Oen-o! -or- how I came unto Dionysian employ

So, as I may have mentioned, I’m in the wine business now, along with the music business. I’ve always been hot for the world of imbibing, whether it be coffee (a well-know and documented addiction of mine), whiskey (also well-known and documented), beer, wine, hell, even water. Me likey drinkey.

So, in the midst of my Nashville scramblings—finding an apartment, networking in the music scene, foraging for nuts and berries—I happened upon an opportunity in the wide world of wine that intrigued me, and I figured I could use the dough. Soon enough I found myself a part of YN, inc, an up-and-coming player on the Nashville wine scene, and I’ve had a lot to learn. Which is how I found myself as the YN representative at an industry tasting yesterday in a swanky, modernist Italian restaurant in historic Germantown, just a bit north of downtown.

I tried to look stylish and successful, donning a black-tie, velvet-blazer upper (the successful part) paired with some dark jeans and Converse All-Stars (the stylish part), but I’m not sure that helped. This was a showcase for Frederick Wildman and Sons, a major importer and distributor out of New York City and it seemed most of the big dogs in Nashville wine were on hand. While tasting wine sounds like a simple task, and one that any lush or rummy off the street would have no trouble accomplishing, it’s actually a bit stressful and requires a lexicon and perspicuity all it own. Basically, a bunch of people in expensive clothes gather around a couple of tables pouring, and sniffing, and drinking, and dumping a volatile amount of wine into metal receptacles, all the while expecting that their Versace suit will come out unscathed. I tried to work my way down the line of the reds first, taking time to note both the nose (read: smell) and the taste of the wine, find the brand on my price list, and record my observations. Meanwhile people are bumping into me, more experienced merchants trying to move quickly down the line, laughing, and talking, and shouting with cacophonous zeal. Needless to say, I still don’t really know what I’m doing or what I’m saying, a mere roustabout among professionals. I’ve been relieved to find out that I can actually identify what I’m smelling and tasting, but I’m not confident enough yet to believe what I’m saying. My boss seems to think I’m doing just fine, for whenever I give him my notes on a particular tasting he says something like “You’re doing fine,” or “spot on”. I’m not convinced. I had an easier time with the whites, as the crowd was beginning to thin as the tasting wound down and one of the proprietors took the time to walk me through a few of his personal favorites. I was surprised to find that I had an easier time feeling conclusive about the whites; likely, this is because I’ve spent enough time with reds to learn how to appreciate the myriad flavors of which they can be comprised, and I don’t know much about the complexities of white. Its like trying to explain to someone who only knows how to appreciate the baser elements of music—say, Nickel back and Britney Spears—why Joe Henry and Ornette Coleman kick so much ass. I guess I was able to find the Britney of white wines. It takes time to learn the finer things.

So, here I am, bravely riding forth into unexplored territories. Or perhaps it’s a little more like creeping forward, peering into the shadows for booby traps. Regardless, I’m advancing toward my own western horizon, my very own American frontier. Now where’s my Davy Crockett cap?