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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 ï¬lling the vineyard, swirls the breathless, just freed pinot noir, and ï¬rst smells, then sips the black cherry kiss of it, lets the velvet full-bodied ï¬avor with rosemary tones immerse him. How it tastes depends on where it grows, he says, like the Côte-dâOr, or Napa; and the right rain, shade, mist, sun, the breath of slope and soilâ the goût de terroir, not forgetting some sweet spice, bitter herb, the vintnersâ choice of oaken barrels. When he says the way it hits the mouth depends on the glassâ I taste his smile, see my lips blow curves into glasses, feel my heat shape ï¬ute, 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 ©
Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture – University of California Press
Published: Apr 1, 2007
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