Leo Hidy
As an American Studies major and self-described homebody, going abroad was never something I thought that much about. Still, when the opportunity to take a Food Anthropology field course in Copenhagen, Denmark, presented itself, I knew I had to go. Without a second thought, I boarded a plane to Scandinavia and was transported into an alien world of curried herring, pureed liver, and mustard-soaked Smörgåsbord. While my foray into Danish cuisine taught me invaluable lessons about localism and sustainable foodways, I could only eat so many pickled food items before turning green in the face. You can imagine my delight when my Professor announced that our penultimate field trip would be to a local winery instead of to the pig slaughterhouse that the other section of the class had visited.
My excitement for wine tasting had little to do with the actual tasting; my eagerness primarily rested in the humor of getting drunk at 11 am. As a Chinese-American with a nasty propensity for “Asian Flush,” wine was never a product of interest to me. If one’s goal is to get as drunk as possible in the shortest amount of time (as a college student, I must say that I often fall into this category), then there are far better alcohols to choose from. Tequila, Gin, and (if you feel incredibly daring) Vodka are all cheap and quick and tend to mitigate the fallacies of my Asian genetics. Drinking alcohol, including wine, feels like a jagged saw that tears through the nose before dripping down the esophagus. As such, wine tasting just seemed like a pretentious way for masochists to distinguish their “mature” palates and culinary sensibilities. That being said, at least I wasn’t gingerly avoiding keeled-over pigs, so I was pleasantly indifferent when it was time to embark on the field trip.
The wine store, appropriately titled “Vintro,” was not what I expected. As a Californian living near the Sonoma Valley, I imagined all wineries to be superfluous displays of wealth, filled with boring labels and pretentious staff. I was shocked to find that the walls of Vintro’s checkered floors were covered head to toe with wine bottles of every color imaginable. White, pink, sunset, orange, red, and purple hues refracted the morning light, turning the entire store into a 1970s disco room. Our sommelier was also not what I expected. Simon, originally from France, could have tricked me into thinking he was a SoCal surfer from LA. Rocking a pair of beat-up jeans with long hair to match, Simon punctuated each one of his sentences with a well-placed swear word that had us college students grinning from ear to ear. Simon explained that Vintro wines were all produced in Denmark, a consumer country, and as such, his wines did not play by the typical rules that producer countries like France have to abide by. Because he rejected French austerity, most of Simon’s wines were organic, natural, and sulfur-free.
Topped with a beer-cap lid, the wine we were about to try looked more like a fancy orange soda than a fermented beverage. Simon used a scratched-up climbing carabiner to open the bottle, releasing a roar of gas that shot the cap across the room. All 20 college students eagerly lined up to get a better view of the bottle. Up close, the bottle was punctuated by a minimalist white label that had the phrase “Orange Is The New White” scrawled on top of a bright orange watercolor paint splatter. The first pour nearly exploded out of Simon’s hands. Thick foam swirled down the sides of the bottle as Simon gave each of us a healthy 5 oz pour. As the foam began to fizzle out, I noticed soft brown specks settling at the bottom of my glass. Murmurs of curiosity and disgust erupted amongst the crowd as others inspected the viscous chunks clouding their drinks. Seeing our trepidation, Simon grinned, “Don’t worry, that’s just the flavor. Savor it!”
As charming as Simon was, seeing the flecks of bacteria clogging up my wine glass snapped me back to reality. I knew deep down that my juvenile palate could not truthfully appreciate the wine before me. My perceived glorification of Vintro wines rested in the shop’s colorful bottle labels and Simon’s promise of a rebellious market disruption that opposed Sonoma Valley’s snobbiness. The floating specks turned my stomach, reminding me of my initial suspicion that wine tasting is just a pretentious thing that adults do to prove their palate. Why else would anyone be willing to force themselves to consume wads of soggy yeast? As I stared down the glass of wine in my hand, my bold rejection of wine was replaced by a slightly more fragile and vulnerable sentiment. I began to worry that upon the first sip, the acrid aroma would scrunch my nose, revealing my juvenile palate to my peers. I realized that my rejection of wine did not rest in my self-righteous disgust for culinary pretentiousness; rather, my true apprehension lay in my fears that I would never understand good taste.
The first sip tasted like the sound of an ice-cold can of Sprite being opened on a hot day. In other words, it was intensely refreshing. Initially acidic, the wine eventually traveled to the side of my gums, where the hidden sweetness of the grapes finally revealed itself, making my whole jaw buzz. The clouds of yeast began to work their way to the surface, and the unmistakable scent of fermentation singed my nose. Tamping my skepticism, I steeled my nerves for a second sip. This time, the pleasant tang of the wine was replaced by the velvety flavor of soft cheese that gently enwrapped my palate. My mind was blown. Simon’s wine was unlike any of the wines I had begrudgingly drunk throughout college. Did this mean I was finally a man of good taste? I was swallowing the wine without a grimace, but I also wasn’t sure if my palate was picking up on the things that it was supposed to. The familiar feeling of apprehension began to bubble back to the surface. My peers murmured mentions of peach and grass, but all I could pick up on was that I generally liked the way the wine tasted. And yet, upon taking a 3rd sip, I decided that none of that mattered because, for the first time, I found myself intent on enjoying, not just drinking or tasting.
Leo Hidy is an Oberlin College fourth-year majoring in American Studies, Economics, and Business. Raised in San Francisco, California, Leo loves west-coast style Asian cuisine. Leo will spend the next two years teaching in Machida, Japan, and hopes to expand his cooking repertoire while abroad.
