How to Properly Taste Wine: A Brief Step-by-Step Guide

Ah, tasting wine. A solemn ritual in which otherwise sensible adults swirl liquid in a glass, stick their noses deep enough to risk drowning, slurp loudly as if impersonating malfunctioning plumbing, then nod gravely as though they’ve uncovered the secrets of the universe. Done poorly, it looks like parody. Done well, it’s the closest thing to X-ray vision for what’s really in the glass.

So, let's start. Actually, it's just 3 things: eyes - nose - mouth. Easy to remember: they always go top down (for most people, at least). 

First, sight. Hold the glass by the stem—unless you want greasy fingerprints clouding the view like bad weather over the windshield. Tilt it against a white surface if you can. The color tells you much: a pale straw might suggest a cool-climate white, bracing with acidity; a deep golden hue could hint at age or oak. Red wines range from translucent ruby (young Pinot Noir) to inky purple (a ripe Syrah that looks like it could stain concrete). Watch the rim: if it’s browning or tawny, time has already left its autograph. Those “legs” or “tears” people go on about? They’re mostly alcohol and glycerol—not a divination tool for quality, though handy if you want to guess the booze content.

Second, nose. Swirl - not to show off my juggling skills but to oxygenate, to release volatile compounds that otherwise cling stubbornly to the liquid. Then plunge in. Take short sniffs, not a desperate inhale as if you’re drowning in Chardonnay. You’re looking for fruit (fresh, dried, or candied?), floral, spice, earth, oak. At first, the brain says “grape juice with attitude,” but keep sniffing and suddenly a meadow, a bakery, or a cigar lounge materializes. Aromas are road signs: green apple equals high acidity, blackcurrant means Cabernet is lurking, vanilla means oak has paid a visit. Off-aromas matter too: vinegar sharpness suggests acetic acid bacteria, wet cardboard is cork taint, rotten egg is hydrogen sulfide. Not everything in wine is poetry—sometimes it’s plumbing gone wrong.

Third, taste. Take a proper sip—not a miser’s thimble, not a bathtub gulp. Let it coat your tongue. Now the professional absurdity begins: aspirating. That’s when tasters slurp air through the wine, spraying it like perfume across every taste bud and sinus cavity. Yes, it sounds ridiculous. Yes, it works. Notice sweetness, acidity, tannin, alcohol, and body. Acidity makes your mouth water; tannin dries it out; alcohol gives warmth; body is the weight, from skim milk light to cream heavy. Texture is as telling as flavor.

And now, finish. Swallow (or spit, if you’re surrounded by other spitters and don't really trust them, so you wish to keep your wits). Count how long the flavors linger. A cheap wine vanishes quicker than the empty pledges politicians before the elections; a fine one stays, evolves, returns for encores. Long, complex finishes are what critics wax rhapsodic about, but even a modest, short finish has its place—like a witty joke rather than a Shakespearean soliloquy.

Finally, step back. Professional tasting isn’t about showing off a thesaurus of flavor notes. It’s about systematically decoding a wine: identifying grape variety, place of origin, age, style, quality. You might not care whether your glass whispers “graphite” or “sous-bois,” but you will care whether it’s fresh, balanced, alive—or flabby, tired, and doomed.

So, the professional step-by-step guide? Look, swirl, sniff, sip, savor, think. And remember: the point isn’t to solve the wine like a crossword puzzle, but to understand it well enough that when you raise the glass again, it tastes better for having told you its story.