(Manfred Klimek / animated pic: runwayml)
Every year, as tradition dictates: large tastings organised by associations, regions or organisations such as the VDP take place in grand halls, perfectly lit, precisely scheduled and held in an consistently friendly atmosphere throughout. Winemakers, merchants, journalists – everyone is there, everyone is in a good mood, everyone is ready to work their way through an impressive number of wines. They are important appointments, without a doubt. And yet I have not attended for years.
This has nothing to do with arrogance, and even less with disdain. On the contrary: I admire the organisation of these events, the discipline of the winemakers, the patience of those pouring and the endurance of many colleagues who work their way through rows of glasses with concentration. But that is precisely where the problem lies for me. I cannot taste a hundred Rieslings in succession in such a way that, at the end, I can be sure I have done justice to each and every one.
The first twenty, perhaps thirty wines – yes, that still works. I am alert, the senses are fresh, the differences clear. One smells, tastes and compares. But then something begins to shift. The aromatics condense into patterns that repeat themselves. The differences become finer, but also harder to grasp. Of course, you can still recognise quality, sense structure, acidity and provenance. But the certainty, the precision of the judgement – it becomes more fragile.
After the fortieth glass, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, a quiet fatigue sets in that is 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 losing what you had at the start – the attentiveness to each individual wine.
There is a second point that is crucial for me. At these events, people spit. There is no other way if you want to remain reasonably focused. And of course that is professional, self-evidently so. Anyone who tastes seriously has mastered it. So have I. So-called retronasal tasting, bringing the aromas back through the throat, works reliably and allows for an astonishingly differentiated perception.
But despite all its sensory perfection, it is not the whole story. A wine reveals itself not only in the initial attack, not only through its aromatics, but also in its progression, its texture and what remains after swallowing. The moment when the wine reaches the body is not incidental. It is part of the experience. Without it, something is missing – not everything, but enough to make one cautious about definitive judgements.
I have great respect for colleagues who arrive at clear assessments under these conditions. Many can do it better than I can, with more routine and discipline. Perhaps it is also a matter 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 go back, leave a glass standing and return to it. And yes, also with the swallow.
That does not mean that large tastings lose their value. They are important as an overview, as a means of taking stock, as an opportunity to experience many wines side by side. They create comparability, bring people together and provide impetus. But they have limits. And one should know those limits, even when one professionally glosses over them.
The point is not to argue against these events, but in favour of an awareness of their conditions. Because in the end, it is about something very simple and very difficult at the same time – doing justice to a wine. And that, at least for me, does not succeed at the pace of a hundred glasses.