I am of the mind that my opinion is not more important than another’s opinion. Vibes are contagious, so if I’m going to walk through the vineyard of life and pick vibes from the vine to share with my friends, family, and you, dear reader–you’d better believe they’re going to be good vibes. For this reason, I shy away from writing negative reviews. If I have nothing nice to say, I’d prefer to say nothing at all. In this case, however, I have many nice things to say and even the less-than-nice things were an important learning experience for me. (Perhaps they might be for you, too.) For these reasons, I’ve sat, stewed, and deeply confronted my own ethics before putting any words to paper on this particular subject: a wine tasting that I recently attended. 

I attended this tasting for three reasons. The first reason was simply, selfishly, that I wished to attend a wine tasting. I generally find them to be both good fun and educational; a lovely way to spend an evening. The second reason was again, selfishly, that it seemed like it might be worth writing about. I am always looking for experiences to share and I assumed that an event where I would talk to a variety of people in the wine industry and have the opportunity to sample a vast variety of wines would provide content, or perhaps inspiration. I suppose it did, but not entirely in the way that I’d hoped or expected. The third reason was that I was in the market for a few bottles of wine anyway. I was looking for some French red wines and interesting sparkling wines. I was lucky to find a little of both.

The atmosphere for the tasting was charming, bordering on whimsical: an outdoor courtyard at a more up-scale restaurant. I won’t disclose the name or exact location–it doesn’t matter anyway. A small bubbling fountain, hanging lights, and greenery made it possible to forget that I was in the midwest for a moment. I could have been anywhere from New Orleans to Paris. There was a bar, deserted except for several rows of empty wine glasses standing steadfast, like soldiers, ready to be grasped by eager fingers and marched into battle. I selected a glass and held it tightly by the stem, so as not to smear my fingerprints over the clear, smooth, pristine bowl of the glass. I observed the layout of the event: several tables set up with different professionals offering tastings of various wines that were available for purchase later that same evening. In that moment, my senses buzzed with anticipation. I was happy and hopeful that this particular evening would be an exceptionally lovely one. For the most part, it was.

I want to say that most of the wine merchants were delightfully kind and well-informed, but ‘most’ seems like a clarifying word that sells short all but one of the people working the event. The one, singular man who was less-than-kind spoiled the evening for me. Yes, I partially have myself to blame for that. I should not give one inconsequential person the power to put a damper on my joy. There were several things I did wrong in the situation–chiefly, not speaking up for myself. I’m a work in progress and I’m learning to do better. But, this is in part why I feel so compelled to share this story. My hope is that someone out there could learn from my experience and not allow their evening to be spoiled by a less-than-kind “wine expert.” 

On the whole, the wine tasting was nice, with the exception of this man, so I’m hesitant to openly criticize anything about it. But, in order to fully explain how the evening played out, I feel I may need to break my personal oath and openly, lightly criticize the event. Upon my arrival, I heard the gentleman organizing the tasting announce that it was the first of its kind at this establishment, so if it seemed a bit chaotic or as though it hadn’t been entirely thought out, it was because it was new to them and they were still working out the finer details. If you’ve ever been to a wine tasting at a winery, you know that there’s generally a particular order that wines ought to be sampled. The rule of thumb is white before red, working from lighter body to heavier body, and from dry to sweet. The person serving the wines usually knows what’s best and will guide you through the tasting tour. Each table set up in the courtyard that evening was like going to an individual winery; where an expert, who was ultimately also a sales person, guided you through each wine in the correct order for their particular offerings. But, once you finished at one table, likely either on a dessert wine or a full bodied red, you shuffled onto the next table to start the process all over again on something like a Sauvignon Blanc. This is tough with tasting, as residue left in the glass from one wine can taint the experience of the next; especially when you’re moving in the ‘wrong order.’ Often, the best move is to rinse your glass with a little bit of your next wine, dump it, and move on with tasting. But, there was no obvious place for tasters to dump their wine and not every table was operating under the same rules. Some were offering to rinse your glass with wine, some were not. Some were set up to rinse with water–which isn’t ideal as it can water down the wine you’re tasting, preventing you from getting the full experience. But, personally, I’d rather rinse with water than not at all. Some tables encouraged us to dump wine into ice buckets they had provided but not every table encouraged that. In fact, one table got annoyed with me for doing exactly that, and I’m sure you can guess which table that was. 

It was my fourth table of the evening, which meant that I had already consumed more wine than I’d intended to, as many of the vendors were doling out a bit more than standard two ounce tasting pours. On one hand, the generosity was appreciated. On the other hand, I drank more wine than I wanted to, as there was nowhere to politely dispose of the excess. I was sober and had my wits about me: but my palette was earnestly dulled. When I arrived at my fourth table, with a bit of Cabernet Franc from the last table still laying murky in the bottom of my glass, I was greeted by a small pour of white wine into my glass and a man insisting that I swirl and swallow the concoction. He spoke quickly and insistently. “It’s how the professionals do it,” he adamantly repeated, like a broken cuckoo clock. I had no interest in swallowing the mishmash of wines in my glass; especially after already drinking more than I’d intended with more tables still left to explore. I dumped the mixture into the ice bucket on the table, as I’d been encouraged to do when rinsing my glass at the last two tables I visited. My actions were met with a look of pure disdain. He clearly did not approve of me or what I’d done. In that moment, I wanted to ask to break protocol, forget politely trying each wine in his pre-prescribed order, and just ask for the Prosecco I’d been eyeing at his table all evening long. I could have, and should have, asserted my desires. Instead, I stayed quiet, and allowed him to dominate the experience: he poured more of the first white wine into my now rinsed glass. 

I gave it a small swirl and then a sniff. It’s probably important to note that I have horrible allergies and a deviated septum, so my time in the courtyard amongst the lovely greenery ultimately rendered my nose, on this particular evening, useless. Still, I gave a small, polite sniff, knowing damn well that I wasn’t really detecting much of anything. I took a sip, knowing the efficiency of my taste buds had been muted by the bolder wines I’d already consumed that evening. I took a second sip, which is really where I began to actually experience what I was tasting. I finished the glass and he quickly moved in with his next pour; a Chardonnay. Again, I began the old dance of swirl and sniff. As I went to sip, he halted me and reproached. I was drinking my wine wrong, per his standards. He poured himself a small glass and demonstrated that he wished for me to swish the wine around in my mouth. Again, he parroted his favorite phrase, “It’s how the professionals do it.” That’s all well and good, but what he clearly hadn’t realized was that I’d done nothing wrong. I prefer to ‘slurp’ my wine. For the uninitiated, you draw the wine into your mouth and hold it there while sucking air in between your lips. By drawing air through the wine, you’re intensifying the flavors and aromas of what you’re drinking. He didn’t notice me doing this because I’m a bit shy about it. I find it sort of pretentious to do in public and, since you have to make a bit of a funny face, I’m in the habit of turning my head away when I do this. I could have boldly slurped my wine in his face and threw his favorite catch-phrase of the evening right back at him, “It’s how the professionals do it!” Instead, I nodded politely, gazed wide-eyed at him as if I’d never seen a true genius swish wine around their mouth before, and then proceeded to half-heartedly swish my Chardonnay as he’d demonstrated. Whether or not this man was a blatant misogynist I’ll leave for you to decide. All I know is, I remember more about him talking down to me than I do about the wines I tasted at his table. Maybe his heart was in the right place and his intent was truly to educate someone who he viewed as a novice. Whatever the case, we were on different wavelengths, and our interaction was not a positive one. 

At some point during my tasting with him, another patron approached and interrupted asking for any sweet wine he had available. Now, per the pamphlet we were provided at the start of the evening, his table had no sweet wines available. Yet, for this particular patron, he somehow magically manifested a demi bottle of something unknown. He kept the label well obscured from my view, poured a delicate sample for the other patron, and urged them not to tell anyone or everyone there would want a taste. He put a finger to his lips, insisting that they remain hush-hush about this very special wine. For a moment, I felt gobsmacked. All during my tasting, this man had patronized me and made me feel small; like hell was he going to get away with not offering me a taste of whatever special nectar was held within the prized dark-colored demi bottle. For the first time that evening, I spoke up for myself and asked, “May I please try that, as well?” 

He looked at me as if he was searching for an excuse not to provide me with a pour. Before he could speak, my voice left my body with words I had never expected to come from my own mouth, “I write about food and wine,” something I’m often not brave enough to say out loud because I feel like a fraud, “It would mean a lot to me if I could try that.” I held out my empty glass insistently and he obliged with a half-hearted, “Alright.” 

A thick, almost syrup like, amber liquid filled the very bottom of my wine glass. Despite my stuffy nose, the complexity of aroma was apparent: figs and other candied fruits. An apparent nuttiness. I took a sip. My first sip of Vinsanto Del Chianti. Vinsanto is a somewhat rare Italian dessert wine. It can be spelled ‘Vinsanto’ or ‘Vin Santo’ and translates to “holy wine.” The wine is sweet with high alcohol. The sugars in the wine mean that you can open the bottle, recork it, and not worry about the wine going bad for a good deal of time: months. You may drink slowly, in small quantities, and truly savor it. You may cellar this wine for 5-10 years. The man running the event came up behind me and asked, after my first sip, “Now, would you be willing to spend $100 on this wine?” I replied, “Absolutely,” though my holy grail magnum edition of Wine Folly suggests spending about $40 on a Vin Santo. Later that evening, I purchased my own bottle and took it home: partly because the flames of passion had been sparked upon my first sip and I wanted to drink more – but, more honestly, because I wanted to prove to the jerk who seemingly didn’t want me to taste the wine that I was just as valuable a customer as any other taster at the event. 

The bottle I now have perched on my wine rack is the same as what I tasted that evening. I paid $100 for it, but it’s actually sold by the producer for fiftyeight euros. I imagine with shipping, I’d make up some of the difference in cost, but not entirely. Still, I’m not really angry that I spent $100 on this bottle: it’s special to me and will provide an important reminder with each sweet sip. I need to be better about standing up for myself–especially against domineering men. I should not wait until I’m upset to find my voice. Pretending that I know less than I do may have served as a useful survival method for me in the past, but it also allows other people to form the opinion that I’m not bright. It’s a double-edged sword, I suppose. It can help just as much as it can hurt. Ultimately, I’d rather stand up for myself and feel like a badass than play dumb and feel safe but sad. 

My newly purchased bottle of Vinsanto Del Chianti was produced by I Selvatici. The bottle boasts a vintage of 2006 and the description on the back explains that the wine is composed of Malvasia Toscana, San Colombano, and Sangiovese grapes. The white grapes are picked in September, but dried for 5 months before pressing. The method of raisinating the grapes in this manner is referred to as ‘passito.’ The juice is then aged in Tuscan barrels for ten years before bottling. This delicious wine pairs well with soft, funky cheeses like Gorgonzola, Taleggio, or Roquefort, though I imagine it would also be nicely complimented by a really good almond biscotti.

I suppose what I’d like you to take away from my experience is that Vinsanto Del Chianti is delicious and worth $100, even if it’s factually only worth about $40. But, more importantly, don’t ever feel pressured to drink something you don’t want to. The only thing less professional than a so-called “wine pro” urging you to swallow a wine you don’t wish to swallow is them manipulating you into doing so with the phrase, “it’s how the professionals do it.” It’s bullshit, it makes me angry, and I can’t be silent about it: hence this blog post. Please don’t allow someone to attempt to bully you into swallowing something you’d rather spit. If you are uncomfortable, like I was, because spittoons were not provided and there’s no obviously appropriate place for you to spit your wine… put on your big kid pants and ask someone. It’s what I should have done, but did not do. I would have had a better time if I’d followed my own advice. We live. We learn. Please don’t be afraid to assert your knowledge, especially if someone is treating you like you don’t know anything. I understand, from experience, that sometimes it feels safer not to show all your cards; but ultimately I think this line of thinking does more harm than good. But, I suppose, I can only speak for myself. So, this advice is mostly for me–stop playing dumb and start playing smart. Most importantly: don’t let one sour grape ruin an otherwise lovely evening.