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Sommelier

Sommelier Sommelier zilka joseph The way it hits the mouth, he says, counts. Holding only the stem, he raises the perfect glass to the yellow sun filling the vineyard, swirls the breathless, just freed pinot noir, and first smells, then sips the black cherry kiss of it, lets the velvet full-bodied flavor with rosemary tones immerse him. How it tastes depends on where it grows, he says, like the Côte-d’Or, or Napa; and the right rain, shade, mist, sun, the breath of slope and soil— the goût de terroir, not forgetting some sweet spice, bitter herb, the vintners’ choice of oaken barrels. When he says the way it hits the mouth depends on the glass— I taste his smile, see my lips blow curves into glasses, feel my heat shape flute, goblet, cup, and I know then how the dark wine closes its liquid eyes as I lift it to my lips, and it wonders what my aroma will be, how smooth the shape of my palate, and how its mouth will read my roundness, and if it will savor the complex tones, the hidden taste of me. GASTRONOMICA SPRING 2007 zilka joseph © http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture University of California Press

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Publisher
University of California Press
Copyright
Copyright © by the University of California Press
ISSN
1529-3262
eISSN
1533-8622
DOI
10.1525/gfc.2007.7.2.12
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Sommelier zilka joseph The way it hits the mouth, he says, counts. Holding only the stem, he raises the perfect glass to the yellow sun filling the vineyard, swirls the breathless, just freed pinot noir, and first smells, then sips the black cherry kiss of it, lets the velvet full-bodied flavor with rosemary tones immerse him. How it tastes depends on where it grows, he says, like the Côte-d’Or, or Napa; and the right rain, shade, mist, sun, the breath of slope and soil— the goût de terroir, not forgetting some sweet spice, bitter herb, the vintners’ choice of oaken barrels. When he says the way it hits the mouth depends on the glass— I taste his smile, see my lips blow curves into glasses, feel my heat shape flute, goblet, cup, and I know then how the dark wine closes its liquid eyes as I lift it to my lips, and it wonders what my aroma will be, how smooth the shape of my palate, and how its mouth will read my roundness, and if it will savor the complex tones, the hidden taste of me. GASTRONOMICA SPRING 2007 zilka joseph ©

Journal

Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and CultureUniversity of California Press

Published: Apr 1, 2007

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