A Rosé By Any Other Name

Like describing love, describing wine is a notoriously inexact art and science.  Many, especially wine snobs or those in the wine industry, are prone to coming up with terms that go from logical-such as "citrus" or "cherry"-and imaginative-"damp earth," "boysenberry jam," "slate"-to circumspect-"barnyard," "petrol," "rubber"-and downright fanciful-"cat pee" or "autumnal" (that last being one of my favorite adjectives for certain shimmering, honeyed rieslings).

There has been some backlash against the use of at least the more out-there descriptors.  This has also been tied to some extent to the criticism of the 100-point scale as popularized by that kingmaker of winemakers, Robert Parker.

For instance, there are those people who say that the descriptors are simply a way for the wine industry to create a mystique around its product.  And come on, how does "cat pee" describe sauvignon blanc (positively), much less any wine?

Perhaps a more persuasive argument can be raised against the 100-point scale.  There may certainly be a difference between an 86-point wine and a 96-point wine, but is there any real difference between a 90-point wine and a 91-point wine?  It is common knowledge that wine critics generally cannot replicate their scores from one day to another.  They're human: so what?  If I were assigning wines scores from 50-100 for my personal edification that'd be one thing; however, it is an oft-observed phenomenon that wines that get high scores from Parker et al. get hugely popular and the lucky winemakers therefore get to charge higher and higher prices.

The winemakers that don't get the high scores?  They struggle.

Yet another problem with purportedly objective scales is that they're not.  They're inevitably subjective.  Robert Parker is a well-known fan of big, bold wines, leading to what has been called the "Parkerization" of wines: the development of an "International Style" of wine that is uniformly big, bold, and high-alcohol regardless of the varietal and appellation.  Think of a Chilean cabernet that tastes like a California cabernet, or a California pinot noir that tastes like a California cabernet.

But it would be unwise to rail against Robert Parker (he's a fellow lawyer, after all).  Many wine consumers rely on Parker's scores and those of other wine critics to pick up a bottle for the evening.  And there's nothing wrong with this.  I'd bet money that a wine ranked 92 points by someone is good, or at least decent.

The optimal route is to start drinking a lot of wine-not only to get drunk, mind you, but to drink wine and really focus on its different elements and what makes it good for you.

Don't be afraid to ask the associates at a wine shop for help.  The New York Times had an interesting article a while back about gender-based differences in shopping for wine.  Women were more prone to asking for suggestions from wine proprietors, whereas men were much more likely simply to look at the wine scores and price.

This is where the descriptors come in.  For an example of descriptors done right, check out one of Kermit Lynch's wine mailers, available on his website at www.kermitlynch.com.  He manages to avoid sounding pretentious and conveys instead a joy and wonderment about the wines he imports.  Reading an entry on one of his wines is to be transported to Provence, waiting for a meal of roast lamb or grilled fish brushed with olive oil and herbs.  I definitely feel like I know more about his wines before drinking them than any wine I just know the score of.

Wine is an inherently social experience-or should be-and part of the fun is discussing the merits (or demerits) of the wine as it is being drunk with your friends.  It's great to be ridiculous.  My current roommate described the 2001 L'Esprit du Silene, one of my favorite wines, as a "thornbush": rough, wild, with deep persistent roots and brambles spreading everywhere.

Going back to "autumnal": I used this word to describe the 2005 Ch. W. Bernhard Hackenheimer Kirchberg Scheurebe Spätlese (no way in heck I'm pronouncing that name) riesling, and to me it fit perfectly.  Peaches, nectar-a gorgeous honeyed texture caressing the mouth like waves of silk.  Autumnal, evocative of the first golden falling leaves and the cold.

Obviously, more common adjectives will do nicely.  You will probably encounter "cherry," "plum," "prune," "dark" and "tannic" very regularly when imbibing red wines.  "Citrus," "grassy," "bright," and "fresh" are often used for white wines.

Regardless of what you might think of descriptors, they are there for a reason.  With a little bit of "practice," you will rely less on simple scores or price and be able to create your own, truer tastes and preferences and what's more-communicate them to others.