The Art of Winetasting on a Honeymoon in Champagne

“It’s salty,” I responded, my words a direct reply to the unspoken query of taste rather than a broader evocation of memory. We stood at Bérêche et Fils, a distinguished family-owned grower, or Récoltant-Manipulant (RM), a term signifying a producer who cultivates their own grapes and crafts their Champagne entirely on-site. This stands in stark contrast to the larger, more widely recognized Négociant-Manipulant (NM) houses that often purchase grapes from numerous smaller farmers. The harvest had concluded a fortnight prior, leaving the cellar imbued with the rich, heady aroma of fermenting yeast—a complex symphony of ripe fruit and uncooked dough. As a stopper was carefully lifted from a barrel, the subtle, dangerous hiss of active fermentation was audible. We were cautioned against inhaling too deeply, lest we succumb to the concentrated carbon dioxide; instead, we gently blew across the opening, then cautiously sniffed the air for its evolving bouquet. Following the enlightening tour, the tasting portion commenced: five exquisite Champagnes arrayed before us, each offering an opportunity for nuanced description and speculative analysis. Despite acknowledging that this was quite possibly the finest Champagne I had ever tasted, my vocabulary felt frustratingly inadequate—a peculiar irony for a professional writer.

Dan and I first crossed paths in the bustling culinary landscape of a New York City restaurant, where our nascent courtship blossomed over late-night glasses of wine and shared plates of steak tartare in the charming West Village. Restaurant life, by its very nature, cultivates a heightened sensory awareness, demanding constant articulation of flavors and textures—at least when not engrossed in friendly banter with colleagues or commiserating about challenging guests. Having been raised by a father who cherished dining out, I always felt at home in such environments. However, my gastronomic enthusiasm tended towards the bold and assertive: the electrifying buzz of Szechuan peppercorns, the sharp tang of adobo vinegar. The subtle, mineral "flint" of a Chablis, for example, often eluded my immediate descriptive grasp. If a palate is indeed a personal archive of taste experiences, mine was undeniably forged in the pursuit of flavors pushed to their exhilarating limits, rather than the delicate discernment of intricate subtleties.

Consequently, the profound nuance with which Dan, my sommelier husband, perceives beverages often remains beyond my immediate grasp. Before ascending to the rank of sommelier, he honed his craft as a bartender, capable of tasting a cocktail and musing, "It reminds me of Froot Loops left in milk." A sip of wine might evoke, "I’m getting ripe peach," or "Cherries left in the sun." His descriptions are, in essence, pure poetry. Yet, there are moments when, for me, wine simply tastes like… wine.

Nonetheless, Dan has unfailingly accompanied me on countless excursions aligned with my own passions. There was the dusty, contemplative visit to Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home in Savannah, Georgia, and the memorable (though ultimately unsuccessful) dash to make the last guided tour at Edith Wharton’s historic estate in Massachusetts, which famously resulted in a speeding ticket. So, when we meticulously planned our honeymoon itinerary to include Antibes and Paris, I readily agreed to incorporate a detour to Champagne, strategically nestled less than a hundred miles east of Paris, mid-trip.

The Champagne region itself is a breathtaking tapestry of viticultural precision. Neat, verdant rows of grapevines stretch across thousands of acres, gracefully ascending and descending gentle slopes. These undulating hills are not merely picturesque; they are the very signature of a region optimally suited for cultivating the specific grape varietals—primarily Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier—that, within this particular Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC), are legally permitted to bear the illustrious name "Champagne." This stringent appellation system, established over centuries, protects the region’s heritage and the unique quality of its sparkling wine, ensuring that no other sparkling wine in the world can be called Champagne. We meticulously arranged tours at several esteemed wineries, including the venerable Champagne Bollinger, a house steeped in history since its founding in 1829. There, amidst a light rain, we had the privilege of tasting their renowned La Côte aux Enfants directly on the very hillside where its precious grapes are cultivated. The name, we learned, carries a charming lore: the hill’s formidable steepness made adult labor arduous, leading to children traditionally assisting in the grape harvest. "Not anymore," our jovial host quipped, before expertly uncorking a bottle. As they poured, they adeptly identified notes of hazelnut and tart strawberry. Someone ventured to suggest a certain creaminess, which I might have, just possibly, detected. Maybe.

Mostly, I was utterly captivated, lost in the almost cinematic haze of the panoramic view, the rolling vineyards shimmering under the soft, diffused light.

Every winery tour, regardless of its scale or prestige, commenced with a meticulous historical narrative. We were presented with miniature renderings of the historic estates, absorbing biographical details of their visionary founders and examining fascinating examples of past bottle label designs. At Champagne Delamotte, established in 1760, and its exclusive sister house Salon—renowned for its exceptionally rare, vintage-only releases—a captivating display of old menus caught my eye. Among them was a 1954 example from the legendary Parisian restaurant Maxim’s, a testament to Champagne’s enduring presence at the pinnacle of fine dining. Invariably, these historical intros were followed by a descent into the noticeably cooler, often ancient, stone caverns known as crayères, where the precious wine undergoes its crucial aging process underground. These chalk cellars, originally Roman quarries, provide ideal conditions: a constant, cool temperature and high humidity essential for the slow, controlled maturation of Champagne. Many of the finest Champagnes mature in meticulously crafted oak barrels, often sourced from the esteemed forests of Burgundy, some of which boast a venerable age of over a century. Several grand houses even retain a dedicated cooper on staff—a master artisan skilled in the ancient craft of barrel making and repair, meticulously manufacturing and replacing worn staves to ensure the perfect vessel for their evolving wines.

By the culmination of our immersive sojourn in the countryside, I confess I had absorbed one too many intricate facts about barrels, an object I had previously given little thought to. Despite my genuine endeavor to remain present and engaged, I found myself increasingly bored and fidgety, a persistent headache throbbing from the cumulative effect of too much wine and perhaps, too much information. The constant demand to conjure the memory of an elusive stone fruit, or to pinpoint a specific mineral note, had become a mental strain. All I could truly taste, in the end, was the undeniable sparkle of excellent Champagne.

Back in the vibrant embrace of Paris, we sought refuge in a delightful dinner at Early June. As Dan held his glass of Viognier, he mused aloud 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 told him, a playful yet firm declaration, even though he had actually spoken of flowers, not grapes. And so, we gracefully recalibrated our trip, returning to the Parisian idyll we had initially envisioned. The ensuing days were filled with the joyous pursuit of vintage treasures in the charming boutiques of Canal St. Martin, serene mornings spent wandering the magnificent halls of the Musée d’Orsay, and languid afternoons spent in cushioned window seats, indulging in exquisite pastries that flaked delicately onto our laps.

On our final day in the city, a serendipitous stop led us to Laïzé, a stylish Taiwanese coffee shop. As we placed our order, the barista, with an air of practiced connoisseurship, explained that their Taipei blend offered a distinctly floral profile, while the Tainan blend would evoke a more fermented, almost wine-like essence. Still somewhat "Stockholm-syndromed" from the blur of Champagne tastings, I, intrigued by the unexpected comparison, opted for the latter, curious to experience how coffee could truly mirror the complexity of wine. We settled into the café’s industrial-chic, cream-colored stone interior. After my very first swallow, an unmistakably clear sensation of stinky tofu bloomed in my mouth. “Do you taste that?” I asked, my voice quick with recognition, handing Dan my cup. “On the finish?” A surge of emotion, a poignant memory, clogged my throat. My father, born in Taiwan, had deeply loved that pungent, fermented tofu dish.

Dan, after taking a sip, shook his head gently. He had indeed tasted stinky tofu before, but he simply couldn’t locate the specific nuance I had discovered. “It means that there’s something on your palate that I don’t have,” he explained, his voice kind and insightful. “It reminded you of something that I don’t know the same way.”

I had always harbored a slight, inexplicable shame about my ambivalent feelings towards stinky tofu. Yet, in that moment, I found myself savoring whatever remnant of it was now resurfacing, lingering deliciously on my tongue after each sip of coffee.

Throughout our Champagne pilgrimage, I had often felt like an imposter, merely pretending to discern elusive flavors, striving to differentiate peach from cherry when my palate refused to cooperate. But in that Parisian coffee shop, I had stumbled upon an unexpected revelation: the power to access an imagistic 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 analysis, but in the deeply personal, evocative language of memory, which is neither static nor fixed, but can be spontaneously sparked, and indeed, meticulously built, brick by emotional brick.

So, what does Champagne remind me of now? It is the cool, damp embrace of the ancient wine caves, a subterranean chill that speaks of history and patient maturation. It is the delicate, effervescent electricity of the bubbles, dancing on the tongue, a symbol of celebration and refined craftsmanship. And, more profoundly, it is the indelible image of the two of us, holding our wine glasses in the soft French rain, just a couple of months into the grand adventure of marriage, with the wavy, verdant hillsides of Champagne stretching endlessly around us, a tableau of shared experience and blossoming understanding.