Book & Film Reviews

In this excellent research monograph, John Nye challenges the conventional belief that Great Britain was transformed into a free trading-nation beginning in the nineteenth cen- tury with the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846. It is the culmination of his research into Anglo-French trade from the late seventeenth century through the nineteenth. Some of this research previously has appeared in journal articles, but it is most conveniently combined in this book. Of most interest to readers of this journal perhaps will be the author’s emphasis upon the trade in French wine, and the protectionist actions of Britain against French wine, even through much of the nineteenth century.

The author surveys British trade policy from the Glorious Revolution to 1900. Until the end of the seventeenth century, Britain imported substantial amounts wine, mostly from France, and such wine formed the greatest part of Britain’s large trade deficit with France. (The author uses the term “Britain” and “British” before the union of England and Scotland in 1707, though “England” and “English” might have been more appropriate.) Early in the seventeenth century, wine was nearly a fifth of all imports into Britain by value. Old political and religious animosities between Britain and France, mercantilist economic poli- cies, and domestic economic interests all combined to play a role in British trade policy after 1689. Britain increased tariffs to levels that basically eliminated the importation of the cheaper classes of French wine in the eighteenth century. This increase in tariffs benefited the brewing and distilling industries (whiskey, gin, and rum). These interests were protected in exchange for submitting to effective and enforced domestic excise taxes on beer and distilled spirits which came to be a very important source of revenue to the British government. Their cooperation was secured by the possibility of lowering tariffs any time on foreign alcoholic beverages, including French wine. The author also notes the lower duties on Portuguese wine that prevailed because of British interests there. Some movement toward trade liberalization in the later eighteenth century was cut off by the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars. After peace came in 1815, a movement toward freer trade was supported by the relative decline of agriculture and the growth of industrialization along with changing ideologies expounded by Adam Smith and others. Tariffs on wine, brandy, coffee, tea, sugar, and rum remained essentially unchanged, however, and continued to prohibit the cheapest classes of French wines from entering Britain. Only after 1860 did an agreement with France cause Britain to modify her tariffs on French goods, including those on wine, in exchange for France lowering her duties while removing all prohibitions on British products. The opening of the British market for French wine, however, was set back by the outbreaks of the blight of oidium in the 1860s, and the more famous scourge of phylloxera in the 1880s.

In a discussion of the brewing industry and British fiscal policy, Nye examines the reasons for the British government to rely upon indirect taxes. Modern economic theory would suggest that direct taxes upon income and wealth would be more efficient because indirect taxes distort consumer choice. His answer is that the ease and cost of collecting taxes on customs and excises make these more practical to collect (transaction costs of collection were lower). Also, the British squire was well represented in Parliament by the eighteenth century, and landowners wished to avoid higher property taxes and put the bur- den upon consumers.

Though an unrealistic alternative in the world of mercantilism, the author considers what might have happened in the British-French wine trade had free trade existed. He suggests that consumption of French wine in Great Britain might have been forty times greater than it was in the absence of any discouragement of alcohol consumption, in gen- eral, and of French wine, in particular. In the appendix, he also attempts to estimate the effect of British tariffs on national income with detailed statistical analysis. The results of static models suggest a fairly small impact on British economic welfare. The many caveats to these speculations are carefully considered by the author, however. It is, of course, impossible to measure the loss of satisfaction to those British consumers who might have preferred wine to beer and distilled spirits.

The major contention of the book remains that Great Britain did not become the great bastion of free trade in the nineteenth century that conventional wisdom suggests. The story goes that in the eighteenth century Britain was a major European power with colonial ambitions that followed mercantilist policies of trade protection. In the 1830s, however, new interests rooted in growing industrialization, and supported by the ideology of the classical economists and groups like the Anti-Corn Law League, led to the elimination of tariffs and the rise of free-trade policies. The repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846 is a central part of this story. This view persists today (see the announcement for a session at the North American Conference of British Studies in 2008 which states: “From the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846 through the First World War, free trade served as a cornerstone of Britain’s economic, colonial, and foreign policies. Britain’s unilateral adoption of free trade and its subsequent agreements with other European powers quickly extended free trade not only across Europe, but also throughout the rapidly expanding colonial empires.” This is quoted from an online announcement of Eh.News, January 18, 2008.) Nye’s estimates of the degree of trade protection (as evidenced by average tariff rates) were greater for Great Britain than for France until about 1880. However, one must note that it is also clear from the author’s data that there was a trend toward freer trade in the nineteenth century on the part of both nations, even if a world of completely free trade did not come into being.

In the end, Britain became a nation of beer drinkers while French consumers remained attached to wine. John Nye has written a superb tale of the economic policies that shaped this story, as well as the tastes of consumers in the respective countries. It is one that will serve to correct old views and greatly improve our understanding of the forces responsible.

The essays in this volume are based on a December 2004 conference sponsored by the Institute of Philosophy at the University of London’s School of Advanced Study. The con- ference was entitled Philosophy and Wine from Science to Subjectivity. The ten chapters in the volume either had their roots in the proceedings from this conference or were com- missioned pieces following the conference. The list of contributing writers includes seven professional philosophers, a wine educator, a biochemist, a wine critic, and a wine-maker (albeit one with an undergraduate degree in philosophy).

In her forward to the text, noted wine writer Jancis Robinson asks “could this book represent the most fun you can have with wine without drinking a single drop?” (p. viii). For the casual reader, the answer to this question would be no. This book is not a bedside reader. The essays contained in this text are serious academic works prepared by philoso- phers, wine writers, and natural scientists. The chapters require study and contemplation by the reader to reach their full meaning. Approached from an academic perspective, the book becomes informative and pleasurable to read.

Plato, Locke, Hume, and Kant all discussed the wines they enjoyed and favored (p. xi). They, like other philosophers, however, have not applied their craft of philosophy to the study of the enjoyment of wine. For those who enjoy fine wine, this enjoyment is a very reflective process. Care is taken to buy wine from specific vintages. Wine is kept at con- trolled temperatures to safeguard its quality. Discussion takes place regarding when to open certain wines. Writers provide instruction on deciphering labels on foreign bottles of wine. Books are written concerning the pairing of food and wine. The intricacies of enjoy- ing wine are to be contemplated. It is this contemplation and reflection of the taste of wine that provides a role for the philosopher.

When individuals discuss and reflect upon wine and its taste, the assumption is made that they taste the same thing. But is that actually the case? In ontological terms do we know what we are actually tasting (p. xiii)? To speak like an economist, the question is, does the utility from drinking wine come from the wine itself or does it come from the experience of drinking the wine? If it is the experience, what is it that determines the characteristics of the experience? Does a drinker of wine learn how to appreciate the experience and how is that appreciation learned. To paraphrase an often used quote, is it the case that “I don’t know wine, but I know what I like” or is it that “I have to know wine to know what I like.”

Wine critics can subjectively describe their impression of a wine. Chemists can objec- tively list the physical properties of a wine. Is the tasting of wine a subjective or an objective experience? That is the question of this text. As is the case with the review of most conference volumes, the tendency is to want to give a chapter by chapter summary of each presentation. That would be droll. A few of the chapters, however, warrant special mention.

Chapters one, two and three of the text, to varying degrees of depth, discuss the subjec- tive side of wine tasting. In chapter three Barry C. Smith slightly changes the question. The subjective versus objective experience of tasting wine is not based on the metaphysi- cal versus physical properties of wine but on one’s ability to describe what they taste. The key issue for Smith is communication. Can a wine drinker communicate what it is like to drink a particular wine and are others able to share the same pleasure from drinking the same wine. Smith uses the analogy of describing pain (p. 58). Most everyone can recognize when they are in pain. Attempting to accurately describe that pain to another individual may be another story. The taster can recognize recurring elements in various wines sam- pled. Putting definitive names to these elements is where the problem begins. Individuals rely on wine writers and wine critics to help them describe what they taste. The subjective tasting of wine implies that one does not find the advice of all wine critics equally valuable. The valuable wine critic is the one whose personal tastes and preferences are most closely aligned with one’s own.

Chapter six of the text by Adrienne Lehrer later returns to the topic of wine vocabu- lary. This vocabulary relates to the description of a wine’s color, appearance, bouquet, aroma, taste, and mouth feel. Philosophers of language will find the choice of words used to describe wine quite interesting.

Chapter four of the text by Jamie Goode focuses on the objective or natural science approach to questions of taste. Namely, Goode explores the taste experience from a biological perspective. For those interested in the different reactions in the orbitofrontal cortex of trained tasters versus untrained taster when sampling wine, this is the chapter for  them. Goode’s discussion is on psychophysics the field of study that concentrates on how physical taste stimuli are perceived by the mind (p. 93). The physical stimuli most wine drinkers are familiar with are appearance, scent, taste, and tactile feel. The reader interested in a more complete statement of Goode’s views should consult his book-length treatment of the subject in either Wine Science (2005) or The Science of Wine (2006).

The inclusion of Ophelia Deroy’s contribution to the text is quite appropriately placed as chapter five. Deroy tries to reconcile the subjective versus objective debate over the taste of wine. Unfortunately, as is true of most of the questions in the book, the debate cannot be resolved. The chemical properties of a wine obviously affect its taste. Yet no chemical diagnosis can of itself decide the quality of a wine. In the case of wine as in any tasting experience, it is quite hard to say when the evaluative (subjective view) stops and when the purely descriptive (objective view) starts (p. 106).

Questions of Taste: The Philosophy of Wine is not a book written with economists in mind. The Journal of Wine Economics is written with economists in mind. This reviewer would therefore be remiss if he did not mention the two economic studies cited in the text. The studies cited address the reputation effects of the French Bourgogne and Bordeaux Classification System versus the California 1978 Appellation System. The study mentioned with respect to the French classification system is Landon and Smith’s 1998 article in the Southern Economic Journal entitled “Quality Expectations, Reputation and Price.” The study mentioned concerning the California Appellation Classification System is Podolny’s 2005 “The California Wine Industry,” that appears in the text Status Signals.

This review began by asking the question, is the tasting of wine a subjective or an objec- tive experience? As with many philosophical discussions, this text does not definitively answer that question. The writers of the chapters for this text do, however, thoroughly dis- cuss why this is such a difficult question to address. In closing, the words of Roger Scruton (p. 18) seem to be appropriate for those who either subjectively or objectively enjoy a glass of fine wine. Scruton states, “Nothing else that we eat or drink comes to us with such a halo of significance, and cursed be the villain who refuses to drink it.”

How do you review a bibliography? This was the first question James Gabler’s revised, and enlarged, bibliography of wine books raised for this reviewer. This book is certainly a prodigious effort, but the question remains, just how do you judge the contents, value, and quality of a bibliography?

My first thought was to check for completeness. Is there anything important left out of this bibliography? Admittedly, one must define precisely what it is intended to include, but Gabler is very careful to do this in detail at the beginning of the volume. My answer is that, except for a few very recent items, no doubt published too late for inclusion, not very darn much has been left out! In short, Gabler gets a high grade (oops, perhaps better to use the 100 point wine rating system, see entry G32925), say a 95, for completeness.

My second thought was to check for accuracy. Here the author has to be given extraordinary marks, perhaps a 100! After I received the first review copy of this book it was promptly followed by a letter from the author explaining that there were errors in the copy that had been sent, and that a new printing would be arriving shortly! The next version I received looked very similar to the first copy to me, but nevertheless this review is based on the corrected copy. Put bluntly, this is an astonishing effort and, after looking high and low, I can find no inaccuracies (though I am sure someone could if they looked hard enough– despite my score of 100, no one is perfect!).

My third thought was to check for consistency. Here I could find some fault. For example, one of my favorite books is Amerine and Roessler’s Wines: their sensory evaluation (entry G7766). Roessler, a distinguished statistician at the University of California, Davis, collaborated on this book with Amerine, a distinguished enologist at the same university. In general, co-authored books are listed under the name of the first author in Gabler’s bibliography, which is the case here. However, for some entries there is also an entry for the second author, which indicates the location of the complete entry. However, there is no such entry for Roessler. Thus, if you knew only that Roessler was one of the authors of the book you were after, you would be out of luck and unable to find a reference to the book in this bibliography. Okay, I admit this is a picky objection, so I still give Gabler 94 points for consistency.

One extremely nice touch to this book is the Introduction, written by Kevin Starr, California State Librarian for many years, now emeritus. The erudite Starr, though he admits to being no enophile, did know many of the famous characters whose works appear in this bibliography through his long connection with California scholarship about the wine industry. Starr’s Introduction serves to show us how a truly professional bibliographer “reads” such a document. It is hard to describe in brief terms Starr’s preferred method, but the basic recommendation is to pick a subject that you find fascinating and then let it lead you to other entries. This certainly worked for me. There is little doubt that this is a book for wine lovers, but it is most especially a book for those who collect wine books. After all, it provides a virtually complete list and annotation of what such specialized bibliophiles would want in their libraries. In Gabler’s own notes to his bibliography he kindly gives a contact for a society of such specialized book collectors. The group is called the Wayward Tendrils, which publishes the Wayward Tendrils Quarterly ($20 in the US, $25 in Canada, PO Box 9023, Santa Rosa, CA 95405, or make email contact with publisher Gail Unzelman at tendrils@jps.net). No doubt the next step for a wine book bibliophile, after they have purchased Gabler’s bibliography, is to join the Tendrils.

This bibulous travelogue takes us on a delightful journey through some of the most wonderful wine regions, where the author talks to owners and winemakers and assorted random characters in search of spirituous enlightenment. On the way to Sassoferrato, he visits Antonio Terni and begins to discuss one of his recurrent themes, namely that of terroir: does it exist, and what is it? “Later, Chalone winemaker Don Karlsen says, ‘There are only two terroirs in America … The limestone shelf … in Chalone and the soil around Rutherford.’” (p. 94) From Italy, he leaps over to Napa to talk with Robert Mondavi, then on to Sonoma and the Santa Cruz Mountains, popping back to France, to Bordeaux, Languedoc and Rhône, and ending up in Tuscany and finally Puglia. He interweaves learned and fascinating discussions of the history of wine with that of estates and winemakers, while he comments on the copious amounts of food ingested enroute and the prodigious amounts of wine consumed. To wit: “After leaving Terni, I drove down the long aristocratic road to the Numana highway, through the sluggish rain, past burned-out silk factories to the riffy-raffy seaside strip of Numana. I was so tipsy that I missed the turnoff for Sirolo and ended up in a strange no-man’s-land of Lido di Riscoli.” (p. 19)

The range and urbanity of these accounts is amazing and his modesty about what he does or does not understand about wine is most refreshing. In particular, he is, rightly, obsessed with the meaningless prattle that experts engage in when describing wine as in “Dark purple robe, bordered with orange. A direct and seductive nose overflowing with floral notes, gingerbread, cocoa, candied cherries. A mouth which is spherical, sexy, fleshy, with refined wood. Velvety tannins flowing around aromas of fruits and moist earth, astonishing length.” (p. 99). Or, when prompted, “What could I taste in this Zinfandel? The overripe prunes and copious glycerin which I had slyly looked up in the Wine Buyers’ Guide beforehand? Plums and cherries?” (p. 110) I often thought it would be amusing to have a panel of tasters taste the same set of wines and then require them to write down in words what the wines taste like. Would they use the same or similar characterizations of wines (tastes of flint, rock, earth, tobacco, tar, cherries, plums, honey, cocoa, chocolate, rare meat, pig’s blood, citrus, melted asphalt, caramel coated autumn leaves and god knows what else)? He then points out, which sounds to me almost Zen-like, that “the whole principle of wine language [is] to create images of things that didn’t actually exist.” (p. 247)

The author is delightful when he punctures pretensions and has impressive knowledge in ranging from the history of wine to Heidegger and Nietzsche, to Robert Parker and to esoterica such as saving grapes from rabbits by tying tufts of human hair to vines because rabbits hate human hair more than they love grapes, or that the first wine zones in Europe were created by the Duke of Tuscany in 1716 (p. 223), etc. He finds wine experts who say absurdities like, “Burgundies are the greatest wines to drink … . California is a joke by comparison,” (p. 209) although in a recent tasting of ours, $100–$150 California pinot noirs beat Burgundies in the $300–$600 range hands down. (See www.liquidasset.com,  Report 75). He notes that there is an undeniable increase in the number of animal images on wine labels and warns that “the quality of a wine is probably inversely proportional to the ferocity of the animal on its label.” (p. 197) While I do not have vast experience in this matter, I note that the unferocious Faithful Hound from the Mulderbosch estate in Stellenbosch, South Africa, is a solid and drinkable wine but does not aspire to greatness (http://www.wine.co.za/Directory/Wine.aspx?WINEID=53).

The book is witty and literate, but not numerate. Just about every numeric datum that I found and checked seems to be wrong. On p. 50, the author refers to a “three-liter magnum” bottle. According to André L. Simon, The Noble Grapes and the Great Wines of France, (Octopus Books, LC Cat. No. 72/86098), a magnum of champagne contains 1.6 liters and a magnum of Bordeaux 1.5 liters, whereas a 3 liter bottle is called a double magnum (Alexis Lichine’s New Encyclopedia of Wines and Spirits, Knopf, 1977, ISBN: 0-394-48995-0). In the very interesting discussion of vine spacing in France versus California, it is noted that in France they have 4,046 vines and in California 454 vines per acre. The yield on the widely spaced (unstressed) grapes is 25 lbs per vine versus 8 lbs for the more closely spaced. It is then asserted that for the same outlay of $2 per vine, your outlay would increase fourfold for the more densely packed system, and that your net yield would increase only 20%, neither of which ‘computes.’ At $2/vine, outlays go from 2·454 = 908 in one case and 2·4046 = 8092 in the other, while net yields (assuming that the $2/vine is an annualized cost, although the text does not say so) go from 25·454 − 908 = 10442 in the first case to 8·4046 − 8092 = 24276, more than doubling. One winemaker explains that there are 275 million hectares (under cultivation) in Languedoc. But there are 258.8 hectares per square mile, which means that in Languedoc there must be 1,062,596 square miles under cultivation. But the area of all of France is only 211,372 square miles, which also ‘does not compute.’ But these are minor glitches. The book is not only informative, interesting and rich in the memories of all who have a voice in it, but is also thoroughly pleasurable to read and is highly recommended.

This history of the Robert Mondavi experience provides remarkable detail and documentation to a tale of which most observers of California’s wine scene know the main events: Cesare Mondavi’s purchase of the Charles Krug Winery and the grooming of his two sons, Robert and Peter, to develop it; the over-publicized fight between the brothers and Robert’s expulsion from the family enterprise; Robert’s creation of his eponymous winery, making it world-class; touting Napa to make it the equivalent of France’s Bordeaux or Burgundy; the internal struggles within Robert’s own family; taking the winery public which, with Robert’s over-expansive philanthropy, led to the brink of bankruptcy, the loss of family control, the sale of the winery, and the end of the “dynasty.”

These episodes provided grist for the ingrown Napa Valley vinous mill. Siler’s book shifts the stories out of the category of gossip to “fact” through assiduous pursuit of legal documents and interviews with major participants who were unusually open to her.

Robert Mondavi was a remarkable innovator and a super-dedicated proselytizer for up-scale “fine” wine, particularly from the Napa Valley. No single person can claim to have put Napa wine in its hegemonic position – it was a collective effort of dozens if not hundreds of people – but Mondavi stands out as the leading personality. An unsympathetic analyst might call him a “remarkable huckster” but his successes and his instinct for getting the story out placed him beyond such a designation, especially with the Napa cheerleaders.

Yet Mondavi was, in the detailed narrative assembled by Siler, a mass of contradictions. Although Ernest Gallo became a remarkable marketer of Gallo wines, Robert not only innovated marketing in dozens of ways – from choosing an innovating architect for the first winery built in Napa’s renaissance and its location in view of highway 29, “inventing” fume blanc – but also in technical aspects of winemaking such as using stainless steel for fermenting tanks. He was cooperative with fellow winemakers but also very competitive. He built a network of employees, friends, and supporters yet was invariably concerned with touting his own personality which ultimately betrayed many of them who believed in him..

Robert also had a remarkable sense of his own capabilities that made for considerable inflexibility. This led to his battle with his brother Peter and his being cast out of the family business. This wounded him deeply but never led to opening himself to any degree of self-reflexivity. Starting his own winery, however, probably was one of the best things that could have happened to him since it opened possibilities for innovativeness that inevitably would have been more difficult had his expulsion not occurred. But he then reproduced his own family situation in his own children which also contributed to “the fall.” He was generous at times to a fault yet his insistence in enshrining his name made for commitments that threatened family bankruptcy and the loss of the company.

Siler shows how his ability to find talented winemakers became crucial to the winery’s success; at the same time, his dedication to creating a family dynasty made for continual turnover in those winemakers who invariably left to make their own names and reputations. Yet employment with the Robert Mondavi winery became the equivalent of graduating from “Mondavi College.”

Siler provides extensive details about Robert’s family-of-procreation dysfunctionality. What complicates that story is the driving goal of Robert and his children to build a dynasty. It demonstrates the dilemmas of successful family businesses coping with the succession of an innovative and energetic founder where that founder maintains iron control of his children through sustained criticism; trying to build a world-class corporation and a family dynasty simultaneously in two generations is a tough row to hoe. As a family, neither Robert nor any of his children could resolve the contradiction between the need to invest energy in constructing family solidarity and commitment – necessary for dynastic construction – with the incessant need to “grow” the company. There were many good ideas and opportunities – they were not always complementary – that led to adventures and misadventures. Taking the company public provided the structural basis for the fall and even the protections that were built into maintaining family control could not cope with the collapse of stock prices and Robert’s congenital demand for public recognition (undoubtedly encouraged by his second wife).

This book is a “good read”; Siler writes her story well and engages her readers. And although it doesn’t have the proper form, the Mondavi case could usefully be included as a Harvard Business School reading on the problems of family succession. And for those of us with scholarly inclinations, her extensive documentation, as noted earlier, provides a factual base to what has been a mountain of gossip.

This fascinating book chronicles the evolution of Thomas Jefferson’s love and appreciation of fine wine. As such, the text is divided into the following relevant content areas: Jefferson’s introduction to oenologic pursuits, judged to be somewhere in his twenties; his attempts, without much real success, to develop vineyards at Monticello when he was only 27 years old; his first wine trip to France, where he lived between 1784 and 1788; the stocking of his Paris wine cellar, between 1787 and 1788; his touring and tasting in the vineyards of the Rhine, the Mosel, and Champagne (1788–1789); his return to America (1789–1800); the wines he served as the third U.S. President (1801–1809); and his retirement years at Monticello between 1809–1826.

A central theme that permeates the pages of this book is how remarkably well Jefferson’s oenological pursuits foreshadowed much more recent events. Thus, Hailman notes (p. 3) that “Jefferson’s letters about wine, in the scope and variety of their curiosity, read remarkably like a Robert Parker newsletter or Wine Spectator article.” Jefferson wrote a manuscript for use in Connecticut, Vermont, and New York, this during the early 1790’s. He used a three tiered rating system (Good; Middling; Bad) that is considered today as a precursor to the much later development of the French Michelin in 1900.

Of much more oenologic interest, it is quite remarkable that in 1787, nearly 7 decades prior to the famous 1855 French Classification of Bordeaux First Growths, Thomas Jefferson classified the same four châteaux as such, namely, Château Margaux, Château Latour, Château Haut-Brion, and Château Lafitte-Rothschild! It is of historic note that Madeira was the most beloved of wines during Jefferson’s era, with the Founding Fathers considering it their wine of choice. In fact, it was for a time considered patriotic to drink the famed Portuguese fortified wine in order to avoid having to pay taxes to the British Crown!

Continuing on the Bordeaux theme, in 1787, and over a span of a mere four day period, Jefferson wrote a comprehensive evaluation of the wines of Bordeaux, a document that is still cited and quoted as an authoritative guide to the French wine trade at that time.

Well beyond this oenologic prowess, Heilman, as well as other independent authors, provide historical data that depicts Thomas Jefferson as one who easily meets criterion as a multi-faceted Renaissance man whose skills and knowledge covered many diverse fields of inquiry. Thus Jefferson, at various periods in his life, served in the roles of architect, paleontologist, and linguist (he began studying Latin, Greek, and French when he was but nine years of age; and he was, as an adult, fluent in both spoken and written French). He was also an author, inventor, horticulturist, and musician (he was the “best fiddler and finest violinist in Virginia” – p. 14).

It is in such a comprehensive backdrop that we also begin to understand and appreciate Jefferson’s commanding knowledge and enjoyment of wines from throughout the world. As Hailman notes “Jefferson became the foremost wine expert of his time, while holding the most demanding public offices, because he was unique in his energy, talent, and ability to concentrate.” It is also noteworthy that the famous Monticello Vineyards in Napa Valley, California was modeled after Jefferson’s ideas, and produces Chardonnays, Pinot Noirs, Cabernets, and late-harvest wines that he was never able to grow successfully in Monticello, Virginia. All this said, Hailman, quite a wine connoisseur himself, describes the current 1999 Sangiovese Monticello as an “excellent” wine produced by the Italian winemaker Gabrielle Rausse in Jefferson’s home state.

During his long and very productive life, Jefferson stocked three wine cellars, one in Monticello, another in Paris, and a third in Philadelphia. He was a generous and convivial host who served the very best of wines to accompany gourmet food. He was also the inventor of three dumbwaiters, one of which, in Lazy Susan fashion, enabled the dirty dinnerware and glassware to immediately reach the waiting hands of kitchen staff, this to avoid the uneasiness of guests who desired to share stories that were not meant for others outside the circle of friends and colleagues to hear.

Lest one believe that Jefferson’s taste was more or less limited to French wines, it is important to stress that he also had a commanding knowledge of major grape varietals in Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Jefferson’s favorite Italian wine was Montepulciano. Jefferson also lauded the carignane grape that has recently come into its own as the carignano varietal. The grape has its historical roots in Sardinia when this Italian island was a colony of the ancient Phoenicians, who then referred to native Sardinians as Shardana.

It is important to note, as Hailman reminds us, that during Jefferson’s era there were, in fact, no opera houses, theaters, or other such modern cultural institutions, ones that are so much an integral part of social life the world over. And so, fine wines, good dinners, and spirited conversations were the center of communal activities at that time.

It is fascinating to become acquainted with the somewhat arcane terminology that was used to order large quantities of wine during Jefferson’s era. Perhaps the most interesting was the so called pipe of wine that translated into a 110 gallon barrel which is the equivalent of 550 standard 750 ml bottles of just under 48 cases of wine.

Finally, given the somewhat now well established health benefits of moderate daily consumption of red wine, it is quite instructive that Jefferson fervently believed this to be the case (no pun intended!), as he railed against what he considered to be the poisonous and ruinous effects of hard liquor, as in the form of whisky consumption. And so as an unabashed and confirmed oenophile, I thought it might be fitting to use Jefferson’s own words, as he expressed them in a letter to a friend in France, on December 13, 1818:

“No nation is drunken where wine is cheap, and none sober where the dearness of wine substitutes ardent spirits as the common beverage. It is, in truth, the only antidote to the bane of whiskey” (p. 353).

It is befitting, although quite surprising, that Thomas Jefferson, the principal signer of the Declaration of Independence, died in 1826, at the age of 83, but on July 4th, as fate would have it!

The most recent example of our continuing to feel the “presence” of Jefferson’s oenologic influence on a global scale is the controversy first reported in a 2006 New Yorker article, in Appendix B of this book, and most recently in the September 3, 2007 issue of the New Yorker. There is now an embittered legal battle over whether or not some recent wines sold at auction are or are not originally from ones of Jefferson’s cellars. Without giving away the intrigue of it all, the importance of it is hardly diminished by the tasting and high praise given to some of these wines by such notables as Jancis Robinson and Robert Parker’ and the purchase, at astronomical prices, of some of these wines by noted wine connoisseurs. Thus, Dodi al Fayed, who died in that tragic car crash along with Princess Diana, was reported in both the Wine Spectator and The New York Post to have purchased a supposed Jefferson cellared 1784 Chateau d’Yquem, with the letters Th.J. for the staggering amount of $56,628. It has further been reported that a 375 ml or half bottle alleged to be a 1784 Margaux bearing, once again, Thomas Jefferson’s initials, was auctioned off to the owner and publisher of Wine Spectator for the astonishing amount of $30,000. This represents the fifth-highest price that anyone has been known to pay for a half bottle of wine. Quoting Hailman again, “Mr. Shanken stated that he did not plan to drink or even open the bottle, but to put it on display at the New York headquarters of M. Shanken Communications as “an important part of American history.”

In closing, I tip my oenologic cap to John Hailman for providing such a lucid, comprehensive, penetrating, and utterly delightful account of the wine knowledge and taste of one of our cherished Founding Fathers. I learned much from this book and would recommend it without reservation to all who have not yet had the sheer hedonic pleasure of savoring its contents.

Few, if any, personalities can rival the dominance exerted by Robert M. Parker, Jr. in his field today. Like Tiger Woods and Bill Gates, he occupies the rarefied air of the modern superstar. Superstardom has its price, however. His many accolades notwithstanding, his work has been punctuated over the years by outraged winemakers, defamation lawsuits, canine attacks, and even death threats.

Elin McCoy, a long-time wine writer and editor of Food and Wine magazine, skillfully weaves these and other tales into the first biography of the man who’s career has been defined by all things vinous. Her thoroughly researched account includes many interviews with subjects spanning the chain from wine producers to final consumers, including Parker himself. The result is a highly informative book that reads like a novel.

While Parker remains the central figure, the story is embedded within the context of a global wine revolution. It is marked by the emergence of robust consumer and producer markets in the U.S., growing importance of New World production, and the relative decline of French consumption and production. As the author tells it, the long arm of Parker’s influence may not have spawned the revolution, but it propelled and helped shape it into what it is today.

The book makes two main contributions. It outlines the developmental path that led to Parker’s career in wine, and it marks the many ways his power has impacted the field.

Wine enthusiasts know that Parker is a towering figure and often a polarizing one. Few lack an opinion (often strong ones) about the man. Yet, the author does an admirable job in treating her subject even-handedly. Her approach is to let the facts and experiences of others tell the tale.

While not deeply psychological, the portrait lends readers useful insights about the development, motivations, and self-image of her subject. Raised in small town Maryland, he became the first from his family to earn a professional degree. As with many American families in the 1950s and 1960s, Parker grew up with soft drinks – not wine – at the dinner table. His first real exposure to wines came as a college student, when he followed his sweetheart (now wife) to France on vacation. This experience sprung his passion for wines, and he quickly immersed himself through extensive reading, forming tasting groups, and taking wine vacations. This process improved his knowledge and educated his palate.

Then in 1977, while working as a lawyer, he made a life-altering decision to launch a wine newsletter, the Baltimore-Washington Wine Advocate (later, the regional focus was dropped). The newsletter became a platform for wine reviews and his philosophy on wines, and contrasted with wine writers of the day with its energetic, unvarnished wine descriptions. Influenced by Ralph Nader, he saw himself as a consumer advocate for wine drinkers. At the time, it was common for wine critics to receive free wines, lavish dinners, travel packages, and payment from winemakers and distributors – a clear conflict of interest. Parker saw himself as offering a fresh perspective, unencumbered by commercial obligations, and a promise to “call them like I see them.” He has never accepted gifts or compensation from vested interests. While he has his share of detractors, few question his objectivity and outspoken willingness to declare his impressions of wines.

An early defining moment came with Parker’s reviews of the 1982 Bordeaux vintage. Still a lawyer, he had not yet found widespread acclaim as a wine critic. Numerous American and European wine writers were more popular and successful. Upon returning home from barrel tastings in Bordeaux in early 1983, Parker could scarcely contain his enthusiasm for what we saw as one of the greatest vintages in memory. His gushing assessment of the vintage in the newsletter urged consumers to buy as much as they could afford of what he called “wines destined for greatness.” The established wine writers were more reserved – the vintage would be a good one, but lacked the sophistication of 1981 and may not be age-worthy. Parker was floored at hearing these critiques, and thought that “they don’t know what they’re talking about.” As he continued to extol the ‘82s, often with vividly descriptive, almost over-the-top exuberance, he gained the attention of American wine distributors, merchants, and consumers. Retailers in particular realized that his reviews pumped up the interest of American consumers, which was very good for business. His direct style and 100-point rating scale made wines accessible to the masses that previously ignored them, thereby expanding the market. In essence, Parker put his reputation on the line with the 1982 vintage, which in retrospect, has attained greatness, as has its biggest supporter. The missed call of the same vintage by other wine writers, most notably Robert Finigan, marked the beginning of their decline. The vintage won him enough readers that by 1984, he retired from law in order to devote his full energy to wine writing.

The second key contribution of the book is its discussion of his impact on the wine world. This topic is controversial. His supporters claim Parker has wielded profoundly favorable effects on the quality of wine production worldwide, on the growth of the American wine market, and on the pleasurable enjoyment of wine consumption everywhere.

He long has railed against the use of underripe grapes that can result in excessively acidic and vegetal wines, and against filtration of wines that may strip away flavor and character. His penchant for exposing underperforming wineries has likely forced greater accountability; producers can no longer rely on their reputations and expect continued success. By most accounts, the rising quality of wine is attributable in part to these efforts.

Likewise, the American market for wines has grown rapidly during Parker’s reign. This surely has many roots, including his influence. While his predecessors wrote in restrained, somewhat stuffy styles, his colloquial, excitable reviews and simple scoring system welcomed newcomers to the wine experience. McCoy points out that his “muscular” lexicon, using terms as “massive”, “aggressive”, “potent”, and “prodigious”, may have the effect of making wine consumption more acceptable to American men, who may previously have viewed it as an effete practice. And Parker consistently has emphasized that wine should be a pleasurable sensory experience, which heightens its appeal to average consumers.

His opponents see his influence as more pernicious. They charge that Parker has simply grown too influential, such that his opinions hold excessive sway over the entire global wine trade. His disapproval or ignorance of a wine, a region, or a vintage can severely depress sales, and translate into millions in lost revenues. Conversely, his raves and 90+ scores for newly “discovered” wines, can transform a struggling operation into an overnight sensation. Distributors and retailers jockey to obtain the limited supply of anointed wines, knowing that favorable Parker reviews dramatically boost sales and revenues. Leading auction houses as Christie’s indicate that Parker’s ratings directly affect prices, and essentially are the only ones that matter.Upon publication, his reviews consistently sway markets in New York, Paris, and Tokyo. This power has earned him the derisive nickname Wine Dictator.

Part of the critique maintains that Parker’s outsized influence results in a homogenization of wine styles. It is widely acknowledged (including by Parker himself) that his tastes favor the bold, fruity, and concentrated wines that have proliferated in the last 20 years or so. Winemakers seeking to appease a market defined largely by Parker increasingly are shaping their wines (“Parkerizing” them) to suit his tastes, in hopes of earning a high score to propel sales. Even a growing number of vintners in tradition-steeped regions as Bordeaux and the Piedmont are playing the game. Those who resist the tide may see their market shares decline and their survival endangered. The 2004 film “Mondovino” poignantly captured this dynamic and deplored the loss of diversity of wine styles. Wines that show finesse and terroir – a unique reflection of the soil, the sun, the weather, and legacy of the particular place where the grapes are grown – are waning as legions of wine drinkers seek jammy, hedonistic blockbusters.

For these and other reasons, the French in particular have a love-hate relationship with Parker. Many French wine insiders tend to be the most vehement of Parker-bashers. Yet he is also revered as an avid promoter and lover of great French wines and estates. This latter point was fully acknowledged when President Francois Mitterrand awarded the nation’s greatest prize, the Legion of Honor, to Parker in 1999. This relationship with the French highlights the complexity of capturing the full reality of the Parker phenomenon.

In many instances, it would have been helpful to include footnotes to document assertions made by the author. From an economist’s perspective, more complete analytic evidence of Parker’s market power would have been more satisfying, as McCoy’s statements on that topic are anecdotal in nature. Research on the subject would be a welcome addition to future editions of this journal. One, perhaps inadvertent, feature of Parker’s 100point scale is that it readily lends itself to quantitative analysis of wines and vintages. This quantification of “sensory” wine characteristics contrasts with the assessment of “objective” ones (e.g., vintage, weather, appellations, etc.), yet it is likely that both types of information can help explain the dynamics of wine markets. In some cases, objective characteristics have shown remarkable explanatory power, including predicting vintage quality in Bordeaux (see Ashenfelter’s Working Paper on the AAWE’s website). Other work highlights Parker’s scores’ (sensory data) direct influence on the price of wine futures (see the Working Paper by Ali et al. on the AAWE’s website).

All told, The Emperor of Wine paints a rich picture while avoiding an academic style in order to appeal to a broad readership. It represents an important new treatise in the field. Any wine lover would benefit from reading it, and should enhance the experience by savoring a favorite bottle to aid in contemplation of the man who changed the course of the modern wine world.

1) The views expressed in this review are my own and do not necessarily reflect the views of the EPA.

One could not ask for a better travel companion for what is surely one of the most beauti- ful train routes in the world — from Frankfurt to Bonn along the Rhine River. After an overnight flight from Boston, I had the joy of sharing that train ride with Jancis Robin- son, whom Robert Parker has called “the most gifted” of wine writers … “witty, brilliant, authoritative.” To be accurate, I shared the train ride and my subsequent days in Bonn not with Ms. Robinson directly, but with her thoughts, as she told the story of her life with wine in Tasting Pleasure: Confessions of a Wine Lover.

Jancis Robinson is well known to oenophiles the world over — as the editor of the authoritative Oxford Companion to Wine, co-author with Hugh Johnson of The World Atlas of Wine, Financial Times columnist, host of the television mini-series, Wine Course, former Wine Spectator columnist, and most recently host of her epynonomous web site. Tasting Pleasure presents an opportunity to sit down with Ms. Robinson, and join her as she describes in prose that are concise, entertaining, and modest her remarkable voyage of more than three decades as a lover of wine.

Jancis Robinson’s serious interest in wine began — as it does for so many oenophiles — with an epiphany, a single transformative and unforgettable experience. For Robinson, it was during her student days at Oxford in the early 1970s. Out for dinner with her generous boyfriend of the time, she shared a bottle of 1959 Chambolle-Musigny, Les Amoureuses. In English, “Les Amoureuses” means “the lovers.” Alas, Ms. Robinson apparently did not fall in love with the boyfriend, but most certainly did begin her love affair with red Burgundy, and — more broadly — with the world of wine.

Just as I finished reading about Jancis Robinson’s seminal experience at Oxford with fine Pinot Noir, my train entered a long tunnel above the Rhine. I closed my eyes, and was transported back to my own wine epiphany decades earlier. Our good friends, John and Lilli, had joined my wife and me for dinner at our house on New Year’s Eve, and brought with them three remarkable bottles, which opened my eyes, or rather my nose, my palate, and my heart to the transcendent experience that enjoying wine can be. I remem- ber little about the evening’s cuisine, but I have never forgotten the wines: 1976 Chateau Lafite Rothschild, 1976 Beaulieu Vineyards Georges de Latour Private Reserve, and 1982 Penfolds Grange. The joy of that experience remained with me as my train emerged from the tunnel into the daylight.

By the mid-1980s, Jancis Robinson was already an accomplished wine writer, having written several books and a regular column in the Sunday Times. In Tasting Pleasure, she takes the reader through the joys of being a wine writer — visiting the greatest cellars, the most splendid vineyards, the best restaurants — and also through the trials of becoming the first journalist to pass the battery of exams to become a “Master of Wine.” And we learn just enough about her life outside of wine, including her family with husband Nick Lander, a former restaurateur turned restaurant critic of the Financial Times.

Throughout, Robinson reminds us that she considers herself a wine writer, not a wine critic. For contrast, she offers the example of Robert Parker (and tells a wonderful story about when she first met him in Bordeaux in 1985). In her columns, books, and web site, you will not find Jancis Robinson awarding numerical scorers to wines. She views wine taste as inherently subjective, and describes wine criticism as being analogous to film criti- cism. We may read the reviews of a number of film critics, and over time we can perhaps calibrate those critics’ tastes with our own, at which point their assessments can become useful guides to what we are likely to enjoy.

That is a far cry from the respect — indeed the allegiance — often given to Robert Parker’s and others’ numerical ratings. Robinson offers a delicious anecdote which illus- trates just how foreign was the notion of quantitative scoring of wine before Parker. When Hugh Johnson was sent the proofs of Parker’s first book, Bordeaux, he thought that the curious numerical entries throughout the book adjacent to descriptions of specific wines were printer’s marks!

To be clear, Jancis Robinson does not disparage Robert Parker nor his great success. Indeed, she comments admiringly on his self-confidence and consistency. And, as with most of the characters who show up in this book, we are invited to come along to lunch or dinner, and learn about the meal — and, of course, the wines — that were enjoyed. At Parker’s Maryland home, Robinson is delighted to share an excellent dinner accompanied by 1976 Taittinger Comtes de Champagne, 1971 Chateau Petrus, 1966 Chateau Latour, 1964 La Mission Haut-Brion, 1949 Chateau Chasse-Spleen, and 1980 Chateau d’Yquem.

That is one of many days and evenings Jancis Robinson shares throughout the book. Along the way, she introduces us to a wonderful cast of characters with whom she has worked and interacted over her career — Michael Broadbent, Anthony Barton, Clive Coates, Frances Ford Coppola, Ernest Gallo, Hugh Johnson, Alexis Lichine, Corine Mentzelopoulos, Robert Mondavi, Robert Parker, Emile Peynaud, Frank Prial, Baron Philippe and Baroness Philippine de Rothschild, Marvin Shanken, Peter Sichel, Serena Sutcliffe, and Alice Waters, to name just a few.

Early in the book, Robinson confesses that during her student days at Oxford she failed to exploit the university’s renowned wine cellars. But she tells the story of once going down to inspect the cellar of All Souls College, where she was stunned to see case after case of first growths from 1961 and earlier vintages.

As I finished my breakfast aboard the train and returned to my seat, we entered another tunnel. In the dark, I pictured those marvelous wine cellars at Oxford and Cambridge. And I thought about the reality that despite my own university’s claims to have patterned itself after the Oxbridge model, stellar wine cellars do not seem to have been part of the intellectual and social inheritance. As my train emerged from the tunnel into another stunning landscape above the Rhine, I reflected on that flawed academic inheritance with some disappointment.

But there was no disappointment for me with Jancis Robinson’s confessions of a wine lover. From first page to last, the book was a joyful read. There is a striking passage near the end of the book that is reminiscent of Maya’s beautiful explanation to Miles in Sideways of her great affection for Pinot Noir. Here is Jancis Robinson telling us what makes it so rewarding to be a wine writer:

Robinson’s life in wine is indeed one of tasting pleasure, and by reading this book we have an opportunity to join her on a remarkable journey — sometimes fascinating, some- times funny — but always remarkably pleasant. For your next train ride, your next cruise, or your next flight, you deserve a great companion. Take Jancis Robinson with you.

Having had the good fortune and distinct pleasure of reading the original in this latest series, Making Sense of Wine; having become addicted to reading his sage one page column in each issue of the Wine Spectator; and having listened to his riveting wine presentations at the annual meetings of the Wine Spectator sponsored California and New York Wine Experience; I cannot help but be impressed by Matt Kramer’s high level of scholarship, linguistic expertise, thorough knowledge of his subject matter, and literary style.

In setting the stage for what is to follow, Kramer introduces the wine enthusiast to three broad principles that are of particular relevance to the Italian wine industry, and sometimes are applicable more generally. These include the concepts of Bella Figura, Campanilismo, and Mezzadria.

Kramer defines Bella Figura succinctly as “The Italian love of the beautiful gesture”. It is also the title of Beppe Severgnini’s 2006 book subtitled “A field guide to the Italian Mind” (NY: Broadway Books). Bella Figura encompasses some guiding principles that Italians use to make their social and/or business contacts more successful (ones that cut across socioeconomic status); in the context of the Italian Wine Industry, Kramer notes that the famed wine producer Angelo Gaja introduced a very long, non-standard sized cork. Gaja claimed that the new cork was required to insure the “highest quality;” to counteract what Gaja considered to be the lack of attention to quality control of corks produced in Portugal and Sardinia. The approximately 2 and one-half inch cork was a perfect example of the bella figura concept at work. When waiters complained that the corkscrews they employed were not capable of removing the elongated corks, Gaja happily sold the restau- rants that served his wines the special corkscrews that were required. He made additional money over the long haul because the amount of wine needed to accommodate the larger corks was less than the usual 750 milliliters.

Bella Figura is also utilized by Italians who, unlike Angelo Gaja, are anything but wealthy. One example is the person of limited economic means who insists upon paying the restaurant bill for his party of eight so that he would not be viewed as a poor sponger!

Perhaps the most appealing aspect of the bella figura way of life can best be understood in the context of winners and losers in an eventual conflict resolution. There are, of course, three possibilities: both parties lose (Brutta (ugly) Figura); one wins, the other loses (the usual outcome); or both parties win (the Bella Figura outcome).

The second overarching concept is one Kramer refers to as Campanilismo, or the Italian love of location. This can be seen in the pride concerning one’s place of birth, or say the specific location of the vineyards that house the varietals that produce the wines of Italy. One has only to visit Italy once or to watch Mario Batali do a cooking event to know how regional Italian cooking really is. And so the pairing of which food with which wine takes on again the inevitable force and reality of regionality. The term itself has its origins in the word “campanile” that translates as a bell. The concept embodied here resides in the idea of the comfort that the Italian resident takes when she/he is no farther away from home than the sound emanating from the nearest bell tower.

And, finally, there is the concept of the Mezzadria or the Italian sharecropper. The disappearance or demise of sharecropping-beginning in the 1940’s, finally ending in the 1980’s-ushered in the era of the production of great Italian wines. Once land potentially useful for wine growing became available for purchase, it was now possible for the new owners of wineries to have pride, excel, or take capitalist risks. It was now possible, for the first time, to beginning a wide spread establishment of first rate Italian wineries.

Although Kramer modestly claims at the outset that the book is intended only for those who are Italian wine amateurs and aficionados, but not connoisseurs, the creative manner in which he has crafted the book suggests otherwise. No matter the knowledge level of Italian wines of any of the readers of this book, without this comprehensive format, they would not have been able to sensibly organize and store the oenologic information gleaned over the years.

The oenologic glue, then, that forms the binding of the book, follows a specific Kramerian format consisting of the following entities: the type or name of the wine (from “A” as in Aglianico to”V”, as in Vino Nobile di Montepulciano); the Region or Geographical Location of a given wine type (e.g., Lombardy, Tuscany, Sicily); the uva or grape varietal (e.g., arneis, nebbiolo, sangiovese); the tradition (historical roots) of each wine that is described; how it has changed (the current and projected future history of a given wine varietal); noteworthy producers (sub-classified as “the traditionalists” and the “modern- ists”); what the locals eat with a particular wine (e.g., roasts of beef, lamb, and goat for Aglianico; polenta, aged steaks, game, for Barbera; crème caramel for Moscato d’Asti); a section designated as “One Man’s Taste-Whose Wine Would I Buy?” This section embodies Matt Kramer’s comparative rankings of specific vineyard choices – from Allegrini to Zenato; a category that answers the question “Is the Wine Worth Searching For?” This has been cleverly classified into the following distinctive categories: “Don’t die without trying it”; “Absolutely worth an effort; and “If you happen to see it.” The final category describes “Similar Wines from the Same Neighborhood.” For the ancient white wine Orvieto-that consists of the varietals Trebbiano Toscano, Verdello, Grechetto, Drupeggio, and Malvasia Toscana-this would include the much more familiar Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc varietals.

Allow me to close with Kramer’s lucid and scholarly description of what he hails as the best example of Sicily’s red wine:

Donnafugata is easily one of the stars of Sicilian wine. And if the wines inspire you to read The Leopard, all the better, as it’s a star of Italian literature in its own right (p. 223).”

Having had the opportunity to buy and taste this wine in Sicily, I can only agree whole-heartedly!

What else need be said? The book is an oenologic treasure and should find a place in every wine lover’s library!

The proliferation of memoirs is so great that the stock appears to have split. It helps to think of them as micro-genres. One such genre may be called the confessional a la Augustine (as in David Oglivy’s Confessions of an Advertising Man), another, the witness to history, a la John Reed (as in Peggy Noonan’s What I Saw at the Revolution), a third, the life as learning experience, a la Henry James (as in Richard Rodriguez’s Hunger of Memory: The Educa- tion of Richard Rodriguez). In his memoir, A Life Uncorked, veteran and venerable British wine commentator Hugh Johnson transcends these divisions and raises the ante. Rather than lifting one or another established form from the memoir shelf, Johnson effectively invents his own – a form in which the life of the author imitates the essence of the subject. In A Life Uncorked, wine itself becomes a metaphor for the life of the man.

This is a large, sprawling, many-themed, multi-faceted, heavily illustrated (in color) book that demands to be sampled (dare I say, savored) gradually rather than read through in a linear, lock-step fashion. Johnson begins with some autobiographical reconstruction of his early exposure to wine as a student in Cambridge in the 1950s and his embryonic career as a London-based wine commentator (not a critic) and book writer. He adds a nice chronology of the high points of his life in wine (p. 29). He then follows this account by an orderly parade of sections defined by styles of wine – bubbly, white, red, sweet. But this simple frame belies the dense, overflowing appreciation of all things oenological.

Much as Johnson seemingly attempts to cram every possible facet and story of a life in wine in this book, he is not a man without method or manifesto. The philosophical heart of this book is revealed most frankly (and perhaps not unsurprisingly) in its concluding passage:

Its life, in the last analysis, is what sets wine apart. There is nothing else we buy to eat or drink that brings us the identity of a place in a time in the same way, that memorises and recalls (if we listen) all the circumstances that made it what it is…embrace the identity, enjoy the circumstances, be transported to other places and times. Embrace even the mythology: it adds to the colour of life.

Armed with the understanding that Johnson regards wine in all its complexity, fascination, uncertainty, and mystery as a living, breathing companion to humanity, an index to places, times, and events, the reader is free to sample and explore this book not so much as a single work, but rather as a collection of integrated sojourns – part education of the palate, part historical sociology of the field, part reminiscence of people and events, part geographical gazette, part business ethnography.

Just as Johnson’s book offers many sides to the reader, readers of varying degrees of interest and sophistication will approach it from different angles.

It is perhaps the foremost mark of his love of the liveliness of wine that leads Johnson to plunge first into champagne, the “social drug” as he calls it in his chapter. For Johnson, champagne is “France’s greatest contribution to human happiness,” a claim that might raise more than the eyebrows of many of French winemakers he lionizes later in this book. After walking the reader through the history of bubbly from the monkish days of Dom Perignon onward, Johnson develops the story of champagne against the backdrop of Reims and the larger reaches of Champagne country, but the heart of this discussion comes later in the section when Johnson makes the case for champagne as an accompaniment to food – seafood and sea urchins and Asian delicacies. Following the travels of bubbly to sparkling wines the new world, Johnson finally circles back to a last acknowledgement of the monk Dom Perignon, whose attempt to blend a rival to burgundy led to the creation of champagne. That the bubbles were a happy accident fits Johnson, celebrator of serendip- ity, just fine.

White wine is, for Johnson, the most evocative of drinks; that which stimulates memo- ries of the outdoors, seashores, and sun. From Sports Day in the Hunter Valley outside Sydney, Australia, to the mannered climes of the English garden party, marked by painter John Verney’s depiction of summer at Saling Hall, whites capture and reflect the outdoor life. Invoking first the appeal of Riesling in this context, Johnson launches into his ethnog- raphy of whites beginning with the Germans, traveling through the French of Chablis and Chardonnay, then moving into his first extensive accounts of California and the southern reaches of Europe. He expects to be disappointed on the Meditteranean coast, but just as sure as the sun shines, identifies the bounty of Vermentino, Vernaccia, Malvasia, and other grapes peculiar to this region. One gets the impression from Johnson’s excitement for white that the sun never sets as long as these wines are available.

The longest section of the book is, predictably, Red, but just as predictably, Johnson does not begin on an overly enthusiastic note. He rejects the over-zealotry of some red enthusiasts and rather more subtly sidles into his discussion of this vast subject, and obstinately adheres to his English affection for “clarets.” Dividing his main treatment of reds into explorations of Bordeaux and the Bordeaux persuasion and Burgundy and the burgundy persuasion, Johnson moves outward eventually embracing the many varieties, names, places, and people who populate this largest and richest dimension of wine and its culture. Johnson prefers the light reds of Bordeaux to the lustier, richer reds of other places. One gets the impression that, for all his affection for California, he regards American reds as he does American foods, a good match for each other if tad too intense for the European palate. He ends his discussion of red with more surprise and serendipity, noting that the reds varieties of Sicily – Fiano, Grillo, Falangia, Catarrato – offer a special treat in that they represent such an impressive sampling of native varieties.

Three hundred and twenty-six pages into this oversized work, Johnson begins his final section, Sweet. Herein he discusses Port, Tokay, and Madeira. This discussion is, not sur- prisingly, briefer than those of the earlier sections, but no less possessed of the wonder that he finds in the curious but splendid evolution of these varieties.

The reader of this review should know that the reviewer has merely scratched the surface and etched out the broadest themes organizing this book. Those readers steeped in the culture and commerce of wine will profit greatly from Johnson’s reminiscence of the many places and personalities that make up the world he has inhabited since his early days, a world that he helped to make. What appears to some as so much inside baseball of the wine business will be the greatest attraction to others, and this very real aspect of this book should not be understated.

That said, the impression Johnson delivers is unmistakably one of a lover, enthusiast, and commentator determined to reject attempts on the part of his fellow travelers to reduce life to form, art to science. For all High Johnson’s appreciation of what has come before, the past is prelude.

In a hedonistic description of Pinot Noir, Haeger quotes Joe Fleishman writing in Vanity Fair magazine: “At their best, pinot noirs are the most romantic of wines, with so voluptuous a perfume, so sweet an edge, and so powerful a punch that, like falling in love, they make the blood run hot and the soul wax embarrassingly poetic.” It is a true pity that the same varietal has also experienced far less than adequate oeno- logical coverage until now. Filling the void to overflowing, Haeger’s masterful text stands as a veritable gold standard in the field. Using the wines of Burgundy as a historical benchmark, and launching point, Haeger traces the historical development of Pinot Noir and the initial challenges it presented to North American wine makers. They mistakenly treated the varietal in the same manner as other red wines, notably among them Cabernet Sauvignon. As Haeger is quick to point out, the mistake here was that Pinot Noir, vis à vis other reds, is generally appreciably lower in tannins and notably higher in acidity. Once these fundamental differences were taken into account, the development of acceptable, good, and exceptional Pinot Noirs was well underway. And the trend continues uninterrupted. The book is encyclopedic in its coverage, namely: a comparison of Burgundian and North American Pinot Noirs; the broad areas of production in California, Oregon, and Canada: , in California, the Southern Central Coast, the Greater Salinas Valley, the Santa Cruz Mountains, Los Carneros, the Russian River Valley, and the True Sonoma Coast; in Oregon, the famed Willamette Valley; the Okanagan wine producing area that lies just beyond the American-Canadian border, about half way between the Continental Divide and Vancouver; and the Greater South Shore of Lake Ontario. These regions comprise over 95% of North American Pinot Noir. The remaining areas include the Pacific Pinot Zone in California, that lies to the north of San Luis Obispo; the Southwest, also in California; and, finally, the Mid-Atlantic States that include Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina. Each of the major wine regions is described meticulously in terms of its history as well as its terrain, terroir, and general descriptions of the vineyards therein. In a final part of this section of the book, Haeger compares the various major regions in terms of Size, Climate, Growing season, Soil content, Altitude, and the wines that are produced in each. There is also a very informative section on the development of Pinot Noir clones both in Burgundy and in North America. As Haeger puts it, the cloning of grapevines (here, Pinot Noir, in particular, although it is part of a more general viticultural issue) “…developed as one by-product of a more fundamental interest in growing healthy vine plants capable of producing commercially viable quantities of good fruit, in the face of growing threats from viral and other diseases.”

Individual wine regions are described in detail, each replete with maps and the specific or individual wine making practices, as well as the profiles of six dozen key producers; in addition, information is provided about: the varietal as developed at each of the wineries; extensive and detailed tasting notes of each of the multiple vineyards belonging to the winery; the wine growing and winemaking processes; upcoming Pinot Noir producers or ones to note in the future; finding enjoyable Pinot Noirs; and a delightfully written and very useful guide to the successful pairing of Pinot Noirs with food. One great challenge is pairing Pinot Noir correctly with seafood dishes. Haeger agrees with the notable Chicago chef, Charlie Trotter, that adding meat, meat stock, or mushrooms to the preparation serves to make the dish more Pinot Noir “friendly.” In summary, Haeger’s treatise on North American wine is a must read for oenophiles the world-over. As such, it serves the dual purpose of a very enjoyable piece of prose; as well as being a most valuable reference source for information about the history and vicissitudes of North American Pinot Noir.

Professor Thomas Pinney’s A History of Wine in America provides a magisterial overview of wine in America since Prohibition. His coverage is broad and detailed. He travels region by region throughout the United States dealing with industry trends, consumer behavior, individual personalities and public policy. The narrative steps year-by-year through the decades, dealing with the crises of an industry that struggled to establish an identity and secure an economic role in a society that was mostly indifferent or actively hostile. It also chronicles the industry’s unsteady growth as the consumer base expanded and production adapted to the specific demands of the market. With its breadth of coverage his treatment is a welcome addition to the more narrowly focused literature such as James Lapsley’s Bottled Poetry: Napa Winemaking from Prohibition to the Modern Era, to which Pinney makes regular reference.

Together with his previous volume, which covered the period up to Prohibition, Professor Pinney has now made available the story of five centuries of wine in America. The previous book covered several centuries; this book covers eight decades. But these 80 years witnessed a transformation from devastation to desolation and on to a pain- fully fitful recreation of the American wine industry into something that had not existed before. Pinney concentrates on wine production in America and American consumption of American wine. There is little global context and he mentions U.S. wine imports only in passing and mostly ignores U.S. wine exports, which have (as he notes on page 340) become important recently. The 369 tightly packed pages of narrative are accompanied by 110 pages of endnotes, 25 pages of published and unpublished sources, and a 25-page index. The endnotes and list of sources provide a wealth of detail for the committed reader. The book is a narrative filled with data and stories of the people responsible for the modern wine industry in America and one imagines that there are more stories that the author could have shared.

The drama begins with the text of the Volstead Act, which appears on page one. Pinney mentions in passing that besides being the author of Prohibition in the United States, Vol- stead was best known as a supporter of farm interests in the Midwest. He does not note the irony of the agricultural destruction that the Volstead wrought or that Volstead was also the co-author of the Capper-Volstead Act, which provided the core legal support for farmer cooperatives, which became so important to the development of the wine industry a few years later. In Chapter 3, Pinney establishes the importance of cooperative wineries in the regeneration of the industry, especially in production of bulk wines that were a major force in the industry in the 1930s and for many years thereafter.

Pinney shows us how even Prohibition was not able to destroy the wine industry altogether as the remnants struggled to maintain some viability while they waited for the experiment to end. For the growers and wineries that survived Prohibition the post- Prohibition period was almost as difficult. New ventures entered, market prices fluctuated and the industry struggled with the Great Depression, much as did the rest of agriculture. The 1940s brought relief, as they did for other farm industries and during the war years higher prices created a short-lived prosperity. While not explicitly stated, the facts recounted indicate how much the wine industry is a part of agriculture, and how its history and fortune is linked to that of fruit and vegetable processing and marketing more generally.

The development of the wine industry for almost four decades, from the 1930s to the 1960s, was a struggle with disappointment following enthusiasm for those interested in creating a substantial wine market and wine culture in America. For many years much of the industry, that centered in the Central Valley of California, relied on sales of fortified wines – port, muscatel and sherry. This market encouraged the production of high-yielding low cost grapes and the use of raisin grapes as a major part of the crush. Sales of table wines were a minor part of the whole and were associated with the coast of California. Even in the 1960s, as table wine began to replace the fortified wines in the mix, much of the new demand was in the form of flavored wines or wine coolers, which also drew on very low-price grapes. It was not until the late 1960s and 1970s that what we now think of as the wine revolution in American finally took hold.

Just as the economic fortunes of the wine industry tracked that of other horticultural crops, so did the periodic use of public policies to enhance prices. Unlike the farm subsidies typical for grains, direct government payments were not available. Instead growers used various supply control schemes to limit production or shift it off the wine market and thereby raise prices. While details varied, each attempt was short lived at best and brought little relief. Advocates simply found no effective collective mechanism to limit supplies that was strong enough to counter the private incentives to maintain or expand production.

One theme of the book is the use of research, technology and innovation to build the winegrape and wine industry. The emphasis on both quantity and quality was a hallmark of systematic research and industry innovation. As the industry grew and adapted, it could not rely on centuries of tradition to guide the choice of varieties, locations and produc- tion practices. While individual growers and winemakers did considerable work, university researchers, in Washington state, at Cornell and a few other schools in the east, and espe- cially at the University of California, initially at Berkeley and later at Davis, came to play the central role in providing systematic research to support the industry. The tradition, reaching back to Hilgard in the 1880s, was renewed under Cruess and continued by Joslin, Amerine and Winkler, to name a few. Their work was not isolated to the laboratory or the field experiment. They participated actively in industry affairs and were increasingly relied upon by growers and winemakers. In the east with a much smaller industry and therefore much less institutional support, individual innovators, sometimes with informal networks of collaborators, developed practical information for their own use and that of their neighbors. For those outside California, major concerns were cold climates and con- ditions inhospitable to vinifera grapes. Steady progress allowed the gradual development of the Eastern wine industry, which now has devoted local customers and a strong base of activity in almost every state.

Despite market growth, Pinney develops a recurring motif of disappointment with wine consumers in the United States. First, he is dismayed that most American consumers do not appreciate wine at all or do not appreciate “quality wine” as much as they should. Sometimes, he attributes this failure to the wine industry for neglecting to cultivate a solid consumer base. At other times, this failure seems to be attributed to fundamental features of American history and culture. A second disappointment is that parts of the industry and some wine aficionados appear to appreciate too much “quality.” The final pages of the final chapter make explicit the author’s views. He longs for a wine culture in which wines he enjoys can be available at prices he can afford on a daily basis, and he wishes that more Americans shared this appreciation. He disdains the “idea that wine is inseparable from the worst forms of conspicuous consumption…” (pp. 368–69). And, he links the failure to cultivate a broad customer base for every day table wines with the emphasis, at least among those most closely associated with wine publicity, on wines for only the wealthy few or the special occasion.

Economists will find this an interesting and useful book, but this is not an economic history in that there is little economic analysis of historical events. For example, in account- ing for “the Big Change” in the industry that took place in the 1960s and 1970s, Pinney outlines numerous hypotheses and concludes that they all may have contributed. But, the idea of quantifying the contributions of income growth versus some broader cultural shift or improved grape varieties or wine making techniques does not appear on his agenda. Throughout the narrative economic issues arise, but economic questions are neither posed nor answered. No book can do everything and there is much work left for the economic historian of the wine industry.

In a break with much academic writing in economics at least, Professor Pinney makes little attempt to maintain a veneer of objectivity. His personal priorities color the story from the start. He champions the cause of wine in America and, despite its ups and downs, the story he tells is one of progress and optimism. He is clear that the forces for “good” are those that foster a successful industry and the forces for ill are those that interrupt the flow of progress. He wants consumers to value “quality” and he wants the industry to lead consumers to this ideal. He likes the idea of small personal wineries, but he appreciates that, in America, the large firms have often produced innovation and the bulk of the wine that is affordable for daily consumption. These views are not always explicit, but they are not far below the surface and the reader is not confused about where the author stands.

Economists will also find small frustrations scattered throughout. These include the casual use of statistics and a dearth of charts or tables. In many places the narrative would have flowed more naturally with reference to a time series chart or table of price or tonnage comparisons across regions. Instead, the text is encumbered with lists of selected numbers that leave the reader thirsty for a more systematic treatment. And, when economic trends and comparisons are considered, there are periodic slip-ups. For example, in comparing winegrape prices in California between 1968 and 1978, no accounting is made for the effects of general inflation during a period of very rapid climb in the general price level. When the author says, “In 1968, to take that year as a starting point, the average price per ton of wine grapes in California was $71; a decade later, in 1978, it had tripled to $210” (p. 232). The author and many readers will know that this statement mixes changes over time in the relative price of wine grapes, changes over time in the composition of wine grapes by variety and by region as well as the overall change in the price level. Unfortu- nately, while not affecting the basic message, such neglect makes it harder for readers to appreciate what was actually happening during this period.

For wine economists, A History of Wine in America will be fascinating and informative. It will also generate hypotheses and supply ideas for understanding the current situation of the wine industry on a global basis. The list of cited works and sources and the detailed footnotes will supply leads to follow up for further study. But, the most enjoyable feature of this history will be the wine industry stories, and more of them would have been even better.

Anyone who is fairly serious about wine — from the relatively casual collector to the most knowledgeable oenophile — will tend to be skeptical about a commercial movie, particu- larly a Hollywood studio movie, in which wine consumption plays a central role. But very early in Alexander Payne’s “Sideways,” when Miles (Paul Giamatti) — a sad-sack, failed writer of novels and a lover of the grape — explains to his friend Jack (Thomas Haden Church) — a good-looking but over-the-hill television actor — how a white sparkling wine (1992 Byron) can be made from 100% Pinot Noir grapes and yet not exhibit even a tinge of red color, the first evidence appears that this movie about wine may have gotten it right.

That verdict was cemented for me just a few scenes later when the friends are driving through a bucolic countryside of vineyards in Santa Barbara County, at the beginning of what is to be a week-long bachelor party for the two in wine country prior to Jack’s wedding, where they eventually meet up with love-interests, Maya (Virginia Madsen) and Stephanie (Sandra Oh). Miles recommends a local winery to visit because of its excellent Chardonnay, at which suggestion Jack says, “I thought you hated Chardonnay.”

Miles quickly responds, “I like all varietals. I just don’t generally like the way they manipulate Chardonnay in California — too much oak and secondary malolactic fermentation.” At that moment, in a dark theater in Brookline, Massachusetts, I turned to my wife and said, “This is going to be good!” And it was … the first time I saw it, the second time, and the third time (which was at home with friends and a meal and a set of wines to accompany each of the scenes).

This is a seriously good movie, indeed an excellent one, the most recent of a long line of “road movies” that themselves are part of a “road literature” that includes Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Henry Miller’s The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, and Hunter Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. But back to the movie, and the wine.

In “Sideways,” Miles is a classic oenophile, even if most of us would prefer not to be identified with a character who is (otherwise) distinctly unattractive in so many dimensions. But Miles gives himself away with his assessment of the nose of the first wine he and Jack taste at the first winery they visit (which was in reality, Sanford): “… a little citrus… maybe some strawberry… passion fruit… and there’s a hint of like asparagus… or like a nutty Edam cheese.”

With such descriptions of wine — and that’s only the first of many in the film — it may come as a surprise that there is no mention, none whatsoever, of wine ratings, those numerical assessments popularized in the United States by Robert Parker’s Wine Advocate and The Wine Spectator. Long discussions in the film about specific wines — old and new — never mention ratings. Why? A clue is found in the novel on which the movie is based, Rex Pickett’s excellent novel of the same name, published in 2004 (St. Martin’s Press).

In the book, when Miles is packing for his trip, he tosses into his suitcase a copy of Jancis Robinson’s The Oxford Companion to Wine (Oxford University, 1999), which he describes as the “brilliant and exhaustive tome on everything you ever wanted to know about the universe of wine. … I wanted to have with me the one book that had supplied me with all the basics of my one undying passion…” So, Jancis Robinson is his guru. And if you have read Robinson’s entertaining autobiography, Tasting Pleasure: Confessions of a Wine Lover (Viking, 1997), you know of her complete disdain for numerical ratings.

For those who have not yet seen the film, let me offer a checklist of wines that make appearances, some only very briefly. If you are able to identify every one of these in the film, you deserve to open a particularly good bottle tonight from your cellar: 1992 Byron Sparkling, Sanford Vin Gris, Kalyra Chardonnay, Kalyra Cabernet Franc, Fiddlehead Sau- vignon Blanc, 2001 Whitcraft Pinot Noir (Santa Maria Valley), Sea Smoke Botella Pinot Noir, Kistler Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir, Latour Pommard 1er Cru, Hitching Post Bien Nacido Pinot Noir, Hitching Post Highliner Pinot Noir, Andrew Murray Syrah, and 1961 Cheval Blanc.

Another challenge: seven wineries appear in the film, but their real names are not used. It is not impossible to identify them: Andrew Murray, Fess Parker, Fiddlehead, Firestone, Foxen, Kalyra, and Sanford.

Enough questions. Here are some answers, although to other questions. For the readers of this journal, I offer some wine trivia from “Sideways:”

Most of the wine used in the wine-tasting scenes was non-alcoholic, and the actors wound up drinking so much of it that it made them nauseated. Hence, they had to switch periodically to the real thing.

The picture that Miles looks at when at his mother’s home is actually a photo of Paul Giamatti and his father, Bart Giamatti, former Yale president and Major League Baseball commissioner.

The 1961 Cheval Blanc that Miles is saving for a special occasion is blended from Merlot and Cabernet Franc, the two grape varietals that Miles specifically denigrates in the film.

Anecdotal evidence, as reported by the international press, indicates that subsequent to the film’s release, sales of Pinot Noir increased by between 20% and 500% in various mar- kets.

The film’s cheery advertising poster portrays a bottle on its side, suggesting that the title, “Sideways,” refers to the cellar position of a wine bottle. But Rex Pickett’s novel makes clear from the first page that “sideways” is the characters’ slang for drunk. And, in truth, the novel is considerably more forthright and darker about the alcoholism that is very much a part of the story: Miles drinks to excess, particularly to drown his frequent sorrows.

Having said that, let me end with what is surely a high-point of the film, both for lovers of wine, and lovers in general. Maya asks Miles why he is so into Pinot Noir. His response, which is both moving and revealing, is this:

I don’t know. It’s a hard grape to grow. As you know. It’s thin-skinned, temperamental, ripens early. It’s not a survivor like Cabernet that can grow anywhere and thrive even when neglected. Pinot needs constant care and attention and in fact can only grow in specific little tucked-away cor- ners of the world. And only the most patient and nurturing growers can do it really, can tap into Pinot’s most fragile, delicate qualities. Only when someone has taken the time to truly understand its potential can Pinot be coaxed into its fullest expression. And when that happens, its flavors are the most haunting and brilliant and subtle and thrilling and ancient on the planet.

On hearing this, Maya’s heart opens to Miles for the first time. A few moments later, it’s Miles turn to ask Maya why she is into wine. Her answer:

I like to think about the life of wine, how it’s a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing, how the sun was shining that summer or if it rained… what the weather was like. I think about all those people who tended and picked the grapes, and if it’s an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now. I love how wine continues to evolve, how every time I open a bottle it’s going to taste different than if I had opened it on any other day. Because a bottle of wine is actually alive — it’s constantly evolving and gaining complexity. That is, until it peaks — like your ‘61 — and begin its steady, inevitable decline… And it tastes so fucking good.

Now Miles is swept away. And so am I.

George Taber has written much more than a book about a wine tasting. Sure, the Judgment of Paris must be the most famous organized wine tasting of all time. And sure, California cabernet and chardonnay wines topped fine French products on French soil with French judges at a time when such an outcome (1976) was considered impossible by everyone- not just the French!

But Taber’s book is more than the story of a wine tasting. In the same way that Sea Bis- cuit is more than a story about a horse race and The Jackie Robinson Story is more than a story about baseball, Judgment of Paris is the story of the development of the California wine industry and of the personalities who made it happen. If ever a story about wine could rise above the ubiquitous “cooking, wine, and spirits” category and find a wider public, this is it.

As the only journalist present for this historic event, Taber, a long time business reporter who was then at Time magazine, is uniquely situated to set the record straight. Taber tells his story by following the history of the two men who made the winning American wines: Mike Grgich, then winemaker at Chateau Montelena, who produced the chardonnay, and Warren Winiarski, founder of Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars, who produced the cabernet. Both these men have wonderful, classic American life stories of movement from nothing to something. Mike Grgich (born in Croatia 82 years ago as Miljenko Grgic?) arrived in the Napa Valley on a Greyhound bus in the summer of 1958 via Canada, where he had immi- grated in the hopes of a better life (and with $32 sewn into a shoe!) Warren Winiarski, for- merly a lecturer at the University of Chicago in their (now defunct) Great Books program, followed Route 66 to California with his wife and two young children with the same goal. Both men certainly had some familiarity with the products they were about to produce, but this was a far cry from what you can learn in a university today in Davis, Bordeaux, or Roseworthy (the famous enology program in Australia).

We learn a lot about the paths these men take and how they ended up being in the right place at the right time. Some of the common features of their good fortune seem almost eerie. Though Robert Mondavi gets a whole chapter devoted to him, the name that crops up over and over is J. Leland (Lee) Stewart. Amazingly, both Grgich’s and Winiarski’s first jobs in Napa were as assistants to Stewart. Connected to the Stanford family, Stewart’s Souverain Vineyard provided some of the finest early examples of Napa cabernet sauvi- gnon. (I have recently tasted Souverain cabernets from the 1960’s that remain delicious.) These early days in the Napa Valley were days of cooperation, conviviality, and a lot of learning by doing.

The research behind Taber’s writing is truly staggering. Taber tracks down the story behind the winemakers of all the wines in the competition, both American and French. We learn that the Veedercrest Chardonnay in the competition was made by Al Baxter, a bohe- mian spirit if ever there was one, who was a Professor of Philosophy at Berkeley and the author of the mystery novel Stay Me with Flagons! (The wine didn’t do so well, however, ranking 9th out of 10.)

There is a big payoff to Taber’s research, and especially to his felicitous writing style. We see it best in Chapter 19, where he tells the story of the “Stunning Upset.” Taber does two things admirably in this chapter. First, he sets the record straight. (Here I have a dis- claimer to make: I have published my own statistical analysis of the results of this wine tasting at http://www.liquidasset.com/tasting.html. As Taber correctly points out, however, the official tabulation did not include the scores of the English and American judges, who organized the event, while mine did! Though the overall results are not altered by this change, I am happy to stand corrected.) As Taber says, “…a whole mythology about the tasting grew up…as people in both California and Franc embellished the event….In fact, my major objective in writing this book was to set the record straight.”

And then Taber brings to life the complex interaction of the judges and their own reac- tions to the wines. Standing like a fly on the wall, while the judges tasted the wines blindly, Taber reports, “I soon realized that the judges were becoming totally confused. The panel couldn’t tell the difference between the French ones and those from California.” And, as they say, the rest is history.