Eric Asimov - How to Love Wine: A Memoir and Manifesto

To my mother,

Ruth

And to my wife,

Deborah

Contents

D oes the world really need another book about wine?

The bookshelves are already packed with volumes that tell us everything we could possibly want to know. Atlases, encyclopedias, guides to the grapes and to the vineyards. Ratings, analyses, textbooks, historical surveys, and coffee table companions. Monographs on single grapes and single estates. Many of them are wonderful tools, the kind of reference works that any serious student ought to have.

Beyond these are the primers, the essays, the how-to guides to wine-and-food pairing. Then come the prevention bookshow not to embarrass yourself in front of your boss, ten surefire tricks to avoid wine gaffes, and so on.

On the other side are the books that promise to demystify wine, to make it easy for anyone to cut through even the densest jungle of vinous terminology. Of course, these books succeed only in reinforcing the mysteries that make wine seem, for so many people, as arcane as quantum physics.

Clearly, wine is a serious matter that can weigh heavily on a person. Not something to be taken lightly at all. If you doubt this, consider the hallowed ritual of examining the wine for flaws, which you can view at any decent restaurant on any given night. Notice the embarrassed-bordering-on-doomed expression of the individual targeted by the sommelier to taste. The bottle is uncorked, a thimbleful of wine is poured into the glass, and the glare of the spotlight hits full force.

The haunted look tells all, like the voiceover narration of internal dialogue in a bad film noir: I know Im supposed to twirl the glass. Im not sure why, but I see it all the time, twirling, twirling, twirling! Why? Now what do I do? Drink it, I guess. Why is he standing over me? Im supposed to nod, right? What if I dont like it? How should I know whether its good or bad?

Nine out of ten times it ends meekly, possibly with a game shrug to the sommelier and an embarrassed aside to ones companions. At some fancier restaurants nowadays, sommeliers have taken it upon themselves to give the wine an initial taste, with the laudable aim of weeding out any bad bottles before they make it to the table. Of course, this practice has given rise to the suspicion that, by pouring a taste for themselves, the sommeliers are somehow bilking customers by giving them less than a full bottle.

I think everybody knows how it feels to be put on the spot like this. I know when Ive been charged with tasting the wine at a meal with famous collectors or wine writers Ive experienced performance anxiety, too. This fear of being mistaken, of being wrong, or of simply not understanding whats going on, pervades the world of wine, where such a premium is placed on knowing everything and always being right.

Most people are resigned to enduring their wine fears. Some make halfhearted efforts to learn, but really, they just want to enjoy a glass of wine, not immerse themselves in a college-level course.

A select few are determined to overcome the obstacles. They head for the books, the classes, the glossy periodicals. They try CDs, DVDs, podcasts, and online educational devices. They learn to sniff out the myriad aromas in the glass and to talk in tasting notes, the global lingua franca of wine connoisseurs. They determine that 1945, 47, and 61 were great years in Bordeaux, but that 77, 84, and 97 were not so good. They can recite the number of 100-point wines theyve tasted, and they know the difference between a Sassicaia, Solaia, and Ornellaia.

But is becoming what society considers a connoisseur really the best way to learn to love and understand whats in the glass? What is connoisseurship, anyway? And why is it that we assume the path to finding pleasure in wine begins with the accumulation of expertise?

The United States has become the largest single consumer of wine on the planet, yet whats missing in many peoples experience of wine is a simple sense of ease. Instead, choosing a wine becomes an exercise in anxiety. Many people have come to believe that they cannot enjoy wine unless they are already knowledgeable, and so deny themselves the pleasurable experiences that would allow them to gain confidence. Instead of a joy, for many people wine has become a burden.

A friend once called me up because he didnt know what wine he should drink with pizza, of all things. Well, why shouldnt he be stumped? Hes read articles that break down wine choices depending on the toppingspinot noir with a mushroom pizza, primitivo with pepperoni, Chianti if its topped with prosciutto and arugula, that sort of thing.

But what if its a prosciutto pizza with no arugula, or its topped with roasted peppers? Maybe you dont like primitivo, or dont have any around the house. If, like me, you live in Manhattan, 75 percent of the pizza you eat is delivered to your apartment. You know that the sturdy mushroom pizza from down the block is completely different from the more delicate mushroom pizza from the place three blocks away. The variables are endless, and relatively few are considered in such articles that purport to be helpful. Frankly, nothing should be simpler than choosing a wine to drink with a pizza, regardless of the topping. Pizza goes with so many different types of wine that its hard to be wrong. Yet for many people this sort of overly specific discussion fosters a sense of doubt and an unfortunate dependency on experts.

I t saddens me to imagine the pleasurable task of acquiring wines perceived instead as a chore. As you might expect, Im devoted to wine shops. I never tire of exploring the shelves in a thoughtful shop, examining the labels on the bottles, turning them over in my hands in search of new producers or more bits of arcane information, like an importer Ive never heard of who brings in wines from a region I never knew existed. Of course, its all a preliminary, like poring over restaurant menus. As much fun as I have in the anticipation, the real pleasure is in opening bottles and sitting down to a wonderful meal with good wine, consumed with friends and family.

Wine to me is entwined with pleasure, joy, fun, family, and friendship. Its not the sort of thing that requires book learning, academic training, or special classes, but rather an elemental pleasure that satisfies emotionally and physically. Yes, wine also has its aesthetic dimension, its rare and subtle beauty that becomes more apparent with experience. Plunging deeply into wine can be thoroughly rewarding. But its not at all required. It all depends on what youre after. The simple contentment that comes with a glass or two at dinner is no small thing.

Years ago, back when I was coming of age in the 1970s and 80s and found myself becoming consumed with interest in wine, its world seemed awfully small. Great wines came from Bordeaux, or possibly Burgundy, but most definitely from France. In the United States, for the most part, wine was obtained from a liquor store, an apt description of the nations drinking priorities. A few places did specialize in wine, like Sherry-Lehmann in New York City, where men in ties and aprons, the formal guise of the wine steward, might advise you on Bordeaux vintages or suggest a Champagne for a celebration.