to me after I ate a panini with a garlicky pesto.)
The taste of anything is a complex combination of what your nose smells – which is one reason different wines are served in different glasses, if you’re fancy – and what your mouth feels. And, if you’ve ever tried to describe food without referencing another food, you probably already know that it’s harder than it seems because everybody’s palate is different. My sister hates mushrooms, my dad hates green olives, my mother hates lima beans, and I hate peppers, but none of us hates what the others hate*, nor can describe what it is about how those things tastes that really bothers us.
Which brings us back to wine: tasting notes are an attempt by wine connoisseurs to come up with a common language to describe what they are tasting to one another or, occasionally, the purple prose attempt by wine marketers to describe to potential consumers how a wine tastes in a way that makes them want to buy it.
But for the average wine consumer, those tasting notes can seem nonsensical: why would anyone want to drink a wine that tastes of tar, tobacco, dirt or cedar? One writer has even called the entire exercise of creating wine notes and claiming to be able to taste differences “bullshit”, and it’s hard to disagree that, on a scientific basis, he’s completely wrong.
Maybe it is all “bullshit” but, if you’re trying to pick out a wine you won’t hate and one you’ll possibly love, it’s a bit of helpful bullshit.
For instance, at this moment, I am really enjoying red wines. I like ones that fill my mouth with their taste; I prefer, though they aren’t easy to find, wines that, about halfway through tasting them, give me the same flicker of taste in the back of my mouth as the blood-like aftertaste of cooked spinach.
In wine tasting terms, that means I like big (or bold, or full) red wines, preferably ones that are “minerally” or have notes of tobacco or even tar. Hence why I ordered the barolo: not because I thought it would taste of tar or rose petals, but because I knew what the writer was signaling from paying attention to the descriptions of other wines I’ve been drinking.
So, pay attention to the “bullshit” descriptions when you like a wine and especially when you don’t – not because you’re going to find yourself drinking a wine that tastes exactly like blueberries (I hope), but because you can use the information to inform your purchases later. Read a couple helpful translations of wine-snob-ese, to get a sense of what the general outlines of the language is, and think about how it corresponds to what you’ve already been drinking, and how a wine snob might describe the wines you’ll be drinking.
You might never taste that tobacco, or catch the hint of violet, or think that there’s anything grapefruity about what you’re drinking. But at least you’ll be able to better judge if you’ll like drinking it before you plonk down your money for it.
* Actually, I don’t like green olives or lima beans or a lot of other things. I’m a really picky eater.
