We were in a restaurant last week to celebrate my birthday (none of your business which one), and it had a fairly extensive wine list for a relatively inexpensive place. Probably not a full-time sommelier, but we all make sacrifices.
My folks inquired about a couple of the California wines. The waiter described the merlot as having a lush bouquet, a hint of entirely natural cinnamon aroma but not too aggressive, and a tri-berry and tamarind palate with a slightly nutty aftertaste.
The chardonnay, he explained, was slightly oakie but at the same time fragrant with lilac and yellow rose, with the taste highlighted by a minuet of green apple, d’anjou pear and vanilla.
And the house white was a full-bodied chablis with an aura of summer breeze and just a hint of jasmine and orchid, giving way to a field of ripe pluot and the finest of early pomegranite extraction.
Now as a once-and-I-hope-future writer I’m all for the most colorful of hyperbole. But the verses of wine song I’ve sat through in my time probably number in the high triple digits by now, and it ultimately leaves me with this question: When was the last time you heard someone describe a wine, any wine, as smelling or tasting like anything resembling grapes?
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