The Training of the Nose: A Wine Primer

When I was a toddler, things smelled very strong. Vegetables were revolting--cauliflower smelled like vomit, Brussel sprouts like something long dead.

Romanée Conti

It wasn’t until my twenties, that I began to use this sensitivity for more pleasurable effect. In the 1970s, when I was learning to cook, I was also learning about wines.

One afternoon, I ran into a friend who invited me along to a wine tasting. I was introduced to a dozen very serious wine professionals. Intimidated as I was, I still remember that first tasting—1966 Classified Growth Bordeaux. We each pitched in about 15 bucks—a little more for the First Growth Bordeaux and the Champagne tastings—which now, for a tasting of such wines, is laughable. Each week would be something new—1971 Mosels, Vintage Champagnes, Burgundies from the thirties and forties, Sauternes from the 20s. Our standard wines to bring to dinner with friends were La Tâche, Romanée Conti, or Échezeaux, if on a budget. I remember a 1953 Chateau Margaux that was like walking into a tropical garden filled with fruits and flowers that never existed. And there was the Le Montrachet that was so rich it smelled like a red. The oldest thing we tasted was an 1834 Malmsey Madeira.

All of this may sound like I have a fantastic nose, but Kate reacts to something three feet away that I need to smell straight off the blotter. Of course, one needs to smell, but olfactory memory and the ability to make distinctions, are far more important.

And, as in any art form, there must be a vision. I want to recreate the style of perfumes from the 1950s that my mother would wear for a party—perfumes that were rich, opulent, and scented with natural musk. I want to make a perfume as complex and beguiling as a ‘47 Lafite.