A Chablis my student found thin, and what it taught us both

Years ago, at a tasting in Hong Kong, a student put down her glass and looked at me with real frustration.

“Why is this considered good? It’s thin.”

It was a village Chablis from a good producer. Bright, taut, no oak, modest weight. An honest wine.

I knew what she was comparing it to, even if she didn’t. The Californian Chardonnays she loved were broad, creamy and warm, filling the mouth from the first sip. Beside them, the Chablis seemed to be missing something.

Nothing was wrong with her palate. She was measuring the wine before she had placed it.

So we stopped asking whether it was good and looked at what it was. Light in body. High in acidity. A lively texture that drew the mouth towards the finish instead of filling it. Lemon, green apples, a little wet stone and a touch of flint, nothing to hide behind.

Slowly, the wine began to make sense to her.

She still preferred the Californian. Changing her mind was never the point.

For years I thought my job as a teacher was to pass on what I knew: the grapes, the regions, the reasons one wine is admired and another ignored. I had it backwards.

Most drinkers have been taught to ask whether a wine is good and have never been given the words to ask what they are in the mood for. The purpose of wine education is not to tell people what is beautiful. It is to help them discover what they find beautiful. That discovery is a question of style, and it belongs to no one else.

That is what my student took away that afternoon: a way to read her glass, so she could trust her own response.

When a celebrated wine leaves you cold, look at its weight, its structure, its texture. Ask what it is trying to be. Then decide whether you want it.

Sometimes the answer will be no. Now you will know why.

Photo by Oleh Holodyshyn