"What Does It Remind You Of?” The Sommelier’s Question That Unlocked a Writer’s Palate

"What does it remind you of?" my husband asked, swirling a glass of 2021 Bérêche & Fils Rive Gauche, his gaze insightful, his question a familiar invitation into the intricate world of wine. When you marry a sommelier, your honeymoon transforms beyond mere romantic escapism; it becomes an immersive study, a sensorial dissection, and a purposeful pilgrimage. Ours, a meticulously planned journey from the romantic streets of Paris to the historic vineyards of Reims, was dedicated to Champagne, the illustrious home of the world’s most celebrated sparkling wine. This wasn’t just about sipping; it was about understanding the soul of the beverage, its terroir, and the stories it held.

"It’s salty," I responded, my answer more an articulation of a direct taste sensation than an imaginative evocation, betraying my own less-refined, though perhaps more primal, approach to flavor. We were deep within the hallowed grounds of Bérêche et Fils, a distinguished family-owned grower Champagne house located in the Montagne de Reims sub-region. Unlike the grand Négociant-Manipulant (NM) houses, such as Moët & Chandon or Veuve Clicquot, which often purchase grapes from numerous smaller farmers, Bérêche et Fils exemplifies the Récoltant-Manipulant (RM) philosophy, cultivating their own grapes and overseeing every step of the winemaking process from vine to bottle. This distinction, increasingly valued by connoisseurs and critics like Robert Parker and Jancis Robinson, speaks to a direct connection between the winemaker and the land, fostering a unique expression of terroir and often resulting in wines with a more individualistic character. Bérêche et Fils, in particular, is celebrated for its commitment to biodynamic and organic practices, further enhancing the purity and vibrancy of their Champagnes.

The air in the cellar, two weeks post-harvest, was thick with the rich, earthy aroma of yeast, a heady blend of fermenting fruit and raw dough. It was a living, breathing space, teeming with microbial activity. When our guide carefully lifted the stopper on a barrel, we were greeted not just by the visible effervescence, but by the audible symphony of bubbles actively fermenting, a testament to the ongoing prise de mousse, the secondary fermentation in the bottle that creates Champagne’s signature sparkle. Caution was paramount; inhaling too much carbon dioxide, a natural byproduct of fermentation, could be dangerous in such confined spaces, so we learned to gently blow across the opening before cautiously sniffing the air above, seeking its elusive scent. The tour culminated in the tasting room, where five exquisite Champagnes awaited us – five distinct opportunities for sensory exploration, descriptive articulation, and speculative interpretation. Despite acknowledging it was quite possibly the finest Champagne I had ever tasted, my vocabulary felt stubbornly limited. As a writer, a professional wordsmith, I found myself unexpectedly tongue-tied, struggling to translate sensation into eloquent prose.

My husband, Dan, and I first crossed paths while working in the bustling culinary scene of New York City. Our nascent courtship was steeped in the convivial atmosphere of late-night glasses of wine and shared plates of steak tartare in the charming West Village, after our shifts concluded. Restaurant life, for all its chaos and demanding pace, is inherently a masterclass in sensory attention, a constant exercise in describing flavors and discerning nuances – that is, when not engrossed in flirtatious banter with colleagues or commiserating about demanding guests. I had always found joy and comfort in restaurants, having been raised by a father who cherished dining out as an experience. However, my palate had been forged not in the delicate intricacies of fine wine but in the bold, assertive flavors that pushed boundaries – the electrifying buzz of Szechuan peppercorns, the sharp tang of adobo vinegar. If a palate is indeed a personal archive of taste experiences, mine was undeniably shaped by a pursuit of intensity rather than subtle finesse. My culinary journey had been one of seeking the extreme, the punchy, the unequivocally pronounced.

This fundamental difference often meant that the profound nuance Dan effortlessly perceived in beverages was frequently lost on me. Before becoming a sommelier, a title he earned through rigorous study and certification (often involving blind tastings and extensive knowledge of viticulture, vinification, and global wine regions), he honed his skills as a bartender, a profession that also demands a keen understanding of flavor balance and sensory profiles. His descriptions were always vivid, almost poetic, drawing on a vast mental library of aromas and tastes. A cocktail might evoke, "It reminds me of Froot Loops left in milk." A sip of wine could elicit, "I’m getting ripe peach," or "Cherries left in the sun." Such imagery painted a rich tapestry of flavor for him, connecting abstract sensations to concrete, often nostalgic, experiences. For me, sometimes, wine was simply… wine. A pleasant, effervescent, alcoholic beverage.

Yet, our relationship was a dance of shared interests, a mutual exploration of each other’s passions. He had, with admirable patience, accompanied me on countless excursions pertaining to my literary interests. There was the memorable, dust-filled visit to Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home in Savannah, Georgia, a pilgrimage to the heart of Southern Gothic literature. And the time we received an ill-fated speeding ticket in our earnest (but ultimately unsuccessful) attempt to make the last guided tour at Edith Wharton’s historic estate, The Mount, in Massachusetts. So, when we began planning our honeymoon, a romantic sojourn to Antibes and Paris following our Brooklyn wedding, my agreement to include a detour to Champagne, less than a hundred miles east of the capital, was immediate and heartfelt. It was a gesture of reciprocity, an embrace of his world.

The Champagne region itself is a breathtaking panorama of meticulously ordered vineyards, their lush, bright green rows stretching across thousands of acres, undulating over gentle slopes. These rolling hills, sculpted by centuries of viticulture, are not merely picturesque; they are the signature of a unique terroir, a complex interplay of soil, climate, and topography. The chalky subsoil, a remnant of an ancient seabed, provides excellent drainage and reflects sunlight back onto the vines, while the cool, continental climate, with its delicate balance of sunshine and rainfall, ensures the slow, steady ripening of the specific grape varietals – primarily Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier – that give Champagne its distinctive character. This particular appellation, protected by stringent Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC) regulations since 1936, legally reserves the name "Champagne" exclusively for sparkling wines produced within its designated geographical boundaries, upholding a legacy of quality, authenticity, and historical significance that dates back centuries, famously linked to Benedictine monks like Dom Pérignon (though the myth of his "invention" of Champagne is largely debunked, his contributions to viticulture were significant).

Our itinerary in Champagne was ambitious, encompassing tours at several esteemed wineries. Among them was Champagne Bollinger, a revered Grand Marque house with a history stretching back to 1829, known for its powerful, Pinot Noir-dominant style and its preference for barrel fermentation, a hallmark of traditional Champagne production that adds complexity and age-worthiness. Bollinger’s prestige is further amplified by its long-standing association with James Bond. At Bollinger, we had the extraordinary opportunity to taste their celebrated La Côte aux Enfants – typically a still red wine, though sometimes a rosé Champagne – directly on the very hill where its grapes are grown. This single-vineyard cru is a rarity in Champagne. The name, "The Children’s Hill," is steeped in local lore, suggesting that its formidable steepness made it easier for nimble children to navigate during harvest than adults. "Not anymore," our host quipped with a smile, before skillfully popping open a bottle amidst a gentle rain, a moment of unexpected elegance in the elements. As glasses were poured, the hosts guided us, identifying notes of toasted hazelnut and tart strawberry. Someone suggested a creamy texture, a descriptor I might, perhaps, have faintly perceived. Maybe.

Mostly, however, I found myself enveloped in the cinematic beauty of the moment, the verdant landscape blurring into a hazy, almost dreamlike backdrop, my senses captivated more by the grandeur of the setting and the historical weight of the region than the specific nuances in my glass. The rain-kissed vines, the shared experience with my husband, the sheer scale of the operation – these were the dominant impressions.

Every winery tour, regardless of the house’s size or prestige, commenced with a deep dive into history. We were presented with miniature renderings of historic estates, captivating biographical details of their pioneering founders, and engaging displays of past bottle label designs, tracing the evolution of their brands. At Champagne Delamotte, established in 1760, and its prestigious sister house, Salon – renowned for its exceedingly rare, single-vintage, Blanc de Blancs Champagne (100% Chardonnay) released only in exceptional years, making it one of the world’s most sought-after and expensive wines – we encountered an impressive display of vintage menus. One, from 1954, hailed from the legendary Paris restaurant Maxim’s, offering a glimpse into a bygone era of Parisian haute cuisine and the enduring presence of Champagne at the pinnacle of fine dining.

A consistent highlight, and indeed a necessity, of these tours was the descent into the noticeably cooler, subterranean stone caverns. These ancient cellars, known as crayères, carved deep into the chalky bedrock, provide the ideal stable temperature and humidity (around 10-12°C and 80-90% humidity) for the wine to age gracefully, sometimes for decades. Many of the finest Champagnes mature in oak barrels, often sourced from the esteemed forests of Burgundy, some of which are centuries old. The influence of oak, whether for fermentation or aging, imparts complexity, structure, and subtle flavors like vanilla, toast, or spice to the wine, contributing significantly to its final profile. Several of these historic houses maintain a specialized artisan on staff, a cooper (tonnelier), whose singular expertise lies in crafting, repairing, and replacing the wooden slats of these invaluable barrels, a testament to the enduring importance of traditional craftsmanship and the investment in quality winemaking.

By the culmination of our time in the idyllic Champagne countryside, I confess, I had reached a saturation point. One too many facts about barrels, an object I had previously given little thought to, had, perhaps, dulled my enthusiasm. Despite my earnest efforts to remain present and engaged, I found myself increasingly bored and fidgety, a persistent headache throbbing from the cumulative effect of copious wine tastings. I was weary of the relentless cerebral exercise of attempting to conjure the memory of a stone fruit, when all I could consistently discern was the exhilarating sparkle of excellent Champagne. My palate, overstimulated yet paradoxically uninspired, craved a different kind of sensory input, a break from the analytical.

Upon our return to the vibrant energy of Paris, we sought solace in a dinner at Early June, a charming restaurant known for its inventive cuisine and natural wine selection. As Dan held his glass of Viognier, a Rhône varietal, he remarked, "It reminds me of white flowers." He extended the glass towards me, inviting me to share in his perception. I gently shook my head. "I can’t talk about wine anymore," I told him, though he had, in fact, been talking about flowers, a more accessible descriptor. This marked a subtle but significant shift. We consciously redirected the remainder of our trip, immersing ourselves in the quintessential Parisian experiences we had initially envisioned: leisurely vintage shopping along the picturesque Canal St. Martin, contemplative mornings spent wandering the magnificent halls of the Musée d’Orsay, admiring Impressionist masterpieces, and indulgent afternoons perched in cushioned window seats, savoring delicate pastries that flaked delightfully onto our laps from one of Paris’s renowned patisseries.

On our final day in the city, a serendipitous discovery led us to Laïzé, a minimalist Taiwanese coffee shop near the Canal St. Martin. As we placed our order, the barista, with a sommelier-like precision, explained the nuanced profiles of their blends: the Taipei blend, she noted, would be distinctly floral, while the Tainan blend would offer a fermented, almost wine-like character. Still bearing the lingering effects of my Champagne "Stockholm Syndrome," I opted for the latter, intrigued by the promise of a coffee that mimicked wine. We settled into the café’s industrial, cream-colored stone interior. After my first tentative swallow, an unmistakable sensation, a clear and potent flavor of stinky tofu, bloomed in my mouth. "Do you taste that?" I asked quickly, pushing my cup towards Dan, a rush of profound meaning clogging my throat. The taste, particularly on the finish, was a visceral connection to my past; my father, who was born in Taiwan, had cherished that distinctively fermented tofu dish. It was a flavor deeply embedded in my childhood, a potent symbol of my heritage, a memory made tangible through taste.

Dan took a sip, but shook his head. While he had encountered stinky tofu before, a notorious Taiwanese delicacy, he couldn’t quite pinpoint the specific nuance I had so vividly perceived. "It means that there’s something on your palate that I don’t have," he explained gently. "It reminded you of something that I don’t know the same way." His words, rather than diminishing my experience, validated it. He recognized that taste is not merely a universal chemical reaction but a deeply personal and culturally informed phenomenon, shaped by individual history and memory.

I had always carried a slight, irrational shame for my ambivalence towards stinky tofu, a dish so emblematic of a part of my cultural identity, its pungent aroma often challenging to newcomers. Yet, this lingering remnant, resurfacing unexpectedly in a Parisian coffee shop, was something I deeply appreciated, a taste that resonated with a forgotten part of myself, lingering sweetly on my tongue after each sip. It was a taste of home, of childhood, of my father.

Throughout our country-side wine tastings, I had felt a subtle sense of pretense, as if I were merely going through the motions, trying to discern an elusive "peach" from a "cherry," struggling to connect with the prescribed vocabulary. But this unexpected coffee experience had unveiled a profound and unanticipated lesson: the power of taste to access an imagistic reach into the past, to unlock deeply personal memories. Perhaps this was the true essence of Dan’s initial question – not merely "what do you taste?" but "what does it remind you of?" – a question fundamentally framed in the realm of memory, a realm that is not static but fluid, capable of being sparked, revived, and continually rebuilt. It was a realization that true appreciation, for wine or coffee or any sensory experience, often lies not just in objective analysis but in subjective, emotional resonance.

What does Champagne remind me of now? It is the crisp, invigorating chill of the ancient wine caves, a palpable sense of history stretching back through centuries of human endeavor. It is the delicate, exhilarating electricity of the bubbles dancing on the tongue, a symbol of effervescent joy and celebration. But more profoundly, it is the image of the two of us, standing beneath a soft rain, holding wine glasses, surrounded by the undulating green hillsides of Champagne, just a few months into the beautiful, unfolding journey of our marriage. It reminds me that true appreciation, like love, often lies not in perfect articulation or expert analysis, but in shared experience and the deeply personal echoes it leaves behind, shaping our individual palates and enriching our collective story.