Decanting Wine as a Subtle Art of Pouring from Nothing into Nowhere

There are many reasons a person might pour liquid from one glass object into another nearly identical glass object. Boredom. Hope. Vanity, maybe. Or the deep conviction that ritual can help disguise confusion. Still there are few human rituals as absurdly dignified as the act of decanting wine. You tilt a bottle just so, watch a trickle of crimson snake down into a vessel that looks like it was designed by someone who feared corners, and you tell yourself this - this right here - is civilization.

On a certain winter evening, my friend - the sort of man whose even cufflinks had opinions - announced that a proper dinner demanded a proper gesture. “One must decant the wine,” he said, with the gentle menace of someone quoting an ancient law.

I nodded, as though understanding the difference between decanting and pouring, which I did not. To me, the act appeared suspiciously like changing the wine’s address without its consent. But I had been invited to dinner, and good manners require at least the performance of belief.

He said that to decant a wine properly, one must “let it breathe.” I nodded again, thinking this an excellent idea for both wine and people. We all need air after long confinement. The difference is, the wine gets to improve while doing it.

He retrieved the bottle from a rack so overdesigned it might have been an exhibit on the concept of wine rather than a place to store it. The label was old enough to vote twice. Dust, that democratic material, lay thick upon it. He held it up to the light and sighed the way a surgeon might before the first incision.

“Careful,” he said. “The sediment mustn’t rise.”

Sediment. I thought of all the things in life that settle at the bottom when you stop shaking them - grudges, disappointments, unspoken apologies. Perhaps decanting was less about the wine than about the illusion that we could separate purity from past.

Meanwhile, I sat in the background, trying to look like the sort of person who understands the difference between ritual and performance. I thought of all the bottles in dark cellars across the world, waiting years for this moment - to be freed, only to be swirled, sniffed, and consumed by people who pretend to know what they’re doing.

He tilted the bottle, the wine made a low sound as it fell, like a small creature sighing in relief, and the first ribbon of liquid slid into the decanter. It glowed deep and slow, like something remembering how to breathe. I watched him, and he watched the wine, and the wine, I suspect, watched none of us.

“There,” he said. “It must now open.”

I asked how long that took. He said it depended on the wine’s character—some open at once, others resist. “Like people,” I murmured. He ignored me in the way only the polite can ignore: completely, but with excellent posture.

We waited. The decanter sat on the table, swelling with its own reflection. The air around it began to smell faintly of fruit and pride. We spoke of trivialities: the decline of conversation, the unreliability of weather, the curious fact that time seems shorter once you begin to measure it.

At last, he poured two glasses and offered one to me as though knighting a reluctant squire.

I sipped. The flavor unfolded like an apology from someone you once trusted. What was sharp became generous. What was stubborn became fluent. Bitter first, then soft, then something almost forgiving. I could almost believe in the alchemy of it all. Perhaps there is something holy in patience, even when it smells faintly of berries.

“Well?” he asked.

“It tastes,” I tried to make a joke, “like an indecent memory that’s just learned good manners.”

He looked injured. He said I was missing the point. “You can’t just drink it,” he said. “You must appreciate it.”

I asked how one appreciates properly. He said to swirl, sniff, and listen. “The wine will tell you its story.”

So I swirled, sniffed, and listened. The wine said nothing. It was, however, excellent company in its silence.

We drank a little more. The conversation grew easier, less polished. The edges of the evening softened. He told me about his immersion in the world of wine, which led him not only to mastering the art of magical rituals like decanting, but even to buying a share in a vineyard, which turned out to be something like timeshare for gullible wine enthusiasts.

As he spoke, I started to realize that the wine industry wouldn't survive without this freak theater. Who would pay hundreds of dollars for a bottle of wine if these ceremonies didn't exist? The bottle, after all, could have been opened, poured, and consumed in one simple motion. But we crave meaning. We prefer to pretend that rituals improves us.

“You must decant it,” he said suddenly, in the tone of one explaining gravity to an apple. “Otherwise, the sediment will cloud the experience.”

I stared at him. “You know,” I said, “I’ve been successfully clouding my experiences for years without any help of sediment.”

"Buy yourself a decanter", he persisted. "And you'll realize how much taste you've been missing".

I pictured myself decanting wine and it made me laugh.

"No way, man!" I told him. "Why the hell do I need this? My wines go straight from bottle to my bloodstream".

He smiled the way one does at a child who has just announced an intention to live forever.

For some time we ate, drank, chatted and watched some boring football match with half an eye. Then he poured us each another glass, slower this time. The sediment had begun to rise at the bottom - dark, grainy, almost sullen. It reminded me of what remains after the party: ash in the hearth, laughter with no owner. “Don’t disturb it,” he said, as though speaking of a sleeping god.

We drank again. The wine was softer now, almost conversational. Its earlier pride had melted into something like humor. “See?” he said. “It’s opening.”

Dinner was eaten, the wine was drunk, and a meeting with friends at the bar awaited us. "Give me your word you won't make the bartender decant the whiskey!" I demanded.

"I can't promise anything," my friend sighed. And having known him for more than a decade, I felt a slight anxiety.