(Manfred Klimek / animated pic: runwayml)
Year after year, a time-honoured tradition: large-scale wine tastings, organised by associations, regions or organisations such as the VDP, take place in festive halls, perfectly lit, precisely timed and characterised by a consistently friendly atmosphere. Winemakers, merchants, journalists – they’re all there, all in good spirits, all ready to work their way through an impressive number of wines. These are important events, no doubt about it. And yet I haven’t been to one for years.
This has nothing to do with arrogance and even less with contempt. On the contrary: I admire the organisation of these events, the discipline of the winemakers, the patience of those pouring the wine, and the stamina of many colleagues who work their way through rows of glasses with such focus. But that is precisely where the problem lies for me. I cannot taste a hundred Rieslings in a row in such a way that, by the end, I can be sure I have done justice to every single one.
The first twenty, perhaps thirty wines – yes, that still works. I’m alert, my senses are fresh, the differences are clear. You smell, you taste, you compare. But then something begins to shift. The aromas condense into patterns that repeat themselves. The differences become more subtle, but also harder to grasp. Of course, you can still recognise quality; you can sense structure, acidity and terroir. But the certainty, the precision of judgement – that becomes more fragile.
After the fortieth glass – sometimes sooner, sometimes later – a gentle fatigue sets in, not physical but sensory. The palate becomes more indifferent; the nose begins to sort rather than discover. And it is precisely at this moment that the real challenge of these tastings begins: not to lose what one had at the start – that attention to every single wine.
Added to this is a second point that is crucial for me. At these events, we spit. There is simply no other way if one wishes to remain even halfway focused. And of course this is professional – a matter of course, even. Anyone who tastes seriously has mastered this. I have too. So-called retronasal tasting – retrieving the aromas via the back of the throat – works reliably and allows for a surprisingly nuanced perception.
But, for all its sensory perfection, it is not the whole picture. A wine reveals itself not only in the initial sip, not only in its aromas, but also in its development, in its texture, in what remains after swallowing. The moment the wine reaches the body is no trivial one. It is an integral part of the experience. Without it, something is missing – not everything, but enough to make one cautious about drawing final conclusions.
I have great respect for colleagues who are able to arrive at clear assessments under these conditions. Many are better at it than I am – more experienced, more disciplined. Perhaps it is also a question of practice. But I have decided for myself that I want to get to know wines differently. In smaller groups, with more time, with the opportunity to step back, leave a glass untouched, and return to it. And yes, with that final sip too.
That doesn’t mean that large-scale tastings lose their value. They are important for providing an overview, for taking stock, and for the chance to experience many wines side by side. They enable comparison, they bring people together, and they provide inspiration. But they have their limits. And one should be aware of these limits, even if one professionally glosses over them.
The point is not to argue against these events, but to raise awareness of their limitations. Because ultimately, it’s about something very simple and yet very difficult at the same time – doing justice to a wine. And that, at least for me, cannot be achieved whilst sipping a hundred glasses in quick succession.