Wine-tasting really comes into its own when you're surrounded by divine French bottles.
After living in France for the past few years, I've consumed a fair amount of wine. The trouble is, during all this time I've had no idea what I was doing when sampling (goûter) a bottle of wine while dining out...that is, beyond the swirling, the smelling and the swigging.
In fact, the only time I've sent wine back at a restaurant was when it truly smelled like the inside of a crypt – or how I imagine the inside of a crypt would smell. Fortunately, the waiter agreed with me. The look of horror registering on his face when he took a whiff was something I won't soon forget!
Still, I can't help but feel a little uneasy when a French waiter, in his starched white shirt and black bow tie, pours a taste into my glass and waits for my approval, as I'm definitely at a disadvantage. After all, my formative years were shaped by the "Pepsi Challenge" – the legendary ad campaign pitting Pepsi against Coca Cola in blind taste tests across the USA – while the guy pouring my wine was undoubtedly weaned with a predisposition toward either Burgundy or Bordeaux and knew his Appellation Contrôlée from his Vin de Pays by the time he mastered long division.
So when some of my American-in-Paris friends tossed around the idea of taking a wine-tasting class, I signed up faster than you can say Beaujolais Nouveau.
Arriving at the course on a Sunday afternoon, we were greeted by our instructor as well as the translator we had hired for a reasonable fee – a Frenchman schooled in English while growing up in Germany – who sat with us at the “American table.”
To kick off the three-hour session, the instructor passed around small vials containing scented liquids representing the aromas we would soon encounter in the various wines to be sampled: citrus, butter, vanilla…even mushroom-and-black-olive pizza (well, at least to American noses!).
We then learned to contemplate the color of the wine as well as its clarity and homogeneity, to discern the varietal of the grape as well as the wine’s age. We sniffed, studied and savored the subtle differences between Bordeaux from the Haut Medoc and Saint-Emilion regions, and between wine made from grapes grown on different sides of the Loire Valley. With each pour, a whole new oenophilic world was opening up to us by way of this multi-sensory education.
After a few glasses, we felt we were really becoming pros at this. Or perhaps our confidence was merely growing along with our level of inebriation
After a few glasses, we felt we were really becoming pros at this. Or perhaps our confidence was merely growing along with our level of inebriation
(as we failed to partake in the use of the communal spit bucket). In fact, we were well on our way to being erudite wine snobs…that is, until our translator unfortunately mispronounced the word "fuchsia,” and we mistakenly heard him say, "This wine _ucks 'ya up!" This hilarious gaffe, combined with a pretty good wine buzz, instantly transformed us from attentive students into class clowns.
Struck by a case of the giggles, we got more and more creative with the scents we detected in the wine: barnyard animals, wet dog (a Scottish terrier, to be exact) and Werther's Original butterscotch candy.
To round out our education, I asked the instructor if we could try some wine from a bottle she had declined to serve to the class after first tasting it herself, just to be sure we knew what a “bad wine” truly tasted like. But as the first sip settled onto my tongue, I couldn’t resist the urge to keep the laughter rolling as I spewed the wine out of my mouth and disdainfully exclaimed to an imaginary, bow-tied waiter, “This wine is NO GOOD!” Then my friend with the keenest sense of smell at our table followed suit by claiming she could smell manure.
Very soon after – and probably none-too-soon for our patient instructor – the class came to an end. But we were still full of questions for our translator, who was obviously enjoying this lively group of Americans that seemed to share his pleasure of wine.
As we walked to dinner after class, my friends and I realized we learned an important lesson that afternoon, far beyond which side of the Loire Valley produces the best Muscadet. We discovered that wine without laughter is like…well…Coca Cola without the carbonation. You just can't beat the real thing. After all, when you are with friends and drinking the finest wine in the world, the most important thing is to enjoy.
Want to do this too?Here's how:
La Belle Ecole: Art de vivre a la français “Introduction to the World of Wines”
An initiation to wine tasting and label-reading, designed to awaken your senses through the visual, olfactory and gustative experience of tasting five French wines. Classes are offered several times per month but sell out quickly. (See their other class offerings that range from French floral arranging to mousse-making.)
Cost: 75 EUR (an English-speaking interpreter is available for an additional 25 EUR)
Wine-tasting really comes into its own when you're surrounded by divine French bottles. 
Still, I can't help but feel a little uneasy when a French waiter, in his starched white shirt and black bow tie, pours a taste into my glass and waits for my approval, as I'm definitely at a disadvantage. After all, my formative years were shaped by the "Pepsi Challenge" – the legendary ad campaign pitting Pepsi against Coca Cola in blind taste tests across the USA – while the guy pouring my wine was undoubtedly weaned with a predisposition toward either Burgundy or Bordeaux and knew his Appellation Contrôlée from his Vin de Pays by the time he mastered long division.
So when some of my American-in-Paris friends tossed around the idea of taking a wine-tasting class, I signed up faster than you can say Beaujolais Nouveau. 
After a few glasses, we felt we were really becoming pros at this. Or perhaps our confidence was merely growing along with our level of inebriation 
After a few glasses, we felt we were really becoming pros at this. Or perhaps our confidence was merely growing along with our level of inebriation 
To round out our education, I asked the instructor if we could try some wine from a bottle she had declined to serve to the class after first tasting it herself, just to be sure we knew what a “bad wine” truly tasted like. But as the first sip settled onto my tongue, I couldn’t resist the urge to keep the laughter rolling as I spewed the wine out of my mouth and disdainfully exclaimed to an imaginary, bow-tied waiter, “This wine is NO GOOD!” Then my friend with the keenest sense of smell at our table followed suit by claiming she could smell manure. 
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