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Blind Wine Tasting
By Ivy Knight
One night at dinner my husband, Kerry Knight, and I were sharing a bottle of wine. It was a Baron Philippe de Rothschild Sauvignon Blanc 2004 that someone had given us. On a whim I asked Kerry to pretend to be a wine connoisseur and tell me what he tasted in the wine. He asked first what I tasted. I said “straw and apricots”, half-jokingly, just dredging up some barely remembered information I’d gleaned from the few staff wine classes I’d taken at Biff’s Bistro the year previous.
Kerry, having no wine background at all and a fabulous penchant for pontificating and ridiculing things he knows little about, responded, “Oh yeah, I get the straw, but it’s a wet straw with a frisson of mildew .That apricot you mentioned, I believe it was kissed by a squirrel. I’m getting a distinct almond taste and I think that before the squirrel kissed the apricot it ate an almond, thus giving the palate-tickling murmur of the nut.” Then we both laughed about the whole thing. How can people taste leather and blackberries and horse manure? It seems like a ridiculous language dreamed up by wealthy socialites and snooty alcoholics to make the act of drinking wine seem more cultured than just getting drunk.
The next week my restaurant hosted a launch party for a new issue of City Bites. After my work was done I accepted a glass of something from a wine agent, Bernard Stramwasser, with the wine agency Le Sommelier. I had a few sips before I was approached by an attendee, a writer named Chris, who had a glass of the same wine. “Do you get green peppers?” he asked.
I smirked. Whatever. Then I had another drink and was blown away by the green pepper taste.
“I also get a little Elastoplast bandage in there.”
I tasted again, there it was. A green pepper swathed in Elastoplast. What the fuck was going on? “What the fuck is going on here?” I asked him, “Is this just the power of suggestion or were those tastes already there and my palate-vocabulary connection too wobbly to voice what was on the tongue?”
“Both, I think.” And he walked away.
John Szabo was standing next to me. I introduced myself and asked him if he’d be interested in coming to a wine tasting; a wine-tasting I had just thought of - hadn’t even planned yet. I didn’t tell him that though, an idea was forming in my head.
He said sure but his eyes glazed over a bit. He probably goes to wine tastings organized by millionaires and experts from France every day of his life. Who the hell was I? The chick who threw together some h’ors d’oeuvres for this little shindig, big whoop.
I plowed forward and asked if he’d mind wearing a blindfold at the tasting. He woke up. “That sounds like fun,” he said enthusiastically and turned to his partner in crime, Zoltan Szabo, “Hey Zoltan you want to go to a wine tasting where we’ll be blindfolded?”
The Szabo boys (no relation to each other), one tall, dark and handsome, the other blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful have been tantalizing the masses for the past few years through their wine agency, Szabo and Szabo. With their vast wine knowledge and laid back Hungarian charm they make quite a pair. Pretty soon I had a guest list. I just had to find a location, pick a date and figure out what the hell I was doing.
Sometimes it’s better to go full throttle into something and not think too much or over-analyze. I decided to send out the invite and once a guest had RSVP’ed I’d give them a price range chosen at random from which to buy their bottle (I didn’t want them all showing up with some cobwebbed gem from the Marquis de Sade’s cellar). I told them it could be red or white and that I would provide the blindfolds and some food. Malcolm Jolley, the effervescent genius behind gremolata.com, offered to pay for the food. I gladly accepted and decided to present a selection of mild, unassuming cheeses with the usual accoutrements. I was able to use the dining room of my restaurant during the time it was to be closed for the owner/chef’s vacation.
See, no thinking, and it was all coming together nicely. Until I met Wine Dick.
Wine Dick is not always a dick, only when he’s in his cups. Anyway, he’d found out about my little soiree/social experiment through a friend of a friend and was planning on attending but had some reservations. When he came to me with his questions he was in full-on Wine Dick mode.
“I don’t think you have a clue what you’re doing. You can’t blindfold people at a wine tasting, that’s just not how it works….” Blah blah blah about how the colour and clarity of the wine gave clues to the terroir. What a hack.
I tried to impress on him that this was just a fun little experiment, and I was intending to handicap the experts a bit to see if they really knew what they were talking about.
Finally he came out with it, “but if I can’t see the wine how am I gonna win?”
“What? This isn’t a competition, it’s just for fun”
He didn’t get it though and he didn’t come, thankfully. I think he was worried because he was a bullshitter who really didn’t know much more than a whole bunch of blathering on about terroir and silly similes spouted out to elevate a simple glass of wine into a piece of bad poetry.
Although I had him pegged as a moron, somewhere at the back of my mind his concerns began to worry me a bit. What was I doing? What did I expect to find out from this? Was I going to end up looking like a fool in front of all these high-falutin’ fops?
I quickly asked Francesca for help. She’s a good friend who knows a great deal about wine, although she pooh-poohs this and says she only knows a little. She and I decided that we would just wait until our guests arrived, take their bottle into the back where she would taste it, decide if it needed decanting and in what order we’d present them to our little guinea pigs.
The night of the big Blind Tasting arrives and Francesca, Kerry and I head over to the restaurant. Francesca and Kerry rearrange the dining room for the event and set out the wine glasses while I put together the food. I had gone to Kensington Market earlier that day and bought some cheeses, a Leedammer and a Smoked Gouda from Holland, Morbier from France and a Dubliner (goat cheddar) from Ireland, along with breads, fruit and nuts.
I had also picked up a few bottles of vinho verde to start our guests off with (on Francesca’s advice); it’s light and slightly sparkling and hopefully wouldn’t mess with their palates. Zoltan, the first to arrive, approved. Good. By 6:30 everyone had arrived, we had Dick Snyder (editor and publisher of City Bites magazine, and not "Wine Dick"), Malcolm Jolley, Bernard Stramwasser and the Szabo boys. Kerry would also be a taster, to see if he could taste what these guys were saying and learn a little something or if he would feel it was still a bunch of Jabberwocky.
Francesca and I had them sit in a row of chairs against the wall and I gave them a quick little speech about how this wasn’t like any wine tasting they’d ever been to and that it was really just for fun. Then we handed them linen napkins to blindfold themselves with and began with wine #1. This was the wine Malcolm had brought in the $10-15 price range, a 2003 Moulin De Gassac Elise, a vin de Pays de l’Herault and a Merlot/Syrah blend.
John Szabo was the first one to comment, “Stinky, warm climate, rusty. Old-Style, bitter finish, has some age. This one came in a metal can.”
Then Bernard with, “I can’t get over the metallic taste”.
Malcolm, “I want to say sour cherries. Hmm…I don’t know. This is why I don’t write wine notes for Gremolata.”
Zoltan, “very ripe, cocoa, chocolate and a lot of horseshit. Lots more acid than tannin.”
Dick, “earthy, horse’s ass, feels really viscous”
Kerry was the last to comment, “I’m sensing Juliette Binoche in this glass”.
I handed each one a glass of water as I took away their glass. For the next taste Francesca and I decided to give half of them wine #2 and half wine #3. #2 was a 2000 Pinot Noir from California (Nichols) that Bernard had brought in the $40-45 range and #3 was a 1999 South African Pinotage (Kaapzicht, Stellenbosche) from John in the $15-20 range.
So John, Bernard and Malcolm have the Pinot Noir and Zoltan, Dick and Kerry have the Pinotage.
John, “ripe, plump juicy berries, maybe a shiraz?”
Dick, “weird”
Kerry, “Ivy, write down that Dick said ‘weird’.”
Dick, “it’s got a meaty, gamy taste.”
Zoltan, “are we all drinking the same wine Ivy, no tricks eh?”
Malcolm, “yeah, do we have the same wine?”
To which I quickly responded, “No tricks boys.” I couldn’t believe how quickly they were on to me but let them continue.
Bernard, “This is screaming Pinot Noir to me.”
John, “I’m warming up to a Pinot.”
Zoltan, “I disagree that it’s a Pinot, it’s a cheesy rubber boot. Is anyone getting oxidation on the nose
Bernard, “Oh yes, I’m getting the oxidation.”
Kerry, “I’m getting a whore bouncing up and down on rusty bedsprings. But she’s not a bad looking whore.”
Next up, wine #4, a 2001 Premier Cru Chambolle-Musigny: le Plan Des Dames from Patrice Rion, that Zoltan had brought for his $45-50 price range. I think he went a bit over. What can you do?
Zoltan, “Woohoo! I don’t even want water anymore! This is feminine. Do you get the floral overtones guys? This is a stunning pinot noir from Burgundy, 2000-2001.”
Then there was silence as they all tasted and smelled and smiled.
“It’s funny how the feminine wine has calmed you down.” Francesca told them, “You’re more contemplative.”
For the next wine, Francesca gave them the Pinotage again. Kerry, Dick and Zoltan had already tasted this one, would they recognize it?
Dick, “Did you bring the whore back?”
Kerry, “It smells like her but it tastes different. These bed springs aren’t rusty, these are new bed springs”
Zoltan, “You brought #2 again. Holy macaroni!”
Malcolm, “Ribina, black currant. It’s not #2 at all.”
Then Dick agrees!
John, who brought this wine, “I’m gonna stick with my first impression, Malbec from Argentina.”
Time for #5, our wild card wine that Francesca has brought from her cellar. A 1996 Avignonesi, Vino Nobile di Montepulciano, made with a 100% Sangiovese clone called prungnolo (because it’s the colour of prunes).
John, “Spicy licorice. 100% Piedmont. 100% Nebiolo. It’s so much more fun to go down in flames than to waffle back and forth.”
Dick, “Gossamer, roses, Piedmont, violets, licorice, lots of tannin.” What poetry.
Zoltan, “John told all of us to say North of Italy. My back door choice is a Brunello, Tuscany.”
Kerry, “This is an old wine. This wine is Dennis Hopper.”
Oh my God! A woman has just walked into the restaurant thinking we’re open for business. Francesca walks her outside, explaining that we’re closed for a private function. What must she have thought? Six men, lined up blindfolded and drinking a last glass of wine before execution?
Zoltan was the closest to figuring out Francesca’s wine. Now we’re on to our final taste, wine # 6 from Dick. A 1999 Burdese, Cabernet Sauvignon from Sicily's Planeta, in the $35-40 price range, I doubt it.
John, “Lots of coffee. There’s a bit of funky earth.”
Dick, “Did you just say, ‘Fuck you earth’?”
Bernard, “that finish is crazy.”
Dick, “Prune.”
Zoltan, “Prune, oh yeah, almost overripe!”
Dick, whispering to Kerry, “I know this is my wine, I’m feeding them info. It’s a cabernet.”
Kerry, singing like Ethel Merman, “Come to the cabernet old friend.”
Ahh, the end finally. We remove the blindfolds and everyone demands to see the bottles. Glasses are filled and the cheese board gets attacked. Everyone is thrilled, me included. These manly metrosexuals have totally impressed me; they know what they’re talking about. They did get a little influenced by the power of suggestion in some cases but overall they showed me their knowledge and skill. I think Kerry’s comments were the most impressive as he was getting no clues from the taste or smell of the wine, just drunken thought bubbles in his head (he’s a genius).
Everyone wants to do it again and we definitely will. It broke down that staid old pedestal we elevate our winos on and let everyone get back down to earth with Bacchus.
It’s a week later and Kerry and I are having dinner, this time with a Pelee Island Gamay, I ask him what he tastes.
“It’s like when Anne Bancroft is trying to teach Helen Keller the sign language for water by signing into her hand and Helen doesn’t get it until Anne splashes water on her hand and maybe her face and she finally gets it. Well I don’t get it. I feel like Anne Bancroft is wiggling her fingers around in my mouth. But I do get a little bit of a ‘weird’ taste from this.”
Well, I think Dick taught him a few things.
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