P.N.ZOYTLOW

Field Report # 9: Tasting Wine

Where there is wine there is wine tasting, and the Mosel Valley in Germany features dozens of small communities with hundreds of shops and vineyards where one may sample.  Some tastings are free, some charge a modest price, and all sell wine by the bottle, the case, the carload. This is an age of great glut in viniculture;  all over the globe wine is plentiful and cheap. Though use as biofuel for engines may offer a way out,  most producers prefer to compete with each other and convince the consumer of the excellence of this wine, that vineyard, the quality of the soil and sunlight: but, please, do buy a few bottles and help us to get rid of it!

Finding a place to do a wine tasting that met the extraordinarily high standards demanded by these Field Reports was no easy task, but suffering in the name of science is always a pleasure. After a tedious search along that valley,  the Weingut Einhorn (trans. something about wine and unicorns) appeared in the village of Pockenfels. An easy choice, for who among us is not familiar with the proud insignia of the vineyard: a unicorn, nibbling at grapes, with a golden goblet balanced on its back?  It was mid-afternoon and the staff was setting traditional glasses on long tables covered with blue and white cloths.  In the middle of each, a  basket of bread cut into cubes.  The next tasting would begin in twenty minutes.

The host of these tastings was Herr K. a vintner at mid-life whose degree in oenology from the University of Ulm was prominently displayed in the reception room of the winery.  He was costumed as a sort of forest ranger, spoke several languages impeccably, but failed to illuminate either the history or the metaphorical sense of the unicorn/goblet theme which could now be discerned on everything from napkins to the carpeting.

It must be admitted that until this moment the Field Report seemed to be about nothing so much as the banality of wine tasting. However, Herr K. revealed how busy this day would be and that the first group to visit would be 42 German tourists arriving on a bus, followed in rapid succession by 34 English tourists arriving by river boat, and finally,  just before the dinner hour, 17 Belgian chemists, some with their spouses, on bicycles heading towards home. Now,  it was clear that this Field Report was not about wine, not the Mosel River,  nor the postcard-worthy town of Pockenfels, home of the Pockenfelser Kabinett Riesling Spaetlese,  a noble wine which might fetch $18.00 a bottle in upscale districts of America.  No, it would be cross-cultural research, about Germans and English and even biking Belgian chemists. Three key nationalities of the European Union put though a wine tasting, rodents facing a maze of vintages, of mouth-feel and finishes. How would they react and what conclusions about the future of Europe would be revealed?  And, not unimportantly to this researcher, what prestigious journals would not clamor and yowl to have this seminal piece of social science research on its fine pages?

The 42 Germans. They were uncommonly gregarious, having done one wine tour in the next village already, so one learned easily enough that they were warehouse employees for a plumbing supply distributor. Herr K. met them in a courtyard facing the steep vine-covered slopes.  “Riesling!” he shouted in a heroic tone of voice and with a wave of the arm, “brought by the  Romans to this valley and it is all we produce here and all we ever hope to produce! Very beautiful!  Gift of the gods or of the One True God, one or the other. Follow me, please and mind your feet and your head.” With another confident flourish he led the group into a  passage  beneath the shale hillside on which those godly vines were growing.  Soon daylight seemed far behind us; our light came from the bulbs which Herr K. switched on as we advanced. The cold and humid air quieted the bantering of the Germans.

Herr K gave a quick overview of the equipment that stood in the dimness before us, the various filters, bottle-fillers, and hoses. “All hand work! No automated lines here! This is old-fashioned wine and it comes from the earth so it is not for us to interfere.” This remark remained obscure and certainly no one cared ask for an elaboration. Most of the group was now showings  signs of impatience with  the chill air and the likely unease from being in this unexpected place with its attar of damp crypt. “Oh, let me show you this one.” said he pointing towards a device that turned out to be a corking machine. “I must tell you that we have to make sure of our product and the only way is to taste it.  All employees taste the wine. You see the wine glasses here.  We must be sure. But it sometimes happens that the vintage is so good that the person operating the corker has been known to put five corks into a single bottle. When that happens we know that it is time to put another man on the corker and make the wine samples smaller!”  This was a joke, but not  well-received beyond a few obligatory grunts and  a “Ja, Ja” from somewhere in the gloom.  Perhaps this we due to a collective sense that the sooner this was over, the sooner one would be in the a brighter, warmer, life-affirming tasting room.

The tasting room with its blue and white covered tables seemed especially inviting and it may be that the extremes of the wine tour, the dismal cave and the warmth of wine tasting, is part of some arcane hades-to-heaven ritual used since Roman times. But to what purpose?  Certainly, the Germans seemed overjoyed to have reached this place; they became loud and there was a lot of shifting about for chairs.  One became aware that some of the couples were resuming a pattern of flirtation that must have slowed in the cold cave. The walls were decorated with proverbs, every one of them a humorous justification for wine consumption along the lines of “Wine is the sunshine that brightens the dullard’s head.”  or some such thing, These now were used as jibes by the guests, e.g. “hey, Manfred, this one is for you…just read it, hoo ha!” And so on.

Herr K. had a difficult time with  them, they were like school kids who had lost patience with learning anything. He fairly yelled over the din as the first serving of wine was placed before them. These were generous portions, more than a sip, more like several swallows.  Actually half a goblet.  Given the clowning demeanor of the group, this seemed a very risky business.

“Hold it  up to the  light!”  Herr K. demanded.  “You will notice a slight  greenish cast. Smell it!  You will smell  the earth of that hill and all its minerals. Take a generous sip!  Push it around with your tongue, up  against the palate.  Now chew it, really bite it!  Yes, go on! Then snuffle it over the tongue, under the tongue. That’s how you taste our own fine Riesling!’’  Those who were paying attention tried to follow this sequence, but most were distracted  at the sight of so much exaggerated chewing and gurgling.  And then a florid-faced woman called out that she would be happy to buy any bottles with more than one cork in it.  Loud laughter for a bit of humor that had failed in the dismal cave. Then four more Rieslings to sample. Herr K hurried them along a bit; the English would be arriving soon. Much to his relief, these festive Germans bought 138 bottles of various dry, semi-dry, and full-bodied wines.  “No broken glasses, no throwing bread, no arguments,  good sale.” said he with a smile as he watched them leave.

This researcher was able to establish a number of criteria by which groups could be compared: demeanor in the cave, behavior in the tasting room, and number of bottles purchased per capita. The Germans could be assigned a 3.28 on this basis.  Later on, it was shown that the English did a more modest 1.63 and the Belgian chemists a paltry .77, due most likely to the limitations of bicycle travel.  Such data, generously supplied by Herr K. strongly reinforced the early expectation of excellence for this Field Report.

Alas!  These hopes would be dashed. While it is true that the English did show up promptly, their behaviors along the lines of this cunning research model were not accurately recorded.  Just how this happened  was the result of a mix of circumstances, a tangled web of variables, and, it must be admitted, the shortcomings of the researcher himself.  Critics will quickly assume that no matter how promising this research model was, it likely could not withstand the ravages of alcohol. This researcher was seated unobtrusively in the shadow of an oak post where two smiling maidens wearing wreaths of wildflowers on their heads to stunning effect served the samples. Perhaps they pitied the relative isolation imposed by this research (of which they had no suspicion) but the samplings were excessively generous. And there was no stopping them nor  explaining the most elementary requirement of this project,  maintaining a steely-eyed objectivity.

The English were river boat people and ancient mariners at that. Looking in the distance towards the Mosel one saw  the sleek vessel which had that morning brought them from some port on the Rhine.  They had four hours on land and had chosen the option of doing the wine tasting. Very old people, neatly garbed in dark blazers for the men and pastel cruise-wear for the women. Quiet and dutiful, they gave their host close attention and conscientiously chewed, snuffled, and palate-pressed their Riesling. They smiled at the joke about the bottle with too many corks and a few indicated mirth by letting their breath out through the nose. All this was uninteresting  to observe from the  margins until one woman, possibly during the second sampling,  the one reputed to be from a particularly good year, turned to her husband and whispered loudly,  “Oh, Socrates, now I, too, have drunk my hemlock!”

It was a stunning remark, powerful and transforming. From here on, this report could no longer be concerned with Riesling, but with hemlock. With so many places to sample Mosel wine, the mind, now wrestling with a despairing monotony here at the Einhorn, yearned for a place that advertised hemlock tastings.  Oh, for shame, arguing monotony for so pleasant a pastime as sipping wine along the Mosel. But it is not the wine nor the sipping thereof that’s the problem, it’s that it is such an  uncommonly tedious thing to write about: folks standing around, looking thoughtful, murmuring to each  other, rinsing the palate between this ounce or that ounce. That quick glance over the shoulder, has someone noticed how poised we look, how bored we are?

Hemlock tastings, carefully done, would provide the honest drama that wine tastings invariably lacks. Hemlock is indigenous to Europe and it isn’t a tree.  It is a bush with leaves similar to fennel or parsley;  these leaves, crushed, smell like parsnips or like mice. Yes, “mousy”  bouquet would be one of the sought-after attributes for the hemlock connoisseur.  Hemlock tasting opportunities in Europe would be state-of-the-art for years to come, far superior to those offered  only years later in upstart California. The experienced purveyor of hemlock would be mindful that,  depending on your faith in Hellenic medicine,  small amounts of hemlock would be delightful in a variety of therapeutic uses. Arthritis comes to mind. However, the margin of error is slight and once the line is crossed, the consequence is a dramatic lack of bowel control,  some paralysis,  and then death.  Socrates and death! These are the very qualities, lacking with the juice of the grape, that makes hemlock tasting so much more interesting.