“I’m no wine connoisseur, but I know what I like.” I cannot tell you how often I’ve heard that. I’ve been tempted to respond, “I believe you, but what do you like, and can you tell me why you like it?” Thank goodness, I’ve resisted that temptation, otherwise I’d be a very lonely guy. Wine drinkers, all of us, know what we like, but for the most part, we find it difficult to articulate.

Part of the reason, I believe, is that we simply don’t focus our attention on the details of what’s in the stemware. It’s like other aspects of our lives. How about that picture hanging over the fireplace? In detail, what is it that you like about it? The same can be said of music. Is it strictly in the background, sliding by your consciousness? Or are you paying attention and heard that waffling sound of the fifty-cent piece that the drummer spun gently on the drum? It’s definitely in the details, but wouldn’t we be more confident if we could articulate them?

Another reason for our inability to define our preferences, I believe, lies in the intimidating, sometimes off-putting, metaphorical vocabulary of winespeak; those descriptors that wine tasters and reviewers use that sound like they belong in a physiology class (legs, body), or a chemistry seminar (acidity, tannins, balance), or horticultural meeting (floral, herbaceous). No question those wine basics have to be learned. However, when the metaphors go to lofty extremes…

What if I can’t perceive, for example, that a Super Tuscan has the gentle fragrance of the “forest floor?” Or that a red from Provence evokes “garrigue” (that aromatic melange of herbs and shrubs that grow wild in the countryside)? Or that Bordeaux smells faintly of cassis, cedar, and tobacco? I don’t remember the last time I got on my knees and sniffed the undergrowth at Muir Woods. And a spice jar of Herbs de Provence might give me a hint of that red from Provence, but I doubt it. Cedar blocks are in my closet, but they don’t recall the aroma of wine for me.

Lastly, our palates are like fingerprints; everyone is different. What you perceive is not what I perceive. I’ve been to large group tastings, and the perceptions and descriptors vary widely. But that shouldn’t inhibit you from expressing your own opinion. One man’s “forest floor,” may be another man’s “mulch pile,” while an expert’s “garrigue” may be the beginners “weedy.” And “cassis”, well, blackberry preserves sounds pretty good to me. So, here’s a thought. Focus your attention, don’t be afraid to speak your mind, and have faith in your own palate. As one English wine writer says it, “Think while you drink.”

– Tom Barras

It’s that time of year. Short, cool days and long, chilly nights. I dislike it for a number of reasons. The weather primarily. There’s not enough sunshine, and green algae are sprouting on my barbecue bricks like outer space slime. Barbecuing holds no interest because there’s powdery mold on the briquettes, and there’s no more starter fuel. The golf courses are cold and uninviting, and it seems like I’m hitting rocks instead of golf balls. And the white wines lack important qualities like intense color, full body and serious, mouth-filling flavors.

Ah, but it’s wintertime. And I like it for many reasons. The weather primarily. It’s brisk and invigorating, especially on those quick morning walks. The sun is oblique and doesn’t jump into my face. In the evening I light my fireplace, mold into my easy chair, sip a Manhattan on the rocks, and search for truths in the flickering flames. At dinner it’s time for good old-fashioned comfort food, like meaty stews, hearty pot roasts, wine and broth braised chicken.

And being a wine kinda guy, I know it’s time to pair those dishes with the perfect cold weather wine, the type that slides down nice and easy and doesn’t require cerebral discussion to appreciate. A comfort wine. I won’t reach for that brawny Cabernet. I’ll pass on that slick Merlot as well as that smooth, aromatic Pinot Noir. And while a brambly California Zinfandel would work, I’m proposing a different wine, from a low-visibility French Appellation.

I’m referring to those user-friendly red “comfort wines” from the Southern Rhone appellation of Côtes du Rhône, which are near the more famous appellation of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Wine snobs may scoff at these wines, because, the mélange of grapes — Grenache, Cinsault, Carignan, Syrah, and Mourvdre — from which they’re primarily made, don’t generate a strong, recognizable aromatic profile like, say, a Cabernet Sauvignon or Pinot Noir do. But if drinking, rather than sniffing, is your priority then these wines will do you fine.

The reds of Côtes du Rhône are noted for their soft, round character. They are dark, ripe and full bodied, with hints of red and black fruits, and they’re the ideal mate for the multitude of flavors in stews and braises. Given their quality range, they’re very good values, with most usually selling in the $10 to $20 range. Some of the better known producers I have enjoyed over the years are Perrin & Fils, Guigal, St. Cosme, Santa Duc, Vidal Fleury and Jaboulet. If after sampling the basic appellation, you yearn for a bit more class and complexity, then move up to the Côtes du Rhône – Villages appellation, or to a specifically name village like Gigondas, Rasteau or Seguret. In any case, you’re sure to find one that satisfies your palate.

– Tom Barras

Let’s review some of the roads that one may roam trying to become an informed wine buyer. Some start out with the “intense staring and pick the prettiest label” route. This may introduce one to some great artwork, but little, if any, good wine. That route is a dead end. Also, buying solely on a price basis — nothing over, say $5.00 or $10.00 — will accommodate one’s wallet, but not one’s taste buds. That one-way street goes nowhere. And taking the short cut to the ABC’s of Wine — Always buy Cabernet, Always buy Chardonnay — while satisfactory for many wine buyers, can end up being a monotonous, round trip if the occasional vinous side trips are not explored.

Those periodic side trips are what I call the “Enlightened ABC’s of Wine” — Avoid buying Cabernet, Avoid buying Chardonnay (avoid buying ONLY them.) Alternately stated, try drinking something different every now and then. Sure, drink your favorites, but do your taste buds a favor and surprise them with some new flavors. There’s a world of wine varieties to be experienced and enjoyed. And grape variety — the wine’s name — is the flashing neon sign at the fork in the road that we will follow. Chardonnay is a distinct varietal wine, as is Cabernet, Pinot Noir, Zinfandel, and others. They’re named after the primary grape variety from which they’re made.

There are many variables that affect a wine’s flavor — where it’s from, the soil it’s grown in, the climate of the area, the age of the vines, the winemaker’s skill or lack thereof, plus a host of other variables that fill “How To” books. But the single-most important item that determines the flavor of a wine is the primary grape variety from which it is made. Moreover, grape variety affects the wine’s profile by influencing attributes like acidity, concentration, aroma, body, and aging potential. It’s that individuality — that genetic blueprint — that distinguishes a Chardonnay from a Sauvignon Blanc, and a Cabernet Sauvignon from a Pinot Noir.

Becoming familiar with the profiles of major and minor wine varietals, their similarities and differences, at least generally, is the first discriminating step — not wine snobbery — toward the increased and informed enjoyment of one of life’s more available and affordable pleasures of the table. And the good news is we live in California, which has, for all practical purposes, set the standard, and still follows the practice of wine labeling by grape variety, rather than the murky and challenging Appellation system of Europe.

Varietal labeling is inherently so easy to grasp and understand and so successful that many importers are now including the grape variety as a sub-heading on the bottle’s front label. A Bourgogne Blanc (White Burgundy), for example, will occasionally be labeled “Chardonnay,” for those not familiar with France’s appellation system. Do you suppose it’s similar to California Chardonnay? Do you think it’s different? Maybe it’s time to find out.

— Tom Barras

“I’m no wine connoisseur, but I know what I like.” I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard that. I’ve been tempted to respond, “I believe you, but what, in fact, do you like, and can you tell me why?” Thank goodness, I’ve resisted that temptation, otherwise I’d be a very lonely guy. Wine drinkers, all of us, know what we like, but for the most part, we find it difficult to articulate.

Part of the reason, I believe, is that we simply don’t focus our attention on the act of drinking. It’s like other aspects of our lives. How about that picture hanging over the fireplace? In detail, what is it that you like about it? The same can be said of music. Is it strictly in the background, sliding by your consciousness? Or are you paying attention and heard that waffling sound of the fifty-cent piece that the drummer spun gently on the drum? It’s definitely in the details, but wouldn’t we be more confident if we could articulate them? Why do always order that California Chardonnay? Or that Cabernet?

Another reason for our inability to define our preferences, I believe, is the intimidating, sometimes off-putting, metaphorical vocabulary of winespeak; those descriptors that wine tasters and reviewers use that sound like they belong in a physiology class (legs, body), or a chemistry seminar (acidity, tannins, balance), or horticultural meeting (floral, herbaceous). No question those wine basics have to be learned. However, when the metaphors go to lofty extremes . . . .

What if I can’t perceive, for example, that a Super Tuscan has the gentle fragrance of the “forest floor?” Or that a red from Provence evokes “garrigue” (that aromatic melange of herbs and shrubs that grow wild in the countryside)? Or that Bordeaux smells faintly of cassis, cedar, and tobacco? I don’t remember the last time I got on my knees and sniffed the undergrowth at Muir Woods. And a spice jar of Herbs de Provence might give me a hint of that red from Provence, but I doubt it.

Lastly, our palates are like fingerprints; everyone is different. What you perceive is not what I perceive. I’ve been to large group tastings, and the articulated perceptions and descriptors vary widely. But that shouldn’t inhibit you from expressing your own opinion. One man’s “forest floor,” may be another man’s “mulch pile,” while an expert’s “garrigue” may be the beginners “weedy.” And “cassis”, well, blackberry preserves sounds pretty good to me. So, here’s a thought. Focus your attention, don’t be afraid to speak your mind, and have faith in your own palate. As one English wine writer says it, “Think while you drink.”

— Tom Barras

“Wow, that’s just a little toooo dry for me,” I said recoiling from the bitter, astringent jolt of a young Cabernet Sauvignon. That unpleasant experience, as I was later to learn, had nothing to do with “dryness,” which is the opposite of sweetness. What it was related to was something entirely different. That harsh, mouth-puckering feeling was caused by a high level component in red wines known as “tannins.”

While most of us, I believe, can easily relate to the weight of “body style” and the crispness of “acidity,” things get a tad perplexing when it comes to tannins. But if you’ve ever crunched on a grape seed, chewed the skin of red plum or a portion of banana peel, or more likely, sipped strongly brewed tea, then you’ve experienced the eye-popping reaction to high level tannins. Your mouth feels like it has no moisture, and it’s been lined with scouring pads. Hence, the confusion with dryness.

Tannins are to red wines what acidity is to white wines. They’re a vital, life-giving component that supplies texture, structure and balance. While acidity has been called the “nervous system” of whites, tannins can be called the “backbone” of reds. It allows them to age and develop flavor and aroma nuances far beyond primary “berry” and “plumy.” And just as there are seasoned wine enthusiasts who are “acidity freaks”, so too are there those wine veterans who like the distinct, textural “grip” and strength of character derived from well integrated tannins.

Why mainly reds? The source of tannins is primarily from grape skins, (think crush and the long soak of fermentation), as well as the oak barrels used during the aging process. Tannin levels are also directly related to the type of grape, the duration of skin contact during fermentation, and the age of the wine. Pinot Noir grape skins, for example, yield lower tannins while Cabernet Sauvignons generally impart a more aggressive style. A very short soak on Zinfandel skins will produce that forward, fruit laden White Zinfandel, while a longer infusion will yield the more traditional, muscular Red Zinfandel. And if you store it for several years, those tannins will fall away and you will perceive a wine with a distinctly different taste and bouquet.

 Without an adequate level of tannins, reds would taste one dimensional, flabby and lifeless. With too much, they would taste unbearably sharp and bitter. With the right balance, they are described as “silky.” And just as acidity tolerance levels vary with each person’s palate, so does one’s reaction differ with various tannin levels. Also, much like acidity in white wines, tannins in reds refresh the palate between bites of crusty, grilled meats and thereby, in the context of accompanying food, genuinely fulfills its intended function.

— Tom Barras

Varietal labeling — naming the wine after the primary grape from which it’s made — is so prevalent that you might think that all wines are labeled that way. Not so. When you shop at your favorite wine retailer and consider buying a wine from France, Spain, Italy, Germany, and other European countries, you will notice that the wine is not named after the primary grape. Rather, it is named after the region where it is produced. As such, it may, for example, indicate “Chablis” (France), or “Chianti” (Italy), or “Ribera del Duero” (Spain). This method is known as the appellation method, and the wines are labeled with the name of the geographical region from which it came, rather than the underlying grape(s) from which it is made.

How did that come about? The flash-card answer is it’s an outcome of history. The detailed answer is the European winegrowers discovered centuries ago, through trial and error, that each grape variety does its best in specific types of soils, exposures, and environments. Eventually, those in the wine industry and, more importantly, their worldwide customers came to accept and acknowledge that, for example, the best Chardonnay originated in France’s Burgundy region (Bourgogne) as did the best Pinot Noir. And when someone was offered a Bourgogne Rouge (Red Burgundy) he/she was confident it was a Pinot Noir from that Region. It was, to be sure, the Real Thing.

The French appellation system, on which other European countries based their own system, was created in 1935 to protect growers in the most famous winemaking regions against the illegal “knock offs” from unscrupulous producers in other regions. Its goal was to give wine buyers a guarantee of origin and authenticity. Please note, it does not guarantee quality. However, overall, that has been the result. Without delving into arcane details, the appellation controls the following very important items: the permitted grapes, the geographical boundaries, vineyard yields, alcohol levels, and certain vineyard and vinification practices.

But does this system have any real consequence for you? You might notice while doing your supermarket shopping that some jug wines still carry the appellation names “Chablis” and “Burgundy”. Do you think you’re getting the Real Thing? Likewise California sparkling wine producers, who label theirs as “Champagne,” would have you imagine that theirs is identical to the French model. Think so? Don’t care? Well, suppose you’re drinking a bottle of red wine that is labeled “Napa Zinfandel,” but somehow it just doesn’t taste as you remember. It’s a lot cheaper, and seemed like a great deal at the price, but as you struggle through the last few sips, you pick up the bottle and spot some very small print on the back label that states “Produced in Yugoslavia.” Obviously, it’s not the Real Thing.

— Tom Barras