Years ago at a dinner party in a fairly swanky restaurant, I had a revelation about wine talk, the formality of service and the nature of communication. I know — big revelation.
It was a declaration by a spiky-haired sommelier that helped me turn a corner. When I first saw him, I felt a pang of Doogie Howser-paranoia, not for his edgy look but for his baby face. I wondered how this kid was going to pick wines for us when he appeared to be about 21 years and 25 seconds old.
He soon put me at ease. He was not smiley, and he didn’t make a lot of eye contact, but still I got the feeling that he was respectful of us, and his job, and it was all kind of refreshing. He walked the fine line of formality/levity/appropriateness. Maybe that’s two lines, or three, but I tell you, the kid walked them with skill.
He delivered the first wine or two, using words that varied from the terms on the widely accepted Wine Aroma Wheel devised by Ann C. Noble, now a retired professor from the University of California at Davis. The wheel breaks down aromas into major categories (such as “Fruity”), and then smaller categories (“Tropical Fruit”), and yet smaller ones (“Pineapple”), and acts as both a glossary and a map for all those interested in identifying what they are smelling in a wine.
I don’t recall his initial words, but I think one of them might have been “rockin’.” I do know that they made a few of us raise our eyebrows and laugh under our breath. This kid was having fun, even though he wasn’t showing it on his face. He had cool hair, good chatter and a dry delivery. We were listening.
And then he came in with the bomb, the descriptor that opened everything up for me. Setting down a berry-licious red, probably a pinot noir from Sonoma, he said the wine made him think of Big League Chew.
Say what, brah? I checked to see if my tie was still cinched up to my Adam’s apple. Which it was. Which I instantly loosened. Along with the button beneath it.
I had not thought of that shredded gum in a pouch since Pete Rose was a player. But suddenly there it was, as clear as if I had wadded up a plug and stuck it in my cheek just before dinner. I thought about my buddy Rabs, who used to lace his BLC with actual chewing tobacco when we were kids. For him it was a gateway gum, but I think the last time he chewed actual tobacco, sans BLC, was when we were in Little League. He was always a little ahead of his time. So was the spiky somm because, before that night, all I had heard to describe wines like the one in front of me were “strawberry” and “cherry.”
I realized how hemmed-in I had become about language, even when I added my usage of the hundreds of other common wine terms that are not included on the Aroma Wheel. My confidence in spiky somm, which had been rising with every new glass, shot across the room, through the swaggy curtains and up into the thinnest air of the sky the second he said, “Chew.”
Maybe he had never had Bubblicious or Bazooka when he was kid. Better yet, maybe he had indeed enjoyed those gums but they were not as much like that wine as Big League Chew was. Either way, he could have said that the wine reminded him of “bubble gum.” But that would have been too general. His specificity is what blew my mind.
From that day forward, I gave myself permission to stray from the Aroma Wheel words, which, may I just reiterate, are spot-on, timeless and completely effective. The first function of language is clarity. Language evolves. Evolve with it, and don’t confine your poetry to bar napkins. Trot it out at tastings.
A couple of years ago, a friend who is as comfortable with aroma terms as cats are with socializing, could not place a peculiar smell. I plunged my nose into a glass and proclaimed, “True Value hardware store.” The snap of his thrown-back head nearly knocked him off balance. He laughed, then smelled again, laughed, smelled, laughed. He was still talking about it a few months ago.
Those of you who have memorized the Aroma Wheel know that I was smelling “rubbery” or “plastic” or something in the larger “Chemical” category. Fine and dandy. But if you haven’t strayed from “rubbery,” maybe give it a try. You might like the way it makes you feel. Go ahead — the first one’s free. The rest of you who don’t have the wheel memorized? Think about not memorizing it. Come up with your own set of words and phrases on the fly.
If you are judging a wine contest or sitting for an exam, use the wheel (but you already knew that). If you are hosting a tasting at home, bring on the laughs. Am I suggesting that you invent outrageous terms for every whiff and sip? Nah, nobody likes a full-time wiseacre. But a smattering of wordplay pairs well with any wine, in whatever setting you are tasting it.
The next time your nose reaches down into a glass, or when a new sip of wine slides across your tongue and sloshes in your mouth, ask yourself, what are the best words? Don’t worry about the “right” or “wrong” words. Search yourself for the “best” words. What are the words that will bring the most joy? Use those.
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