Instead repeating descriptors that someone somewhere has already said or written, I talk about the wine’s personality. Its voice. What it says or sings to me. How it sits in the glass and eventually synergizing with my senses. Wine is alive, so many say, but they talk about it like it’s a script, or some object, a piece of merchandise, a one-dimensional automaton, utterly undermining all that went into the composition of the wine. I speak of wine as it’s a character in its own story, in my story, and I’m immeasurably eased in the association.
Now, this Chard I sip, like that sexy jazz vocalist in a Parian lobby.