“Ah-ha” Moments
The “ah-ha” moment: ubiquitous, exciting, and uniquely personal, it’s a phenomenon many wine professionals share. Ask any of us what bottle got us interested in wine and you’re likely to hear a myriad of responses, from 1964 Latour to fresh-faced Albariño. It’s often a gateway to developing a personal connection to wine: the surprise of “Wine can do that?” Maybe you’ve experienced this, yourself - either consciously or subconsciously. I’ve had a number of tasting experiences that have set off light bulbs, crashing through barriers I didn’t know I’d put up around what wine “can be.”
What I find most delightful about hearing others’ “ah-ha” moments is how even the most humble, taken-for-granted bottles can provide insight. While the aged Baroli and sought-after Cabernets of the world are undoubtedly sources of fascination, it’s not necessarily the rarest or most expensive bottles that can capture a person’s imagination. Take my experiences, for example: these wines have been singular experiences in my personal journey, and each memory has stuck with me, continually reminding me of how much more there always is to learn.
Argiolas Monica, Sardegna, Italy
My very first “ah-ha” bottle was introduced to me by a future colleague, who helped plant the seed of my interest in wine. I’d been working at the original Eataly in Flatiron, NY as a barista and worked our pop-up “wine bar” on weekend evenings. I started off echoing the vocabulary that was handed to me by the wine team, and realized that I was having a good time doing it.
Enter: Monica, a lesser-known native Sardinian grape. I’d never heard of Grenache, let alone Monica, and its refreshing fruit and seaside acidity were unlike anything I’d ever found in a wine - let alone a red one. It was an intriguing departure from the flat-tasting, overripe reds I’d orbited around out of familiarity.
Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Southern Rhône, France
Here’s an interesting one. Not long after my Sardinian enlightenment, this same friend introduced me to the famously powerful, garrigue-laden Châteauneuf-du-Pape. At the time, with my VERY limited wine familiarity, my assessment of this classic wine was that it smelled like “cigarette breath.” Needless to say, I’d love the opportunity to revisit that bottle again today - it would make for a fascinating view into my own understanding and development. It also serves as a humbling reminder of how our tastes develop and change over time, as well as the fact that a wine being well-regarded doesn’t account for personal taste.
Paolo Bea, Montefalco Rosso Riserva Pipparello, Umbria, Italy 2003
I call this my “unicorn” bottle. I was working at Otto Enoteca e Pizzeria circa 2015, and had become infatuated with the elegant power of Paolo Bea’s Sagrantino- and Sangiovese-based wines out of Italy’s central region of Umbria. I had tasted other vintages of his Pipparello, the Sangiovese-based red with native Sagrantino and Montepulciano added, but not this particular one. When a table ordered it, I opened the bottle for them, decanted, and checked the bottle with a taste… and waited. The aromas had been beautiful enough to seriously consider utilizing as a perfume, but on the palate… nothing. I thought maybe the wine had gone mute, as sometimes happens when you catch the wine at an awkward stage (not unlike adolescence).
Then, several seconds later, it began to unfurl. I’d never experienced such elegance, grace, and intention in a wine, even among the many Nebbiolos I’d tasted from our list. That moment is a standout in my memory, though many bottles since have certainly impressed me in their own unique ways. I’ve heard tell that the winery themselves prized the 2003 vintage - but sadly, that it’s now all but impossible to find.
Malvirà, Langhe Rosso San Guglielmo, Piemonte, Italy 1998
While an excellent wine in and of itself, what touched me most about this experience was the kind of hospitality that came with it. I had a run of habitually taking myself to Film Forum and then to the bar at Il Buco - a trendy NoHo staple that I certainly couldn’t afford a full dinner at - for a drink and a snack each week. Film Forum had been playing a run of Roberto Rossellini films, which are among my favorites, and the cozy, softly-lit environment of the bar allowed me to remain in that dreamy, post-movie state. One September evening, they were running a dish of soft polenta with chestnuts and a poached egg (with an optional white truffle supplement that was not in my bank account’s future). The person who took my order from behind the bar that night happened to be one of the restaurant’s sommeliers, and after a series of curious questions about their offerings by the glass, he asks me to wait a moment and ducks away to the back. He returns with a producer I’m familiar with at the time, a producer in the Roero region of Piedmont making lip-smacking wines from native varieties. He tells me that they opened this at their pre-shift meeting, and that he wanted me to have it with the polenta. At the time, I wouldn’t have assumed the plush, densely fruited versions of these varieties to age well, but I was more than happy to have been proven wrong. The dank, dark-fruited, velvety notes that came out of that wine with its extended bottle age were heady and comforting - a perfect and appreciated match for the dish, especially when he decided that I needed to have a bit of truffle shaved over the top.
I hesitate to bring up this experience for fear of “humble bragging” or highlighting a prohibitively indulgent experience - a common trapping of the industry - but I want to emphasize the effect this had on me as a young professional. Taking care of someone not because they invested in an expensive dinner but because they are curious, motivated, or kind is an ideal I’ve kept close to my heart since. I make an effort to uphold this paying-forward of experiences by investing in the education of those around me to the best of my ability. A little kindness goes a long, long way.
Anapea Village, Rkatsiteli Rose Qvevri Traditional, Georgia 2018
The most recent surprise I’ve had with wine came from what is commonly understood as the birthplace of winemaking as we understand it: the Caucasus, specifically the country of Georgia. I was already familiar with the local specialty, Rkatsiteli, a white grape often treated in the traditional way: aged in large terra cotta vessels called kvevri and left to ferment, sometimes age, on their skins, making these “orange” wines by today’s nomenclature. But this wine was new to me. An even less-seen color mutation called Rkatsiteli Vardisperi (or Pink Rkatsiteli) sporting blush skins not dissimilar to those of Pinot Grigio, again treated in the local tradition with skin maceration and kvevri aging. The nose alone of this wine was a surprise to me, despite having had wines of a similar style more than once before. Somehow, the aromas were simultaneously savory, sweet, soft, and precise. Colors came to mind: soft pinks, rusty salmon, pale yellow, sandstone. As with most of these wines, it opened up over the course of several days (they’re quite tightly wound at first) and showed incredible finesse with aromas and flavors I hadn’t yet experienced. While each wine is unique in its expression, sentiment, aromas, and narrative, this was a wine that arrested me immediately. For all the wines I’ve tasted, I was still caught entirely off-guard - a happy sign that there is much out there we’ve yet to discover.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this recounting of wine adventures, and that they’ve perhaps piqued your curiosity! Venturing outside of the familiar is never a safe bet, but it’s always enlightening. There are plenty of wines I haven’t enjoyed from a personal standpoint, but I’m equally grateful to have tasted them. Whether they match my own preferences or not, there is something to be learned about a region, a style, a winemaker, a method - something to further expand your tasting history. And sometimes, as shown above, we get very, very lucky.