The Language of Wine

My beloved high school writing teacher, Mrs. Wilchek, who wore rose-scented perfume and collected buttons (not the ones with slogans on them - actual buttons), once told me her dream job was to be someone who named things. Need a name for a new shade of lipstick? She's your woman. Naming a new street? You know who to call.

I found myself thinking of Mrs. Wilchek as I read an email earlier today from Bistrot Lepic in Georgetown, describing a wine tasting they're having next week (they have them every Tuesday, actually). The email describes a brut they'll be serving as having "dough" accents. Ummm....But it gets better: this wine also "finishes with a tactile sensation around the gums." Ah, yes, a tactile sensation. The best kind.

And then, there was the capper, part of the description of a rosé:

"It gives an impression of youth and vigour but also tenderness and serenity."

Oh. My.

I now have an image of a room full of struggling poets who can't get published and so turn their creative energies to describing wine. Crumpled sheets of paper lie scattered across the floor. They haven't even tasted the wines they describe, they only know that "good and grapey" will not do, nor will the slightly more sophisticated "a full-bodied red." No, their bosses expect more from them, and there are no small parts, only small actors (or whatever the equivalent is for poets), and so they earnestly churn forth, until at last, a small glimmer of inspiration: of course. An "accent of dough."

There's hope yet.