My first exposure to fine wine occurred around 1973, when I took a UCLA extension course vaguely titled Wine Education, and I was fortunate to have some background in the subject.
The instructor, a jolly West Los Angeles wine collector whose name was John, had no guidelines from the extension studies office, so he wrote his own syllabus. And it was obvious from the first class that he expected much more of most students.
The problem was that there was no textbook; this was a “tasting-oriented” course—a perfectly fine format for most attendees. But it was obvious that my friend Mike and I were far ahead of the others in wine knowledge.
By the second session, I could see that most of those taking this course were completely lost with some of the terms John used.
Which John understood. It was as if he were “playing the piano to a cow,” an idiom translated from Mandarin Chinese when someone tries to explain something to people who could never hope to understand or appreciate what’s being said.
I'll never forget John trying to explain a flaw he (and Mike and I) identified in one wine that John had served. The wine was too old and had oxidized. John tried to explain the differences between oxidation and maderization. So someone asked John to explain the differences.
After a few frustrating minutes, John gave up. The class seemed relieved.
What impressed me most about the class was that John seemed to know a lot about wine, but it was difficult for him to explain because most of the time he was comparing California wines to those from Europe. And most of us had never tasted the European wines he mentioned.
Months later, I became friendly with John and his basic advice to me was the best way to learn about the subject.
