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BECOME A MASTER OF WINE

YES, BUT WHAT IS IT? | June 14th 2008

emdot/flirck

How does one become a Master of Wine? Bruce Palling, an amateur wine buff, takes a class to find out. But amid all the sniffing and sniffing and guessing, he discovers the real skill is smooth talking ...

Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFE

Countless times I have had the following conversation with a friendly stranger after making some comment on a vintage or bottle of wine at a dinner party:

"So, it sounds like you are a wine buff?"
"Well, I suppose I am--but a fairly amateur one"
"Why don't you go into the trade then?"
"Because drinking wine is what I am keen on, not the actual production part. Just as if you adore reading, it doesn't follow you want to be a publisher."

Wine has been a passion of mine for decades: never does a day pass without me perusing the latest offerings of the leading wine brokers and merchants in case they have slipped up on the pricing of some sought-after rarity, or are offering something I have long dreamt of trying. Today it was some Gevrey-Chambertin and Aloxe-Corton that a friend raved about--yesterday, a Bonnes Marres de Vogue from a wildly under-rated vintage and a bottle of Grand Puy Lacoste '01.

I may have mentally ruled out any future in the trade itself, but I remain intrigued by the mystique and professional qualifications surrounding it. For anyone with more than a passing interest, the ultimate wine accolade is to have the initials MW after your name. They signify the bearer to be a Master of Wine, of which there have been less than 270 since its inception 50 years ago in London.

For the first 30 years or so, it was an exclusively British club. More recently, a few dozen have come from North America, a similar number in Australasia, and now there are Chinese, Russian, Argentine, Hungarian and even Norwegian MWs. They have an impressively high attrition rate. Only a tiny proportion of those who apply make it to the finish line two or more years later, though many reapply and ultimately qualify.

Recently a message arrived out of the blue asking if I would like to join a "Master Class", comprised of people interested in learning what was necessary to gain the accolade.

The class began inauspiciously: the meeting place was on the top floor of a Piccadilly bookshop, where most of the previous activity seemed to have involved peddling Harry Potter's latest. But despite the decor, there was a cosmopolitan flavour to the participants, who hailed from China, Georgia, Australia, America and most parts of Europe--old and new.

In her introductory talk, the MW guest speaker said that a Master of Wine should be able to judge the quality of a wine rather than simply guess the name of the vineyard. "If you go into a vineyard you should also be able to speak intelligently to the vigneron and understand the context of the wine to the region." She also said that a MW should have the knowledge and the skill to taste, say, four different types of Rosé and know which was the best quality. In an ideal world, a MW should be a renaissance connisseur, an internationally recognised expert in the art, science and business of wine.

The first practical test for us potential entrants was as one would expect--and dread--a blind tasting of three Bordeaux-type wines, followed by a further tasting of another unnamed French grape variety.

A number of current MWs tried to reassure us that it really wasn't about getting the precise name of the vineyard, more a question of being able to identify the region and give a plausible explanation of why you thought that. At this point, one of the MWs said we should approach the individual glasses like a detective but then explain our reasons like a lawyer.

There had already been a pretty firm warning that if you wanted to proceed with the course, it wasn't much use if all you could do was identify First Growth Bordeaux--as these make up a miniscule fraction of the world wine market and are not very relevant to anyone who wanted to become a buyer for a major supermarket chain.

This was quite deflationary as the only time I truly excelled in a blind tasting was with such a wine. My friend Stephen Browett, proprietor of Farr Vintners, the greatest wine brokers on the planet, had invited me to lunch at Chez Bruce. He had already decanted a mystery bottle and triumphantly asked me to guess what it was. After initially thinking it might have been a Graves, I plumped for Pomerol--and yes, it was indeed that.

A few more intriguing sniffs and slurps and two guesses later, I was pronouncing it to be La Conseillante '98, a wine I have never tasted. Stephen was aghast--"How did you know?" as he swivelled around to see if I had bribed the sommelier to show me the empty bottle.

In this case it was an initial hunch that it was indeed a La Conseillante, followed process of elimination--it was a great year but not tannic enough to be a 2000, not old enough to be a '90, etc. However, I should confess the real giveaway. I knew Stephen was aware of how much I liked Conseillante--and that he had a fair amount of the '98 in stock. At least I could claim to have tasted like a detective on this occasion.

As luck would have it, such powers of deduction were sadly lacking at the Master Class--to the best of my memory, not a single one of us got the grower, chateau or domaine right for any of the six wines. However, MWs reassured us that that was hardly surprising given how many wines are now available in the UK market. Anyway, they said, the way you answer the question is more important than actually getting it spot on.

The first wine had a slightly prickly nose with an abrupt ending and pronounced tannins. I suspected it to be Chilean but in fact it was an expensive 2003 Cabernet from Stellenbosch South Africa called Waterford. The second one was obviously from Bordeaux with a floral but subdued nose. It was well integrated and had a lovely balance but was very tight. I thought it was a St Emilion '02 but it was a Clerc Milon '03, which is a Paulliac made by Mouton Rothschild. (The '03 Bordeaux vintage was quite controversial as it was an extremely hot vintage so the wines are quite New World like in structure--after this tasting, I think I will be giving them a miss.)

The final Cabernet was the youngest in appearance--almost purple and very cassisy, one-dimensional and too fruity--which is what New World Cabernet tends to taste like. Again, I was hopelessly wrong as I thought what was either a Napa Valley wine or South African turned out to be an expensive Margaret River wine from West Australia--a Cullen Diana Madeline' '04.

The next three wines were all Pinot Noir, an easy grape to identify. After that, it was hard work. Two of them were Burgundies and the middle one, which was well structured, came from Central Otago in New Zealand--a Peregrine '06, which I would be happy to pay £20 for--easily the most plausible New World Pinot Noir I have ever tasted.

Perhaps I should add another example of the perils of blind tasting. A friend in the wine trade was coming to lunch; in order to give him a hard time, we poured a bottle of Chateau Petrus into an empty bottle of a very obscure Australian wine--Chateau Balgownie from central Victoria. After we poured this into his glass, he sniffed and tasted it and pronounced it not to his taste--he said it was "too Rioja-like".

The final test was a set of general questions, meant to test how broad-minded you were about wine. The two most interesting questions were "How important is the concept of Place of Origin in marketing wine and what type of recommendations work for wine?"

It was apparent that what the judges were looking for were well-reasoned explanations with good concrete examples to illustrate the point. I picked the obvious recommendation which changed the face of American wine--the Judgement of Paris in 1976, when Californian wines performed exceptionally well against their French equivalents. Again, the MWs were looking for cogent explanations that showed a broad comprehension of the topics rather than point scoring or lists of possible answers.

The range of other candidates was fascinating--a women from Georgia who wants to promote the wines of her country; an American, the second largest importer of fine wine into China (He said that Chinese still can't get enough Chateau Lafite and that after the usual great vintages such as 1982, 2000 and 2005 they desire 1988 because eight is a lucky number) and a manager of a Holland Park delicatessen who wants to start his own Italian wine import business.

Despite the fine quality of these candidates and the noble goals of the Institute itself, I do not intend to pursue this fancy any further. Yes, I would love to broaden my rather limited knowledge of wine, but I don't believe the effort would be commensurate with the pleasure, in my case.

Perhaps the nearest equivalent would be considering whether or not to undertake a general degree course in literature when you know your real passions are for Russian novelists and mid-century English fiction. Yes, you will be exposed a huge range of new experiences, but if you are content in your niche, variety may be less attractive.

I will still look on any MWs I meet with respect and deference. But now I will be content to know that it is one more thing I can happily tick off the long list of options for future exploration.

(Bruce Palling spent 30 years as a foreign correspondent in Asia and Africa, including a posting as the first South Asia correspondent of The Independent. He lives now in London, where he writes about food, wine and travel, and is working on a history of regime change. His last story for More Intelligent Life was "Sipping Cos D'Estournel")