A few summers ago, I briefly got it in my head that I could become a wine connoisseur. This was due to a very generous and unexpected gift. A local acquaintance had passed away, and his wife wanted to rid her basement of his small wine collection.
I don’t know why I was chosen as the lucky recipient, but after stammering half a dozen thank-yous, I suddenly owned about 150 fine wines. A few carried four-figure price tags.
Reliably telling a Pinot Grigio from a Chardonnay isn’t part of my skill set. Grape varieties, terroir, vintages? You might as well ask a toddler to become conversant in quantum mechanics. Still, I was intrigued by the bottles and amused by the ridiculousness of the situation. Me, an oenophile? I supposed I could pretend, and I did.
After opening and drinking, with my wife, a 1988 Château Léoville Barton, I wrote an over-the-top review and emailed it to a wine-loving friend for his amusement. “I beheld Hawthorn berries and beef stock along with a suggestion of blonde tobacco. Other than the obvious green walnut, there was a top note of wet Baja beach at dawn, mixing subtly with minke-whale flatulence and a hint of two-day-old scallop innards. Finally, with subsequent sips, I detected the aroma of the well-worn merkin of a Honduran sex worker. All in all, not a bad wine.”
Eat your heart out, Robert Parker!
When the buzz of the Bordeaux wore off, so did my oenophile aspirations. I was already an audiophile. I mean, one hobby obsessed with determining “betterness” is all I can handle—especially because subjectivity is not the same as off-the-cuff opinionating. Useful opinions are backed by experience, earnest effort, and some level of real discernment.
Anechoic or spectroscopic measurements may give
