Tasting Notes

Tasting Notes

The world is full of wonderful wine,

So many that it’s very hard to choose.

But you’re supposed to be particular,

Not just knock it back like booze.

So I was dragged along to a wine tasting,

Then told to wait patiently and sit,

But the biggest shock I got that night,

Was being told not to swallow, but to spit!

Apparently, you can’t just rush in:

You’re supposed to take your time, and savour it.

If you go and drink it too quickly,

You’ll not discover your favourite.

There was a method and a protocol,

I soon learnt, that had to be observed,

Although I’d have liked to just get on with it,

From quaffing too quickly I had to be deterred.

Firstly they all gazed upon its colour,

Finding words to describe its “shades” and its “tints”,

So I swallowed a few mouthfuls,

And listened to them talking of “hints”.

Then there was some swirling around in the glass,

To develop the “bouquet” and the “aroma”:

But I decided to just finish my glass,

Before I slept, or fell into a coma.

I thought after that we’d get on with it,

But they started mentioning the “nose”,

So I started sipping a bit more of it -

What they were waiting for, God Alone knows.

Then, finally, they got on to the drinking,

And to their palates (that means the taste),

But I was already way ahead of them,

I drank a bit more, no time to waste.

They started swirling it all round their mouths,

And rolling their eyes as they savoured,

And sucking in air, and pinching their cheeks,

Was another method they favoured.

Then they spit it all out in front of me!

And started describing it as “amusing”.

It was “intense”, some called it “immense”,

But I just found their chatter confusing.

  

Now I can’t see the point of spitting it out,

Once you’ve got the stuff in your gob,

So I carried right on swallowing,

Trying my best not to look like a yob.

They were on about it being “floral”,

It was “delicate” I must understand,

And when they said it was “well-balanced”,

By this time, I had a glass in each hand.

I couldn’t frown, as I let it slip down -

They said it was “full-bodied” and “smooth” -

But by now I was cursed, with a great raging thirst,

And my drinking was looking uncouth.

The “complex notes” passed by their throats,

And there were “distinctive undertones”,

But this “fragrant” medium, had turned into tedium,

As I threw back the Cotes de Rhone.

At lasht they were talking of the “finish”,

Of how the “fragrant notes” really shung.

They were lying, to call it shatisfying,

The tashte hung around on my teeth & my tongue.

To be perfectly honesht, I’d had enough,

My legsh felt shaky; I went t’wards the door,

Everything looked all kind of doubled;

I needed no more, as slowly I shlid to the floor.

Sho take the moral of thish shtory;

And lishen to me when I try hard to shpeak:

Don’t drink too fasht, try and make it lasht,

And – shorry – I’ve to dash for a leak!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013