Scent Memory: Wine and Perfume

I’ve got an old nose. Not in the sense of an “old soul,” but rather of an old shoe. But while it isn’t what it was in the 1970s when I was training it on old Lafite, it’s still there. Perhaps as I get even older, there will be less of it and while this isn’t something I relish, working with wine and perfume is much about memory. Few of us without a sense of smell can compound perfumes in the way Beethoven did the ninth, but those with deep olfactory associations can get by with relatively weak noses.

During my 20s, I had to walk along a hundred-yard weed-strewn stretch of meadow that ran along trolley tracks, to get to the restaurant where I worked. I played a game of labelling as many aromas as I could, even though I knew what nothing was. I just made up some method of remembering each smell. After doing this for several weeks, I had over a hundred aromas I could name.

Of course, much of what I say is supposition, but training our sense of smell is more about the brain than it is the nose. The more we smell, consciously and with intention, areas of the brain that may well have atrophied, stir back to life. When I first started smelling perfume ingredients, there were many I couldn’t detect. I couldn’t smell artificial musks, sandalwood or vetiver. Now not only do I recognize sandalwood, but can usually can tell where it’s from. I don’t think that I necessarily rejuvenated actual olfactory cells, but more likely activated the part of the brain that handles them.

I’ve been with a lot of people when they taste a particular wine or smell a particular perfume for the first time. Often, the first impression is vivid, usually of a memory of a long-forgotten place with no real understanding of how these associations came to be. Everyone first assumes these memories or associations are “wrong” and that these aromas and smells have an objective identity more important than our own impressions.

Just like any art form, every work occurs in a context. Something that looked cool in the 70s, be it fine or decorative art, may now look ridiculous. While I learned quickly to taste and even identify a good number of wines, it took much longer to appreciate these wines in a broader context, with a more pronounced sense of their provenance, the traditions behind them, and the inevitable evolution of styles that characterizes any vital art form.

It is in this area, where my knowledge of perfume is weak. People who’ve grown up with scent, more likely women, will recognize styles from various periods, nuances between brands, or what a particular perfume may imply. My only context, on the other hand, were the smells of my mother’s perfumes, some which dated from her wedding day in 1940. And while memories of these vintage creations remain sharp and evocative, after that, I know nothing.

Richebourg, one of Burgundy’s greatest vineyards

Because of this, my own perfumes are outsider art—they occur outside a traditional fine art context. If I could really use the ingredients popular in my mother’s time, perhaps my memories could serve me well, but given current restrictions, this is impossible.

Rule number one. There is no right answer.

The trick to better understanding wines and perfumes, is to group our impressions and label them in such a way that they make sense to ourselves. Gradually, we will be able to connect these associations to “objective” terms understood by others. For example, a glass of Corton may be reminiscent of berries, mushrooms, truffles, all layered together in a transcendent structure. For practical purposes, this is all we need. But as we gain experience, we begin to clump together our perceptions with ever greater precision. An amateur might identify the Corton as a Burgundy, while those more experienced may narrow it down to ever smaller locales. The berry and mushroom combination may be enough to declare the wine as Burgundy. Other more subtle nuances—a trace of mint or spearmint for example—might signal we’re at the more southern part of the iconic Côte de Nuit. If we have an effective roster of other aromas (and, for wine, flavors and textures) in our heads, we may be able to recognize Corton. If we really know this region, we’re likely to be able to pinpoint the maker.

The training of the nose is more about memory than simply giving your nose a workout. It is the accumulation over time of olfactory memory that allows us to identify nuances and subtle accords. These memories don’t have to sound good. You may identify the old Corton or pick apart the ingredients in your mother’s Quelques Fleurs, by remembering that dirty socks nuance or that strange memory of a place in your childhood. I sometimes recognize Burgundy by a note of what reminds me of Clorox; I can nail down certain vintages by whether they have an elusive dog feces aspect. What you smell doesn’t have to be a “pleasant” association. Half the time truffles remind me of mildew.