CHAPTER ONE
If I Can Go from Two Buck Chuck to Connoisseur, So Can You
I wasn’t kidding when I said I started where you are right now. Maybe even further behind where you are right now. I was a broke writer who drank absolute shit wines up until maybe five years ago, and then I was still a broke writer because I was spending all my money on wine. But all those years, from the worst wines of twenty-two to the best wines of thirty, have been my education. In this chapter, we’ll go over the bottles I drank in the beginning, the lessons they taught me, and my philosophies in tasting that I still use to this day.
MY JOURNEY IN WINE, FROM FRANZIA TO CAB FRANC
Most people think learning about wine is a strenuous and academic endeavor reserved for aspiring sommeliers. While that is one way to do it, it isn’t the only way. My preferred method is much simpler: Drink a lot of wine, and be conscious of what you’re drinking. In other words, with each wine you drink, you should be taking mental or physical notes on it, and reading up on any grape, producer, region, or even just words on the label you’re not familiar with. It’s important to do this while you’re drinking the wine (granted you’re not at the dinner table and being rude as hell) so that the information you’re recording or researching sticks with your memory of the wine itself. And that’s it: a crash course in the Marissa A. Ross School of Wine. I’ve never taken any classes, nor did I turn twenty-one and, poof, became a wine connoisseur. Everything I know today comes from years of drinking progressively less shitty wine.
It all started with Franzia White Zinfandel. Franzia White Zinfandel smells like moldy oranges covered in corn syrup and tastes like a melted pack of knockoff Sour Patch Kids you found between car seats. As much as I want to fondly remember it as the wine my grandmother drank with ice cubes, instead it ignites nightmarish memories of a cheerleader making me chug twelve ounces of it spiked with gin. I know technically you can’t spike something that is already alcoholic, but if someone puts gin in your Zin, trust me, it’s spiked. Hell, it’s practically roofied. Since that fateful evening my sophomore year of high school, I have not touched Franzia nor trusted anyone named Erika.
That first taste of alcohol didn’t turn me off from wine as a whole. In college, I took to Quail Oak Cabernet. It really captures that whole “I’m going to college! Just kidding, I’m skipping class to smoke weed because I have no idea what the hell I’m doing” vibe with its scent of a week-old open can of plums in a dirty dorm room and long finish of cheap, hot alcohol left out in the yard after a frat party. Miraculously, seventy cents less than Charles Shaw, Quail Oak pairs with your roommate’s leftover pizza and getting drunk enough to watch a movie (read: do hand stuff) with a relative stranger you met in the political science class you went to twice last semester. Born out of necessity and seeped in shame, it is the wine equivalent of smoking a resin bowl, something I became all too familiar with after I dropped out of college and moved back home my sophomore year.
When I moved to Los Angeles in 2008, I had a big dream of becoming a comedy writer/actor, three soul-crushing day jobs later—and two Craigslist roommates, one of whom turned out to be a Craigslist drug dealer, while the other was a heroin addict, hoarder, Craigslist hooker—I took to writing (hiding) in my closet-size room with my $3 wines. They were all I could afford, and I liked them enough, but it just made me think if I liked $3 wines, I’d probably love $5 wines. Despite not having the money for such indulgences, I took the leap and started buying $5 Rex-Goliath Pinot Noir. You wouldn’t believe how much of a difference two dollars make. Instead of smelling like rotting fruit, the Rex-Goliath smelled like my old aunt’s perfume. Instead of tasting like I was about to have regrettable sex with a clumsy coed, it tasted like I was about to have regrettable sex with a selfish photographer/barista. Most important, it had a different texture than the $3 wines I’d been drinking. I don’t know if I would go as far as to call it “lush & velvety!” like their little gold stickers do, but there was a weight to it, with two actual notes of fruit and spice, rather than one note of booze.
Society had made it clear that I was not a woman until I started drinking white wine, and so at age twenty-four, I stepped into adulthood. I had hated white wine until I tried the Beringer Sauvignon Blanc. A serious splurge at $6, Beringer smelled musty, like the boxes of yearbooks my mom made me move out of her garage and I was like, “Mom! Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have a place for my old yearbooks! You have a garage! I have a shoe box in the city! I don’t have room for these! FINE, I’LL TAKE THEM! I’M A GROWN WOMAN! I DRINK SAUVIGNON BLANC.” It tasted like a recently cleaned litter box mixed with citrus rinds, and felt like a cool breeze blowing through my hair, as if I was in a convertible speeding down the highway of maturity, Chuck Shaw in my rearview mirror. Suddenly, I was ordering salmon at restaurants and watching Top Chef, because that is adult shit.
It was around this time that I started making friends who were a little older and more successful than I. They would throw dinner parties, real dinner parties, not like the veggie corn dogs and bricks of cheddar cheese dinner parties I’d throw for myself and my Netflix queue. Going to these events, I knew I couldn’t show up with a $2 or even $6 bottle of wine. I had to step up my game, so I started buying $12 Coppola wine on sale. Coppola wine smelled like, “Are you sure you wanted to spend $12 on this? Cause you broke, girl, and this is like four bottles’ worth of money.” But then you taste it and you’re like, wait, there are wines that are smooth? It was fruity but soft, and that was the first time I thought a wine felt “plush.” I’d heard people use the word plush before, but it hadn’t ever clicked before this. It tasted like, “I’m not drinking this to just get drunk. I’m drinking it because I like it! And because I can’t embarrass myself in front of a bunch of thirty-year-olds with real jobs.” I still embarrassed myself, but I took comfort in the fact that no one could say I went on Louis C.K.–style rants and brought $2 wine.
At this point, I had developed a small cult following for my personal blog, where I documented all my cheap wine drinking. I felt safe embracing and making fun of myself online as a broke writer and shit wine drinker, but secretly, deep down, I wanted to feel more confident about my abilities to taste and understand wine. I knew that going to a wine tasting could open up those doors for me, but I was nervous about it. Going to a tasting was terrifying because it was going to be real wine, from a wine shop, not the cheap, sugary stuff I drank all the time. I couldn’t hide behind jokes or my computer screen, and I felt very vulnerable. But for $15, I could get three glasses of wine, and in Los Angeles, that’s the best deal in town. So I mustered up the courage to go to my local shop, Silverlake Wine, eager to learn but still feeling nervous. When I arrived, though, I didn’t have time to be embarrassed, because as soon as I had my first flight, I was overcome with joy. I had never experienced so many different sensations in a single glass of wine, let alone three. I was too busy writing notes and savoring each sip to care about anything else, especially what other people thought of me.
Suddenly, wines didn’t just taste like “wine.” There were specific and singular notes working in harmony to create a beautiful song of flavor. Fruits and spices danced on my mid-palate, a part of my tongue I didn’t even know could taste things on its own. I was enlightened and enamored; these tastings changed my life forever. I became obsessed with how wines differed from one another, how they each had their own flavor progression and their own sensations. I couldn’t go back to drinking the same $6 wine every night—no, now I had to try everything.
This desire to try all new wines all the time pushed me to venture into unfamiliar varietals outside of California, which was a big deal for me. Although I was never allowed to drink as a youngster, I grew up in Southern California in the nineties, so wine was a huge part of my life. My father, a mortgage broker, and my mother, a country club housewife and class mom with a heart of gold, were very into entertaining. As a child, I remember sitting at dinner parties and listening to my parents and their guests go on and on about what they had tasted in Santa Barbara the past weekend or what Napa wine club they had just joined. I remember knowing that white wine wasn’t “white wine,” it was Chardonnay, and my father always served it with fish. And red wine wasn’t “red wine,” it was Cabernet and it was served with everything else. To me, these California wines were the epitome of being a successful adult.
Subsequently, I spent my early wine days drinking (cheap) California wines. At first, buying new wines felt like gambling in a foreign language—expensive and unfamiliar. Wagering $17 on a bottle of wine whose label is written in what looks like straight-up gibberish was a risky bet. What if I didn’t like it? Then I’ve just thrown away $17 I could have spent on low-risk high-return items, such as dryer sheets and dog food.
But trying new wines had already become an addiction. Not only was I going to tastings regularly, I had started to take deep pleasure in writing about wines. I would open a bottle after work and sit alone with it, sipping it, letting it speak to me, and researching each different type of grape, otherwise known as a “varietal.” I got bored drinking the same things, now for reasons even beyond my taste buds. I wanted to learn more, and I knew that drinking the same shit every week wasn’t going to cut it.
I never had much of a strategy when buying wine; I’d look at the labels and pick out ones that were pretty, or came from a varietal I for sure already liked. This was not a very accurate way of doing things, so eventually, I decided to reduce my risk by calculating odds with the professionals, and always asking for their help. Without knowing it, this was one of the smartest moves I’ve ever made. By talking to the people who knew more about wine than I did, I was able to explore regions across the world, multitudes of varietals, and a wide array of winemaking styles with my trusted wine merchants as my guides. The more wines I tried, the less of a gamble it became. Instead, each new bottle became an opportunity to learn about wine, the world, and myself. I realized that wine was not a gamble at all, but an experience. It’s abstract yet personal, allowing you to indulge in the moment of how it physically tastes while also evoking memories from taste and sensations past. In wine, there are no rules. A bottle of wine can remind you of your adolescent summers at the beach and a field in France you’ve never seen, in the same sip.
And this is why you know more about wine than you give yourself credit for. You’ve dreamed of distant lands, you know the smell of an old leather purse, and you’ve tasted fresh fruit. Maybe a bunch of cheerleaders didn’t take advantage of you as a dorky sixteen-year-old theater kid and throw a party at your house while your parents were out of town and get you grounded for three fucking months, but I’m sure you have your own reasons for wanting to step up your game beyond cheap boxed wine. Drawing upon your memory and your senses is the foundation of tasting, enjoying, and learning about wine.
Wine is an acquired knowledge. Each glass is a lesson, whether it comes from a bottle from a gas station or a fancy cellar. No matter what you’re drinking, you’re learning. All it takes is you wanting it—and considering you’re here, I know you do.
APPROACH WINE LIKE YOU DO SMALL PLATES
A lot of people are crazy about food. I get it. Food is delicious! But it’s wild how you can take totally normal humans, place a menu in front of them, and suddenly they transform into some sort of culinary Evel Knievels, willing to try anything. Rather than jumping over semitrucks, they’re ordering five to ten small plates of shit you’ve never heard of. Beef heart tartare? Fried quail eggs? Some sort of molecular papaya yogurt dessert that looks like well-plated jizz? SURE! WHY NOT!
There’s something about food culture that makes people feel like they should go outside of their comfort zones. I have friends who need to eat the spiciest thing at the spiciest Thai restaurant in town, the meal ending with us sweating and snotting with swollen, crying eyes. People wait in line for hours when a fabled burger joint opens in their neighborhood. And when society decided to start interbreeding baked goods, no one would shut up about it. People want the trendiest, weirdest, craziest, tastiest shit all the time. They eat it up! (bah-dum-chhhhh)
I’m not above this behavior (aside from cross-pollinated pastries, which I have zero interest in) and I actively participate in it. I love new restaurants, experimental dishes, and innovative chefs. I plan meals around Jonathan Gold reviews, spend free time caressing last month’s Bon Appétit, and consider Anthony Bourdain a god. I get the food thing. What I don’t get is how people are so reluctant to take that same curiosity and fervent thrill-seeking attitude they have with food and apply it to how they approach wine. How is it so easy for some to order something like veal brains but dither over wine lists, only to order the one Pinot Noir they recognize?
Our whole lives, we’re encouraged to try new foods. As children, the most mundane and normal-ass foods are totally bonkers to us. Parents have to constantly urge their kids to try something as simple and universally delicious as mashed potatoes because hello, they’re trying to keep you alive. As adults, these persuasions come from our social life. How many times have you been out to dinner and your date is like, “C’mon! Just try it! It’s so good!” And you probably did, depending on how much you love food and/or wanted to get laid. This process is how we find out what we like and also, just as important, what we don’t like.
Here’s an example: I once tried bone marrow when out with a group of friends for my husband’s birthday at a restaurant called Bestia. I’m a big texture person, so someone describing something as “meat jelly” made me want to just throw up and die right there. But my feeling was “Well, if I’m ever going to try bone marrow, this is the place to do it.” Did I like it? Fuck no, I didn’t like it! It’s fucking meat jelly! Out of a bone! It’s like something out of a Martha Stewart Halloween spread next to the peeled grape eyeballs! Except real! And disgusting! But still, I tried it. It didn’t go to waste with the bunch of food-loving monsters I hang around with, but even if all of us tried it and didn’t like it, we would have just left the half-eaten bone on the table and not thought twice about it.
There is no inherent habit to try new things when it comes to wine because “trying new things” with alcohol has been historically disastrous for most of us. “Trying new things” is what led you to “trying” about thirty-five whipped cream–topped shots called Scooby Snacks, streaking through a house party, and jumping off the diving board like a goddamn Will Ferrell character. No, thanks, “trying new things.” We want what we know we like and what we know will not turn us into animals. Anything outside of those parameters is asking for trouble. Can’t risk it!
There is something so precious about wine that not liking a wine or, heaven forbid, not finishing a bottle is seen as a blasphemous waste. Trying a new dish is fun and fleeting, but buying a bottle of wine is a commitment that can last the whole meal. It feels more justifiable to put your money on something reliable than on the unknown. But that unknown is so important! That unknown is your first time visiting a foreign country. That unknown is the first time you had sex, or went to a concert, or read the book that changed your worldview. The unknown is everything you’ve ever been excited about, food or otherwise. To actively avoid the unknown in wine is to actively avoid a source of pleasure and inspiration.
I know it’s easier to throw money at $10 tapas than $70 bottles of wine, and I’m not saying you should just go to restaurants and randomly pick the wackiest shit off the wine list. But what I am saying is that you should take that daring spirit that drives you to try a wild dish or cook a new recipe, and try a bottle of wine you’ve never had before. Life is too short not to venture past Pinot Noir.
WINE IS NOT MATH
The only thing in this world that rivals my passion toward wine is my passionate hatred of math. I was one of those kids that scored a seven-hundred-and-something on my SATs, and that score came entirely from the English portion. I would’ve had a better chance of performing decently on the math section had I just gone ahead and drawn a huge anarchist circle-A through the answer sheet, or perhaps just set it on fire.
My problem with math was that I never wanted to accept that there was only one right answer. I realize that math is this way for legitimate reasons, like logic and science and to torture children, and I respect that. But to this day, I’m still like, “Fuck that shit.”*
This is why it pains me to see new wine drinkers treat wine like it’s an equation to be solved out of a textbook. Sometimes when you ask someone what they think about the wine, they clam up as if they’ve been called to the chalkboard to answer a question off the homework they didn’t complete. You can see their mind racing. The correct fruit descriptor plus the correct body descriptor plus two words I don’t quite understand but have heard people use equals the correct assessment of this wine. Marissa, did I get an A?
No, you didn’t, because wine is not math. There is no “right” or “wrong” answer, and objectivity in wine is a joke. And that’s not just my subjective opinion. The way a wine tastes to you is influenced primarily by what you bring to it. You have a myriad of expectations, prejudices, and preconceived notions that no one else has that affects everything you taste.
Many biases are derived from your personal experiences. In my family, Cabernet Sauvignon was a revered staple, something that was on the table every night and was enjoyed immensely. It was also something that was bragged about between my father and his business-suited dinner guests, and therefore I came to associate Cabernets with being successful, grown-up, and luxurious. So when I turned twenty-one, I started drinking Cabernet Sauvignon with dinner every night because it made me feel mature and successful. It reminded me of a time before the mortgage industry crisis, when my family could afford the finer things in life. I loved it. But I can’t tell you how much of me loving Charles Shaw Cabernet was because I actually liked how it tasted, or because it was familiar and represented a sense of affluence at a price I could afford.
On the other hand, I couldn’t drink anything blush colored for years (remember, the cheerleaders). Just the sight of a rosé would bring up an involuntary gag. Now I love rosés! But there were a good eight years when I looked at them as if they were a serial killer I had barely escaped the grips of in an episode of Law & Order: SVU. You know the look. Like I ran into them on the subway and was like, “No . . . NOOOOO!” and then ran in the opposite direction into Olivia Benson’s arms and she just happened to have a glass of Cab waiting for me because she is an angel.
You also can’t discount cultural conditioning. The types of cuisines you grew up eating influence your taste buds and their thresholds for certain flavors. If you grew up eating sweeter flavors, you are likely to have an aversion to acidic wines, or if you’re like me and can’t get enough salt, you’d prefer a glass of water over a sweet glass of Riesling. Genetics can also play a role in your taste. Some people have a bitter receptor gene called TAS2R38, or as we’re going to call it, “that bitter receptor.” If you have it, you are much more sensitive to bitter flavors. Not only will you shy away from radicchio and grapefruit, but you’ll also be averse to red wines with heavy tannins, that astringent sensation that feels like cotton mouth.
The expectation that we will all hit the same checklist of descriptors in a wine is unrealistic. There are too many biases that cannot be eliminated. What am I going to do? Eternal Sunshine that semester you spent in Prague out of you? No. That’s totally impractical and inhumane since you probably had a great time and why would I take that from you, even if it means you hate my favorite Spanish biodynamic Carignan because of some weirdo you had a one-night stand with? I want your opinion, whether it is based on your knowledge and appreciation of varietals, or it’s based on your knowledge and appreciation of life.
There is a good chance you’re going to come across some wines you just don’t like, with or without bitter receptors. I’ve come around on all sorts of things I never thought I would come around on: Chardonnay, Merlot, Brussels sprouts, Birkenstocks. But then, there are some tastes you just can’t shake. I’ve spent most of my wine career avoiding Moscato. A favorite of sorority sisters and hip-hop stars, Moscato is a wine made all over the world, from California to Brazil to Italy. It is fruity frizzante that is low in alcohol and made from Muscat Blanc grapes. They have a distinct aroma that is musky with floral perfumes and some grapefruit, and while they allegedly taste like peaches with a medium body, to me it tastes like a cup of fruit cocktail from elementary school that has been left open in your fridge for four months.
And it’s fine that I don’t like Moscato, because we’re all entitled to not like things.* There will be plenty of people you’ll encounter over the course of your life who will tell you that you need to like something. They’re going to shove glasses at you, begging you to give it the same glowing review that they did, because it validates them. And it’s very easy to smile and nod your head and say that something is lovely, when you really want to tell them that it tastes like you just swallowed a soggy dryer sheet lubed up with melted Mike and Ikes. But you know what? You don’t need to validate shit. You’re allowed to not like things. Don’t drink something just because you feel obligated to.
It’s not worth drinking wine with someone who is waiting for you to fawn or fuck up. There isn’t a game show host holding his breath on your descriptors like, “Oooh, sorry, Tamara, it was not ‘jammy.’ The word we were looking for was ‘fleshy.’ ‘Fleshy.’ But we have some lovely parting gifts for you!” And if anyone makes you feel that way, they are a huge asshole and you should take the parting gifts and run.
So drink and say whatever you want. It’s a free and clear expression of your spirit. If a Sauvignon Blanc tastes like bobsledding down a field of wildflowers, then that is what it tastes like. I’ve never bobsledded, but I know exactly what bobsledding down a field of wildflowers tastes like, because I’ve drank enough Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and that’s what I decided it tastes like. Because wine is not math. Wine is a creative writing course. And this is me giving you poetic license to drink and describe wine however you’d like to.
GIVING A SHIT ABOUT WINE DOESN’T MAKE YOU A SNOB
I’ve been called a “wine snob” a fair amount of times. Perhaps I deserved it once or twice (I have been known to get drunk and sassy, so it’s definitely in the realm of possibility), but usually I’m not doing anything to justify that label. More often than not, I’m just giving a casual opinion, saying something like “I love the finish on this Trousseau!” when the eyes start rolling back into heads forever, never to be seen again.
Here’s the thing: Drinking wine is just like anything else in the sense that if you spend enough time doing it, you’re going to get good at it. The more wine you drink, the more refined your palate becomes. And I’m not saying “refined” like, “Oh, you’re an elegant person now,” I’m saying “refined” as in you’re going to be able to taste the difference between the bell peppers in a Cabernet Franc and the tobacco in Cabernet Sauvignon. Because you give a shit! And when you give a shit about wine, you’re not just chugging it back without a thought. You are present with it. You start taking mental notes of varietals and region, and maybe real notes if you truly love it. And even if you have no idea what a wine is or where it is from, you are still smelling it and tasting it and thinking about it in a way that will help you become a more educated drinker. You may not remember it all overnight, but as you notice similar qualities reoccurring in what you drink, they become easier to recognize. And with that type of burgeoning knowledge base, of course you’re going to have opinions! You’re going to know what you like, what you don’t, and most important, you’re going to be able to articulate why. It starts small (“I like light-bodied reds”), but the next thing you know, you’ll be talking about notes of blueberry pie and how you prefer stainless steel fermentation for Chardonnay.
This is seriously how every single hobby in the world works. You practice and you get better. The only difference is no one is going to call you a snob for taking up painting or joining an adult softball league.
And it will happen eventually. One day, it’s going to hit you that the cheap wine you’ve been drinking all these years tastes awful and you’ll swear off it, and someone is going to call you a snob. It has nothing to do with you being like, “Oooh, sorryyy. I’m too good for this.” I mean, you’ll drink it if you have to. You’re not going to turn down shitty wine at your friend’s art show if the only options are shitty wine or having to look at shitty paintings sober. But you’re not bringing it home or taking it to a dinner party. Instead, you’re going to take a wine you care about and start saying things like “Try the white cheddar with that Charbono I brought, Sharon! It’s heavenly!” because you mean it. You’re truly like, “Holy shit, white cheddar and Charbono are so good, how is everyone not freaking out about how good these two things taste together?!” And then some asshole you know across the snack spread is going to be like, “When did you become such a snob?” And then you grab the knife from the chèvre and stab them.
Because here’s the thing: Giving a shit about wine doesn’t make you a snob, it makes you an informed drinker.* And being an informed wine drinker is the best kind of wine drinker because you’re not going to be blindly drinking whatever has the coolest label. No more wandering aimlessly around the wine aisle, wondering what the hell any of it means. No more picking wine off the list just because it’s not that cheap but also not that expensive. No more blowing money on wine you’re not even sure you’re going to like and then definitely not liking it and letting it turn into vinegar on your counter. Instead, you’ll be recognizing varietals and regions, communicating what you’re looking for, and making smarter purchases that lead to more enjoyable wine experiences.
When someone calls you a wine snob, they are actually telling you that they have been burned. At some point, someone belittled them over a beverage, and they feel the need to protect themselves from further judgment. I don’t blame them for being defensive; you wouldn’t want to be made to feel like a second-class citizen for not knowing how a specific cucumber was grown. But you can’t take it personally.
Snobs have dominated wine, the perception of it, and the conversation around it for far too long. We have to change that. Yes, you and me. I’m sorry to be putting you on the spot like this, but now that you’re this far into the book, you’re in it with me. Don’t worry—we’re not throwing rallies or anything; it’s a very low-commitment cause. Here is my foolproof plan for ending wine snobbery for good:
- Drink wine.
- Share wine and wine knowledge freely and happily.
- Encourage conversation.
- DON’T BE A DICK.
- Drink more wine.
And then people are like, “Wow, [insert your name here] knows so much about wine! It’s so cool! Plus, they’re so attractive and so funny and a really great host! I need to go out and get that wine we had!” Then, because you treated them like a human, they will do the same when they share that wine with their friends. They will talk and laugh and learn new things without the fear of judgment attached to it. It’s a chain reaction, baby. And it starts with us right now.
See, you and I aren’t all that different! All of us have gotten burned by boxed wine at least once, and it’s totally okay that you don’t like Merlot. No matter what you’re drinking, you’re learning, and are well on your way to becoming a confident wine drinker. All you have to do is believe in yourself and believe in the process. It doesn’t happen overnight; it takes time and practice, so be patient with yourself. Give yourself permission to learn, to be open to knowledge wherever you find it, and to be “right” or “wrong” and not care either way. Because being a confident wine drinker isn’t about knowing everything, it’s about knowing there’s always something to learn and being excited to drink it up.
To-Do To-Drink List:
- Treat yourself to a bottle of wine you’ve never heard of.
- Talk or write about it freely without worrying about being “right.”
- Fuck math forever.