When you marry a sommelier, your honeymoon will inevitably include wine, and not just the casual sipping of it. It becomes an immersive study, a rigorous dissection of terroir and technique, often culminating in a pilgrimage to the hallowed lands of Champagne. Such was the case for my husband, Dan, and me, embarking on a train from Paris to Reims, the heart of France’s most celebrated sparkling wine region. "What does it remind you of?" Dan had asked, swirling a glass of 2021 Bérêche & Fils Rive Gauche, his query a familiar invitation into the intricate world of flavor perception he so expertly navigates. My response, "It’s salty," was less a direct answer to his question of reminiscence and more an immediate articulation of a dominant taste, a simple truth in a landscape often painted with poetic descriptors. Our visit to Bérêche et Fils was an education in itself. This family-owned grower, a distinct entity from the larger Champagne houses that often purchase grapes from smaller farmers, embodies a philosophy of meticulous vineyard management and intimate winemaking. We arrived two weeks post-harvest, the air in the cellar thick with the heady, yeasty perfume of fermentation – a primal scent of fruit and uncooked dough. Lifting the stopper on a barrel revealed the audible whisper of bubbles actively transforming grape juice into wine, a vital, dangerous process. We were cautioned against inhaling too deeply, lest the concentrated carbon dioxide overwhelm us. Instead, a gentle puff of air on the opening, followed by a careful sniff, offered a safe glimpse into the wine’s evolving bouquet. The subsequent tasting session laid out five Champagnes, each a new opportunity for nuanced description and speculative analysis. Despite acknowledging that these were perhaps the finest Champagnes I had ever encountered, my vocabulary for such intricate sensory experiences felt woefully inadequate. As a writer, a craft built on the precise articulation of experience, this verbal stumbling was a surprising personal frustration. Dan and I first crossed paths in the bustling environment of a New York City restaurant. Our early romance blossomed over late-night glasses of wine and shared plates of steak tartare in the charming West Village. Restaurant life, particularly for those attuned to its rhythms, often involves a heightened sensory awareness, a constant practice in describing flavors, textures, and aromas – when not preoccupied with the usual flirty banter or guest grievances. Having grown up with a father who relished dining out, I was always comfortable in this world, but my palate had been forged differently. I was more inclined to rave about the numbing buzz of Szechuan peppercorns or the piquant tang of adobo vinegar than to discern the subtle flintiness of a Chablis. If a palate is a personal record of taste, mine was shaped by an adventurous pursuit of bold, often "pushed to the brink" flavors, rather than the delicate intricacies celebrated in classical wine appreciation. This fundamental difference often meant that the subtle nuances Dan effortlessly detected in beverages were lost on me. Before becoming a sommelier, he honed his sensory skills as a bartender, capable of articulating a cocktail’s essence with a phrase like, "It reminds me of Froot Loops left in milk." A wine might evoke "ripe peach" or "cherries left in the sun" – descriptions that, to me, often sounded beautifully poetic, yet sometimes, all I simply tasted was "wine." Yet, our relationship thrives on mutual exploration. I had willingly followed him on numerous excursions aligned with my literary passions: a dusty, evocative visit to Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home in Savannah, Georgia, or a frantic, ultimately unsuccessful dash to catch the last guided tour at Edith Wharton’s historic estate in Massachusetts, which even resulted in a speeding ticket. So, when planning our honeymoon, which began in the sun-drenched Antibes before moving to the urban pulse of Paris, I readily agreed to a detour to Champagne, less than a hundred miles east of the capital. The Champagne region itself is a visual symphony of order and natural beauty. Neat rows of lush, bright green vineyards ripple across thousands of acres, ascending and descending gentle slopes. These undulating hills are more than picturesque; they are the signature of a terroir optimally suited for growing the specific grape varieties – Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier – that give Champagne its unique character. The region’s chalky subsoil, excellent drainage, and specific climate conditions are crucial to producing the only sparkling wine in the world legally permitted to bear the name "Champagne," a designation fiercely protected by its Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC) status, established in the early 20th century. We scheduled tours at several prestigious wineries. At Champagne Bollinger, a storied house established in 1829, we were invited to taste their exquisite La Côte aux Enfants directly on the very hill where its grapes are cultivated. The name, we learned, translates to "The Children’s Hill," purportedly because its steep gradient made grape-picking too arduous for adults, leaving the task to more nimble children – a charming piece of lore, though our host humorously noted, "Not anymore." As rain began to fall, a bottle was popped open, and we were encouraged to identify notes of hazelnut and tart strawberry. Someone in the group even mentioned a creaminess, which I fleetingly thought I might have detected. Maybe. Mostly, I was captivated by the cinematic beauty of the rolling vineyards disappearing into the misty horizon. Every tour followed a similar, structured pattern, beginning with a deep dive into the house’s history. We’d see miniature renderings of historic estates, learn biographical details of their founders, and examine examples of past bottle label designs. At Champagne Delamotte, founded in 1760, and its prestigious sister house, Salon – renowned for its rare, single-vintage prestige cuvée released only in exceptional years – a display of antique menus caught my eye, including a 1954 example from the legendary Parisian restaurant Maxim’s. This blend of history, artistry, and culinary tradition underscored the deep cultural roots of Champagne. A consistent highlight, and a welcome respite from the outside world, was the descent into the noticeably cooler, often damp, stone caverns where the wine ages underground. These "crayères," ancient chalk quarries, provide ideal conditions for the slow, steady maturation process vital to Champagne’s development. Many of the finest Champagnes mature in barrels, often sourced from the esteemed oak forests of Burgundy, some of which are centuries old. The role of these barrels is critical, imparting subtle flavors and textures to the wine. Several houses employ a dedicated cooper, a highly skilled artisan responsible for manufacturing, maintaining, and replacing the staves of these invaluable wooden vessels. By the end of our time in the countryside, however, the sheer volume of facts about barrels, an item I had previously given no thought to, had reached saturation point. Despite my genuine efforts to remain present and engaged, a creeping boredom and fidgetiness set in, accompanied by a dull headache from the relentless succession of tastings. I was tired of being prompted to conjure the memory of a specific stonefruit from a glass, and frankly, my palate felt overwhelmed, capable of tasting nothing beyond the pure, vibrant sparkle of excellent Champagne. Back in Paris, the change of scenery was a relief. During dinner at Early June, a contemporary bistro, Dan held his glass of Viognier, remarking that it reminded him of white flowers. He offered it to me to smell, but I gently shook my head. "I can’t talk about wine anymore," I confessed, despite his perfectly lovely, non-technical observation about flowers. And so, our honeymoon reverted to the itinerary we had originally envisioned: leisurely days filled with vintage shopping in the trendy Canal Saint-Martin district, contemplative mornings spent wandering the magnificent Musée d’Orsay, and idyllic moments perched in cushioned window seats, savoring delicate pastries that flaked deliciously onto our laps. On our final day in the city, a serendipitous stop at Laïzé, a minimalist Taiwanese coffee shop, provided an unexpected moment of profound sensory clarity. As we placed our order, the barista offered a fascinating distinction: the Taipei blend, he explained, would be floral, while the Tainan blend would possess a "fermented, wine-like" character. Still under the subtle influence of my recent Champagne immersion, I ordered the latter, intrigued by the prospect of coffee tasting like wine. Seated in the cafe’s industrial, cream-colored stone interior, my first swallow delivered an unmistakable sensation: the pungent, earthy, distinctly savory flavor of stinky tofu. "Do you taste that?" I quickly asked, pushing my cup towards Dan. "On the finish?" A wave of meaning, of memory, clogged my throat. My father, born in Taiwan, had loved that intensely aromatic fermented tofu dish. Dan took a sip, but shook his head. He had experienced stinky tofu before, but the specific nuance I detected eluded him. "It means there’s something on your palate that I don’t have," he explained, ever the insightful sommelier. "It reminded you of something that I don’t know in the same way." I had always felt a slight, inexplicable shame about my mixed feelings for stinky tofu, an iconic dish of my heritage that I admired more than I loved. Yet, now, in this Parisian coffee shop, I found myself relishing whatever remnant of it resurfaced, lingering on my tongue after each sip of the Tainan blend. Throughout our Champagne travels, I had felt like an impostor, constantly striving to differentiate peach from cherry in a glass, pretending to grasp concepts that felt abstract. But this coffee experience brought an unexpected lesson: it revealed how to access an imagistic, deeply personal reach into the past. Perhaps this was the true essence of Dan’s initial question, "What does it remind you of?" – a query framed not in objective chemical compounds, but in memory, a faculty that isn’t static, but dynamic, capable of being sparked, built, and continually reshaped by new experiences. So, what does Champagne remind me of now? It is the cool, damp embrace of ancient wine caves, a palpable link to centuries of tradition. It is the delicate, effervescent electricity of the bubbles, a fleeting sensation of joy and celebration. And, most importantly, it is the image of the two of us, husband and wife, holding wine glasses in the gentle rain on a rolling hillside, just a couple of months into the beautiful, evolving journey of our marriage. Post navigation Where is the next World Cup? I Spent Decades Avoiding the Ocean—Surfing in Indonesia Helped Me Conquer My Fear.
