The Simple Truth in Australian Wine

What travel journalist in her right mind would say no to a luxury trip — on helicopters, in private planes and limos — to the lush vineyards and wineries of Australia? Not me, and soon I was among a small group of writers being welcomed at Wyndham Estate’s winery, among the rolling hills of Hunter Valley, where Australia’s renowned shiraz was first produced. We chatted and laughed as we sampled figs bursting with goat-cheese stuffing, a trio of chocolate mousse, local olives, and skewers of lamb and beef. Then there was the wine. Seated at long tables covered by starched white tablecloths, we were faced with dozens of empty wine glasses. The conversation swirled around the table — “I love the mid-palate sweetness”; “This is big, bold, licoricey.” Glass after glass was poured, swirled, tasted, spit out. Meanwhile, I began to feel rising panic. I had no idea what I was tasting. I couldn’t tell woody from vanilla or plum from cherry. Why were they all talking about “Band-Aid”? Why couldn’t I smell it? When I spit out the wine, it dribbled down onto my white shirt.
More wine glasses were set out for a vertical tasting — comparing the same wine from different vintages. What was I doing on the trip? I hadn’t drunk wine for 10 years because it gave me migraines. And I learned, to my horror, that everyone else on the trip was a wine critic, wine writer, wine expert. I was up half the night, wondering if I should quietly leave or risk the humiliation of exposure.
We were flown on a small charter plane to the Barossa Valley and welcomed by the growers and winemaker of Jacob’s Creek wines. We sat at a table, and 23 glasses were set out in front of each of us. The tasting began. The other journalists concentrated on the distinct finishes, textures, subtleties, and approachability of the wine. I took a deep breath . . . and blew my cover. I announced to all my colleagues that I was the black sheep among the chardonnays, sauvignon blancs, and pinot grigios. I didn’t even know how to spit. There was a long silence.
“I can show you how to spit,” said a journalist from Canada. “It’s easy,” added a wine expert from San Francisco. “You just have to commit. Commit and spit.” “I’ll show you,” said a woman from Texas. No judgment, no snooty disdain, nothing. Suddenly I was getting a spewing lesson from the masters. At first I drooled. Next I emitted piteous little squirts from my pursed lips, and then I decided to commit. I took a deep breath, and out it came: the perfect spit. The other journalists grinned and gave me the thumbs-up, and one even applauded.
Next on the agenda was a session on sensory evaluation. A Jacob’s Creek sensory analyst put us through the paces. We drank from opaque black glasses and tried to guess if the wine inside was red or white. Next, we were given two jellies to sample; one was red and one green. The red one tasted of raspberry, and the green one had a minty, citrus-like flavor. “They are the same jellies,” the analyst explained. “Only the color is different.” She offered us sugary, gummy candy and told us to hold our noses and place it on our tongue. It had no taste. When we stopped holding our noses, the taste was minty. “The color of wine, the way it looks in a glass, what happens when you inhale it . . . they greatly influence your experience. That’s why the wineries pay such attention to color and smell and why we discuss it so much,” a journalist whispered to me.
Over the next few days, I learned never to wear a white shirt to a tasting, and how to swirl, inhale, and distinguish between different wines from the same vintage. The journalists loved sharing their knowledge, being experts, initiating a virgin into the club.
On the last night, awards were given out, and I garnered a pricey bottle of Johann Shiraz Cabernet. It’s the jewel in the crown of Jacob’s Creek, which just launched in the U.S. I carefully nestled it among the clothes in my suitcase, and brought it back with me as a trophy. As it ages and ripens in my cupboard, it reminds me that when you don’t know something but pretend you do, you will either be busted or implode from the effort. When you ask for help and information, people love to give it.

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Judith Fein is an author, filmmaker, and public speaker. See globaladventure.us.