Describing anything in life in a subjective way has always been an art. It’s human nature to adopt a generally accepted “vocabulary” to describe thoughts, impressions and experiences in a way that different people can easily understand. Isn’t this the thought at the core of language itself? The wine industry has its own language. It’s a set of adjectives used to describe a wine so that one person’s experience can be communicated to another person as a predictor of experience or as a measure of commonality. You all know of this language — it’s full of fruit flavors (crisp apple, bing cherry, kiwi), herbs (sage, dill, mint), earth (mud, barnyard, wet leaves) and a host of other adjectives ranging from dark chocolate to pipe tobacco. But, the problem with this language is that it tries to be too precise in describing what is inherently a subjective and very personal experience. Instead of offering an easy-to-use system, what ends up happening is that people feel intimidated by trying to use it for fear of “having used the wrong term.” There are very few people who could accurately decipher most of those aromas or tastes on their own. That is, without the benefit of seeing the fruit or enjoying its distinctive texture, very few people could actually tell you the difference between an Asian pear and a bartlett pear, for example. So, why then do the wine snobs look so sure of themselves when they swirl a glass, capture the aroma and so matter-of-factly state that they detect quince, petrol and 10-year-aged edam cheese? First off, they are cheating a bit. Every type of wine, whether varietal (like chardonnay) or regional (like burgundy) has a “subset” of known characteristics with it. That is, a very particular subset of the overall language of wine. Cabernet sauvignon, for example, is very often associated with the following adjectives: black currant, black cherry, black berry, olive, leather, tobacco and chocolate. You’re not likely to ever hear someone describe a cab as having an apricot nose. But, the problem with this subset comes when you try to describe say, a merlot. You’re looking at almost an identical set of known adjectives. So, how then do you accurately describe any cab from any merlot when the overlap between the adjectives is so great? You don’t. It’s very hard to tell from the tasting notes what something is. But, when you taste those two wines, they are clearly very different animals. The answer lies in the past. We’ve really only been describing wines in these fruit/herb/meat/earth terms for roughly the last 60 years. Prior to this, wines were described in very ethereal terms. Wines used to be described in terms of art, poetry, history and music. Common wine reviews were “… like a Shakespearean sonnet” or “… all of the promise and none of the delivery of Handel‘s Messiah.” What I love about describing wines in this way is that you’re describing a “subjective” experience (wine tasting) with a subjective review. That is, someone has to think about what you mean when you say “Handel’s Messiah.” It’s not meant to convey pretension, rather, it’s meant to say “remember the first time you experienced that piece of music? The choir singing in the “Hallelujah” piece? The goosebumps you had during the chorus? Well, this wine started off like that and left me flat.” Isn’t that exponentially more interesting and thought provoking than saying a wine has hints of raspberry, cinnamon and anise? I think so. One of my favorite ways to approach somebody at the bar is to say “… Would you like to have a wine like Audrey Hepburn or Howard Stern?” This usually solicits a laugh, but my point in doing so is to ask somebody in a more subjective way, “Do you prefer a demure and sophisticated wine, or do you prefer something big and obnoxious?” So, much like I challenge myself to stop using the “crutch” of normal wine adjectives, I challenge you all to use your wit, experience and intelligence when describing wines to friends. I think that it’s better in the end for discovery and communication. And ultimately, it’s the journey that we’re all trying to enjoy. As Paul McCartney sang on the Let It Be album, “the long and winding road, that leads to your door, will never disappear …” We should all be on that road to discovery, thumbing our noses at the currently accepted way in describing subjective wine tastings in absolute terms through absolute adjectives. By the way, the wine I am drinking right now is a Napa Cab from the Spring Mountain District. I could tell you that it smells of currants and dark chocolate. Or, I could tell you that it reminds me of the first time I heard “The Bends” by Radiohead (which is one of my desert island five). — Mike Kallay and his wife, Stephanie, own the Cask Room, a wine bar in East Village. www.caskroom.com.