Cork Dork

Pinch the stem of the glass with your fingers, then rotate your wrist in a few swift circles, swirling the wine so that it coats the sides of the goblet. Watch the speed and width of the droplets, or “tears,” that roll down after you’ve stilled your hand. Thick, slow tears with clear definition suggest the wine has higher alcohol levels, where thin, quick tears, or wine that falls in sheets, hint at lower alcohol levels.

Warmer climates lead to riper grapes with a higher concentration of sugar, which, by the laws of fermentation, will produce wines with higher alcohol. Grapes from cooler climates generally have lower concentrations of sugar, yielding wines with lower alcohol. So which is it—high or low? Swallow a mouthful of wine and exhale, as if you were trying to check whether your breath stinks. (Spitting will rob you of the full effect.) Take note of how far into your mouth and throat you can feel the burning heat of the alcohol. The back of your tongue? It’s probably lower alcohol—around 12 percent for reds. The back of your throat, near your jaw? Medium, closer to 13, edging on 14 percent.

A sip of wine is not like a song or painting, which speak to many people at once, with a message locked for eternity in a chord or the sweep of a brush. The wine changes in the bottle, slowly evolving until its inevitable end, and it changes even more dramatically starting from the instant its cork is pulled. The liquid that forms our first sip is not the same liquid we drain from the bottle for our last. And the wine you drink is not the same as the wine I drink. It is altered by the chemistry of our bodies, the architecture of our DNA, or the backdrop of our memories. Wine exists only for you, or me, and it exists only in that instant. It is a private epiphany in the pleasure of good company. So don’t let it slip by. Savor it.

Blessed are those that are true, for they will be poured.

he’d take samples of the odors he wanted to master and lock himself in a dark room, then sniff one at a time while trying to associate the smell with places, people, moments, or forms. “For me, patchouli: It’s brown, it’s red, it’s earthy, it’s mystic. And the shape for me is weird. A triangle, because it’s aggressive a little bit,” he said. “You have to believe something in order to remember it, good or bad.” Another perfumer, also French, assured me I’d get nowhere unless I started assigning words to smells. “It is better if you do it aloud,

“It is the absence of the conscious, yammering mind, right? . . . It’s about dissolving into the action. It’s about unbecoming yourself and becoming this apparatus that does this. You have to surrender yourself to the wine in order to understand it. Like, I can’t force this to be California Chardonnay no matter how hard I fucking try. It’s teaching yourself how to listen.”

aspiring somms must demonstrate their knowledge of wine theory (What’s the most widely cultivated grape in Madeira?), their skill at serving wine (Have they executed the seventeen steps required to properly pour a glass of red?), and their blind tasting prowess (Can they deduce an anonymous wine’s aromas, flavors, acidity, alcohol intensity, tannin level, sweetness, region of origin, grape variety, and vintage?). These three areas reflect the fundamental skills needed to perform the sommelier’s duties, but merely completing these tasks is not enough.

the solemn duty of

a Chianti has to be made with at least 70 percent Sangiovese grapes if it carries the quality assurance of a DOCG certification (short for Denominazione di Origine Controllata e Garantita). Ditto for, say, a DOCG Barolo, which must be 100 percent Nebbiolo.

I told them there was nothing to worry about.