or How I Got Tipsy in a Spanish Classroom While Listening to a Guy Named Frank Talk About Tannins
Since last spring’s charcuterie-and-champagne class left us gloriously buzzed and full of facts we would forget within a week, we decided to level up. This fall, we enrolled in “The Wines of Italy” at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education, because Mr. P, a Frenchman with pride and palate, knows fuck-all about wine beyond the French border. And because I, an American woman with a credit card and unresolved academic tendencies, will sign up for literally anything that makes me feel both smarter and mildly drunk.
We figured the class would be full of beardy old men sniffing their glasses like truffle pigs and quoting vintage years they first tasted in the Left Bank with a countess. Instead, we walked into a room that screamed “budget public high school”: hard plastic chairs, scratched-up table, a chalkboard inexplicably covered in Spanish verbs. And seated around it? 7 women, 2 men, and one very American instructor with Italian ancestry and the energy of a divorced high school teacher who once studied abroad and never got over it.
We kicked things off with introductions. Everyone had to name their favorite wine. No pressure.
- First were two Irish-faced townie sisters who looked like they dropped straight out of a Dorchester family reunion. One liked “Californian wines,” and the other offered “I like red, but I’m getting into whites,” which is code for “I’m here to get hammered and I brought backup.”
- Next up, two older women who clearly had disposible income and the kind of friendship that involves ayahuasca trips and matching fleece. One was Italian but “knew nothing about wine,” which felt like a lie, and the other named some obscure varietal so I immediately respected and feared her.
- Then came a 20-something Asian woman who said she liked “champagne,” which prompted a future tantrum from the teacher about how Americans misuse that word. Young lady spent the evening simply housing the flavorless crackers.
- Our lone other man: a late-20s ginger wearing the full Brooks Brothers starter pack. He said “zinfandel” (he pronounced it right) and gave off the vibe of someone who writes Yelp reviews for sport.
- Mr. P explained that he was French and therefore drinks French wine. “I’m his wife,” I said. “I drink whatever he buys.” That got a laugh, got me off the hook, and cemented my role as the sarcastic one. Perfect.
- Last was a confident 40-something woman who said she “knows people in the industry,” which was vague enough to either mean sommelier or bartender at Eataly. Either way, I believed her.
To “wake up our palates,” we were given mystery liquids. The first was clear and acidic. I swirled. I sniffed. I bullshitted. It was water with lemon. Great start.
Next: a pinkish liquid. “Cranberry juice,” I whispered confidently. Nope. Grape juice. Because apparently I’ve never had either.
Third: an amber-colored mystery. “Flat beer?” I guessed. It was black tea. I’m officially a tasting failure and also probably just thirsty.
Then came the wines. First up: a dry white from Veneto. The room lit up with shouts of “Apples!” “Pears!” “Stone fruit!” I turned to Mr. P and whispered, “I think it tastes like white wine.” I wasn’t wrong.
The next two whites were less acidic, actually good, and tragically poured out before I could finish mine. The townie sisters were draining their glasses like it was Thirsty Thursday at TGI Friday’s. Meanwhile, the instructor was going off about soil chemistry, vine altitude, salad pairings, and how the Italian wine bureaucracy is “similar to France, but even more psychotic.” (Direct quote.)
Things got more interesting with the reds. A rich Tuscan red inspired one of the funky fleece women to announce, “This one’s very thick and jammy in my mouth. Am I crazy?” No. You’re drunk and honest. Keep going.
We learned that Italy has over 200 grape varieties, while France has about 50… because Italy’s topography is chaotic and beautiful, and France got wine-regulation fever and purged everything fun. Our teacher kept comparing the two countries. Possibly for Mr. P’s benefit. Possibly because he has a lifelong complex about French wine.
By the final wine, I was buzzing off vapors and residual crackers. Not drunk, exactly. But wine class isn’t all giggles and gulping. It’s educational. We learned about history, geography, fermentation, agricultural colonialism, and the socioeconomic implications of labeling… and we got tipsy doing it.
Class #2 is next week. We’re studying hard. And by “studying,” I mean wearing clean clothes and pretending not to be wine-degenerate trash for two hours in front of strangers.
Can’t wait.
