Drink Memory: The Link Between Wine And Memories

વોટ્સએપ ગ્રુપમાં જોડાવા ➙

ક્લિક કરો

Many people have office meetings with their mentors. Over a glass of Riesling—make that several—I met mine.Diane Teitelbaum and I weren't drinking a lot; in fact, the opposite was true. We were two wine writers slogging through a technical tasting of Rieslings, Gruner Veltliners, and Gewurztraminers in Austria's Wachau Valley. either one of us was.

I was asked to identify fruit, spices, minerals (including sulphur, slate, river stone, and flint), and gasoline from a sea of yellowish-gold liquids. The fact that I was jet weary from my transatlantic travel and that another group member, a former television food celebrity, was making fun of me since I was the group's obvious newcomer didn't help.

People sipped while swirling. I could carry it out. However, when they penned notes, they scribbled nonstop, using only the 10 phrases I could summon, such as "pale yellow, transparent, stone fruit, brilliant acidity." Or not," I fretted, realising I was a fraud.

Diane, who was seated next to me, could tell that I was losing all confidence. The TV celebrity had enjoyed interrupting my inquiries with advice. Oh, you believe that to be a mineral? River rock is present.

Diane encircled my wrist after slipping her tiny fingers between the tall stalks on the table. "Don't worry about him. He is a failed performer, and this is his sole venue. She assured me that she would help me get through the tongue-twisting wines if I sat with her. And I actually did that. We worked together all week, her explaining taste profiles to me while I assisted her in navigating the uneven streets after her recent knee surgery.

We were polar opposites in appearance: she had blonde hair that reached her chin, very pale skin, and intensely blue eyes. She had a larger physique and was shorter in her chair. And her voice was really gentle. I had dark hair, olive skin, and a voice that I found difficult to keep in check. I was also tall. However, we bonded over wine and the inherent difficulties of our jobs, particularly as women in a male-dominated field. We discussed about writing about wine well, when to use descriptions and when to ignore them and trust your nose. She taught me to avoid copying others and to remain calm if I failed.

I sobbed during our airport farewells at the conclusion of the week. "When will we next see one another?" I bemoaned the fact that I wouldn't have many opportunities to travel from my base in Manhattan to Dallas. Diane hugged me and gently massaged my shoulder. She remarked, "Good friends will remain friends."We also did. I was shocked when I went to see her in Dallas that she would open a pricey bottle for a simple meal of grilled chicken ("When you love wine, you have to share it," she said).

We also did. I was shocked when I went to see her in Dallas that she would open a pricey bottle for a simple meal of grilled chicken ("When you love wine, you have to share it," she said).She was an expert taster who could pinpoint certain flavours, even in the pith of a pomegranate, for example. and did so in her own casual language, without the slightest hint of pretence. When I was stressed about my wine studies, I would contact her, and we would talk about wine as well as rescue dogs, our other sisters (because we believed we were split up at birth), and whether or not to purchase appliances on DealDash.

A wine to remember.I once questioned her regarding her preferred wine. Oh, without a second's hesitation, Diane replied.She received a 1947 Joseph Drouhin Chambertin-Clos de Beze grand cru from a deceased acquaintance. The bottle was just a third full when she took it off the rack to open it for her husband and her New Year's Eve meal. She reasoned that a wine of this calibre would have utilised 95 of its 100 chips. In order to give things time to settle, she left it standing for four days, but she also had a backup bottle handy because, according to her, "the older the wine or the more damaged, the less likely it is to be good, and the less time it would have in the glass."

She decanted it a couple hours prior to dinner. The first glass was poured after she selected her stemware.It was incredibly sophisticated and subtle. really delicate and extremely tasty," she said. I found that to be incredibly endearing because it resembled an elderly southern belle wearing lace wandering around her yard.I imagined talc-dusted flowers and dried roses because I couldn't imagine what that might taste like with my untrained palette. grandma's bag, perhaps? But I was aware of how the wine felt: a sophisticated, reserved quality that gradually exposes itself in layers while sharing its background.

With the expectation that its restrained charm would be fanned out, Diane and her husband finished that glass and poured the rest.However, it immediately sprang to life and was intoxicating, enticing, energetic, and profound. Their tongues were stuffed with flavours of dark berries and soft textures. She remembered that the wine "had bravery, like a tremendous overture—it was all that a wine would ever want to be."The last five of its chips were consumed in a matter of minutes, and then it was gone.

Diane paused to think as she continued to tell me this tale. She spoke quietly, her voice always subdued.

It was a really interesting wine-related experience: a special dinner with my husband that also made me think of my friend.

As a result, it was a gift once more.I was entranced. There was not a single technical point in the entire wine-related story. I realised at that point that true wine expertise goes beyond technical notes and textbooks. Understanding wine's enigmatic ability to evoke both taste and emotional memories and to transport us via its story is more important.

It's about understanding that each glass represents a unique experience that can never be repeated since you won't ever drink it with the same group of friends, in the same late-afternoon light, or with the same dinner. As you observe the same group of kids fighting, lovers cuddling, or families celebrating, you realise you'll never have it again. Like a wonderful wine, the environment in which you consume it is fleeting, lasting only for a few time before becoming a memory.

A few years after giving me this tale, Diane passed away. The many individuals who had drinks with her and had learnt from her cried when I told them about it at her burial ceremony in Dallas. Yes, because they lost a buddy, but also because there was still one more gift in that bottle of wine, whose tale was shared.

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