"What do I wear?!" I had eagerly accepted Kathleen's invitation to accompany her to an industry wine tasting and share my amateur impressions for Wine Uncorked, but was first most concerned with sartorial issues. Kathleen laughed. "The advice you really need," she warned, "is to spit" so as not to become loopy in the three to four hours we would spend tasting.
The event: As I walked into the sea of wine experts, I felt instantly intimidated. The gorgeous Tribeca Grill – with its soaring industrial brick ceilings, elegant mahogany railings and bars, and retro mosaic-tile floor – was infinitely more imposing when peopled with wine professionals who might out me as an imposter. "I'm a writer," I responded when asked where I fit in the industry, which is strictly true, although statistics textbooks and academic journal articles hardly qualify me to write about wine.
I was also intimidated by the process. I didn't need the small notebook I brought, as they provided attendees with a 70-page program listing the day's offerings and a short pencil one could recycle for a round of miniature golf. The table of contents listed wines by labels, organized within countries of origin. Kathleen deftly circled the wines she planned to target then walked me through the sometimes-cryptic background information about pricing, soil types, and production. We quickly launched into the tasting.
The people: As an academic, I frequently attend conferences, and find amusing the geek speak endemic to each discipline. The wine industry is no different. I overheard nuanced discussions on the effects of 100-mile-per-hour winds, the prevalence of volcanic rock, and the intricacies of water management systems, with the occasional super-nerd trying to ask an impossible question to showcase oenophilic brilliance.
I observed the phenomenon of "bucket-hogging," the practice by the occasional self-absorbed attendee of defensively blocking others from the valuable real estate occupied by a spitting bucket. I also enjoyed that, unlike the warm but polished veneer of the pourers at a public wine tasting, the attitude among wine representatives interacting with peers tended toward cheeky and irreverent. From several different wine reps: a surprised "I thought the 2010 vintage was going to really suck," an ebullient "this is a killer juice for $260 a case," a conspiratorial "I usually wither away in disgust when people add oak to something that is perfectly good, but…," an ecstatic "as the French would say, 'We're stoked!,'" and my favorite, the gleefully mischievous "this may well rip all the enamel off your teeth!"
Most importantly, the wine: I not only learned a lot about the wine world, but I also learned quite a bit about wine in the several hours Kathleen and I spent tasting, identifying several wines I will seek out in stores (like the 2009 Clusel-Roch Condrieu, a 100% Viognier the rep described as a perfect Thanksgiving wine). New to me was grower Champagne – the locally focused little sister to the powerhouse celebrity Champagne houses. I tasted earthy and foamy ones that would stand up nicely to a spicy black bean soup, convincing me that bubbly can be an everyday option.
Then, there was the opportunity to try some decidedly special-occasion wines, such as the 2009 Domaine Newman Bonnes Mares 2009, which retails for around $225 a bottle; my notes read, simply, "Pitch perfect. Wow!" (I swallowed this one.)
And all afternoon, I entertained myself describing wines as tasting like raw beets, rare beef Carpaccio, chocolate mousse, and even motor oil. The rep looked bemused: "Motor oil?" He tasted. "Yes," he said skeptically but kindly. "I can taste that."
Q&A with the amateur: So, did I fake it successfully? It seems that I did, although everyone was far too nice to call me on it if I did not. In the absence of evidence, let's say I did.
Did I have fun? Well, yes. It would be impossible not to enjoy an afternoon at the lovely Tribeca Grill tasting wines with the Fine Wine Concierge herself. But, make no mistake, this is work. The wine professional tastes the wines that will forward her profession, not necessarily those she herself likes. She has to take copious notes while balancing her wine glass. She has to network with promising professional connections, rather than gossip with longtime wine-world friends. She has to stay on her feet for the several hours of the tasting and elbow her way through the crowds, angling for pours and hip-checking the bucket hogs. Finally, she has to spit – to simply taste the wines, rather than drink them. Indeed, the true wine professional leaves the event stone-cold sober. I certainly had fun, but also learned that this aspect of a career in the wine world, while certainly glamorous in many ways, can be a slog.
And, finally, what did I wear? Turns out it didn't matter. Most men wore the apparent wine-industry uniform of designer jeans, satirical t-shirt, funky blazer, and pocket square. But women represented the entire range of fashion – from a sleek suit paired with chic chignon to gladiator sandals and leggings under a frayed denim mini-skirt. So, Kathleen was right. The only advice I really needed was to spit.
