The Light Touch / Inspecting the whine list

Our friend, Bob, is a politically incorrect wine connoisseur. Even worse, when we go out for dinner, he likes taking charge with the wine selection. When an expensive Cabernet Sauvignon arrived at the table, Bob's inclination was to take a sip, smile politely and announce with the voice of authority: "I've tasted worse." Bob thinks he can tell the difference between a wine from the Cotes de Nuit and one from the Cotes de Beaune. This embarrasses the rest of us, especially Jane, Bob's wife, whom Bob said doesn't know a thing about "Cotes" except mink and chinchilla.

Our eyes rolled further when once, after a too-tart Chambertin was poured, Bob announced that what we were drinking was one of the finest wines in the world.

"What you perceive as tart," he explained, "is actually naive and immature ... like you," he told Jane.

"It's enough to drive a girl to drink," Jane said.

The sommelier glared, and raising his nose in the air, informed Bob that the wine was, in fact, young, energetic, and the only thing that was "off" was Bob's tastebuds. "Furthermore," the steward said, "most people find its aroma to be lively and fresh -- bold but not intrusive -- stylish but not overbearing. If you taste it again, I assure you will find it drinks well."

"It seems unctuous and severe, not to mention, aggressive, rude and painfully smug," Bob retaliated.

Then he did the unthinkable: He ordered a mediocre wine from the vineyards of Jersey City, while the rest of us sneered disapprovingly.

After years of Bob going off his cork, Jane knew it was time to educate him. For his birthday, she sent him off for lessons with the renowned wine expert, Phillipe de Marlowe, who was giving a course on wines at the local college. "In only a few months," Phillipe announced, "You'll be able to judge by color alone if a wine is ready for sipping."

After the first two classes, Bob was warmed up. When a bottle was uncorked, he followed Phillipe's instructions. First, he sniffed, took a sip, swirled it around his mouth to release the bouquet and inhaled deeply.

"This wine lands nicely on the palate," he announced with authority.

At our next dinner, Bob chose a Bordeaux, which he figured had to be good since it cost a fortune. But he noticed the wine looked cloudy. He sniffed the cork.

"It smells vaguely like the Atlantic City boardwalk," he said. "Woody and astringent with a hint of seediness."

Another bottle promptly appeared. Bob did his swishing and swirling, and then stopped. "This wine is uneven and bawdy. Though it boasts a fine reputation, it seems unrefined and lacks backbone."

The man at the next table, overhearing Bob's erudite comments, applauded loudly.

"Bravo," he said. "The wine you have there is a very bad year. I own a French vineyard and you are correct in your analysis. Allow me to send over a complimentary bottle of Pinot Noir. You're obviously a man whose nose knows the score."

Bob sat back and beamed.

Recently, a group of us joined Wine of the Month Club, attending tastings with Bob as our guide. Last week, he taught us the difference between a Pouilly-Fuisse and a Pouilly-Fume. We were impressed. When we need a wine recommendation, Bob's the man.

But after a month, Jane admitted that he has become insufferable. When ordering wine, he always sends back the first bottle purely on principle. Invariably, the second bottle doesn't meet with his approval either. By the third try, he concludes they almost got it right.

In honor of Bob's graduation from Vineyards 101, we gave him a bottle of Dom Perignon. He sniffed, swirled, tasted, and winced. We hung on his every gesture, waiting anxiously for the verdict.

"Too bubbly," Bob said. "Mouth-puckering and moody. Not as dignified as I had hoped, nor does it resonate on the tongue." He lifted his glass to check the color and clarity. "Definitely too tangy and bold. It lacks subtlety and definition. Over-rated, flamboyant and self-indulgent. Crude instead of sophisticated. Petulant and flinty while also being unquestionably inferior. All in all, it's undistinguished."

"But this is one of our finest champagnes," the sommelier implored.

"I've had ginger ale that tastes better than this," Bob said. "Bring us a bottle of your finest Asti Spumante."

If a corkscrew were handy, we would have stuck it directly into Bob's neck.

Judith Marks-White shares her humorous views every other Wednesday. She can be reached at: joodth@snet.net or at www.judithmarks-white.com.