From ‘massive fruitiness’ to a ‘touch of spice’, what do wine tasting notes really tell us about the glass we are about to drink?
Remy Farbras Ventoux, Rhône, France 2022 (£7.99 down from £9.99 until 11 March, Waitrose) Whether the writer is being impossibly specific (Meyer lemon; kumquat) or maddeningly generic (“big’ or “massive fruitiness”), it’s rare to find a wine tasting note that doesn’t contain some kind of reference to fruits. Indeed, the basic formula for most examples of these fussy little descriptive texts is “fruit + enthusiastic adjectives”, and reading them, you could be forgiven for thinking that wine’s chief value is as an intoxicating version of the Jelly Belly; that the grape is effectively the Rory Bremner of the fruit world, known above all for its ability to do impressions of other fruits. I don’t really have a problem with that: pinning down the fruit associations is a helpful way of remembering what you liked about a wine. But I am much fonder of words and phrases that go beyond the merely fruity, such as the “sprinkle of spice” I noted down as I tasted Waitrose’s “succulent” red from Mont Ventoux in the southern Rhône.
Tesco Finest Fino, Jerez, Spain NV (£7.50, 37.5cl, Tesco) What do I mean by spice? Most often it’s a reference to freshly milled pepper, which is not merely a poetic flourish: the culprit, in tiny quantities, is a potent compound known as rotundone, which is found in certain grape varieties, notably one of the ingredients in Rhône reds, syrah (aka shiraz), and the Austrian white variety grüner veltliner (which often smells and tastes of, specifically, white pepper). Other spices I routinely find in wine such as vanilla and cinnamon have come from the vanillin found in oak barrels; while ginger is a consistent note in gewurztraminer thanks, apparently, to the presence of the flavour compound citral. But if it’s sometimes gratifying to discover that what you’re tasting is not always a figment of your imagination, I’m loathe to do away with comparisons that have no such scientific underpinning. There is no umami in fino sherry for example. But, in subtly Marmitey, salty-nutty, sourdough-bready wines such as Tesco’s example it certainly feels like it.
Continue reading… From ‘massive fruitiness’ to a ‘touch of spice’, what do wine tasting notes really tell us about the glass we are about to drink?Remy Farbras Ventoux, Rhône, France 2022 (£7.99 down from £9.99 until 11 March, Waitrose) Whether the writer is being impossibly specific (Meyer lemon; kumquat) or maddeningly generic (“big’ or “massive fruitiness”), it’s rare to find a wine tasting note that doesn’t contain some kind of reference to fruits. Indeed, the basic formula for most examples of these fussy little descriptive texts is “fruit + enthusiastic adjectives”, and reading them, you could be forgiven for thinking that wine’s chief value is as an intoxicating version of the Jelly Belly; that the grape is effectively the Rory Bremner of the fruit world, known above all for its ability to do impressions of other fruits. I don’t really have a problem with that: pinning down the fruit associations is a helpful way of remembering what you liked about a wine. But I am much fonder of words and phrases that go beyond the merely fruity, such as the “sprinkle of spice” I noted down as I tasted Waitrose’s “succulent” red from Mont Ventoux in the southern Rhône.Tesco Finest Fino, Jerez, Spain NV (£7.50, 37.5cl, Tesco) What do I mean by spice? Most often it’s a reference to freshly milled pepper, which is not merely a poetic flourish: the culprit, in tiny quantities, is a potent compound known as rotundone, which is found in certain grape varieties, notably one of the ingredients in Rhône reds, syrah (aka shiraz), and the Austrian white variety grüner veltliner (which often smells and tastes of, specifically, white pepper). Other spices I routinely find in wine such as vanilla and cinnamon have come from the vanillin found in oak barrels; while ginger is a consistent note in gewurztraminer thanks, apparently, to the presence of the flavour compound citral. But if it’s sometimes gratifying to discover that what you’re tasting is not always a figment of your imagination, I’m loathe to do away with comparisons that have no such scientific underpinning. There is no umami in fino sherry for example. But, in subtly Marmitey, salty-nutty, sourdough-bready wines such as Tesco’s example it certainly feels like it. Continue reading… Wine, Food, Life and style
