p. 12 | Lessons from a Wine-Taster

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Sep 10, 1912

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 39, No. 35.

Lessons from a Wine-Taster

By M. Elisabeth Burns-Howell

FOR the sake of authenticity, I wish that I had preserved the name, address, and other definite data; but I have not. However, if you are skeptical, and possess a desire to confirm the story, I can refer you to the source of my information — one of the most widely read American dailies, in a recent Sunday issue, magazine section. Examine its files.

At the time, I merely scanned the article, then tossed it aside as another sample of the sensational froth that floats nowadays, bromo-seltzer-like, in such copious quantity, upon the goblet of current literature.

Subsequently, it dawned upon my perception that here was a fine lesson for the moralist, an excellent text for the teacher of temperance, paradoxical tho it may appear.

Now you infer that I am to reiterate that trite yet ever true precept, "Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging," and cite one more terrible example of downfall thereby.

I was about to reply, "Not at all, this time." Yet, after all, in a negative way, and most positively too, the same abiding lesson is taught; for so patent it is, that the potency of its principles may not be escaped.

But my story is about another sort of wine-taster — a wine-taster only, and not a wine-bibber in any sense. Hence the usual record of direful effects does not, in this case, furnish the sequence so sadly common.

Therefore while endorsing to the full the sacred warning as to the use of intoxicants, we may yet make certain deductions from this instance, thus confirming the precepts of Holy Writ and sound science, "holding fast that which is good," while rejecting the body of evil involved. I may not approve of the deadly stiletto, but I am at liberty to appreciate the excellent temper of its blade, tho deploring the murderous purpose in the use of the weapon.

The maker of so-called fine wines will claim that no art of modern or ancient times is more perfectly developed, no science more finely attenuated, to the sharpest line of discrimination and delicacy, than the brewing of rare wines.

Personally, I do not know one brand or sort from another. "Champagne," "sherry," "port," or "claret" — one and all are, to me, mere meaningless names, without distinction or difference.

Having been brought up a "teetotaler" in the good old-fashioned way, and expecting ever to abide therein, these leaves upon the tree of knowledge shall, for my part, remain forever untouched.

Not so your connoisseur; my simplicity would only excite his amusement or scorn. His is a taste, altho acquired, and hence artificial, yet cultivated to the farthest degree; and for its delectation he willingly pays fabulous prices for rare old brews of famous vintage.

Who has not heard of the exorbitant sum a single flask of age-old wine will command!

Now is this elusive quality thus highly valued a merely fancied or reputed flavor, or is it a certain and definite character actually existing, and determined by real standards?

If the latter, what is the standard?

It would seem that the gage of quality is simply and only the taste of the individual — certain individuals, that is, who possess the determining faculty; for no scientific instrument or set of tests has yet been devised capable of revealing such a secret.

Here arrives the subject of our sketch, Mademoiselle —, a young French woman, greatest of living wine-tasters. You see she is designated as belonging to a certain class; and quite correctly, for the art of wine-tasting has developed into a profession, albeit a most exclusive one, for its exercise requires a faculty so exceptional as to be almost unattainable. Indeed, it is usually regarded as a rare gift of nature, with which habit has nothing to do.

And some will tell you that this is all there is to it — either they can or they can’t, and that ends it.

Let us see.

What sort of person is this particular example we have cited — a sort of superstitious personage, "seventh daughter of a seventh daughter," who has but to shut her eyes, press the cup to her lips, and tell us by instinct or intuition what and whence? Does she cultivate her strange necromancy in the secret chamber, at the dark-some hour of midnight, as a sort of mysterious witchcraft?

Farthest from it.

She is by no means such an uncanny sort of being, but on the contrary — and here begins our lesson — is a most wholesome young person, of absolutely normal propensities (unless you except her odd choice of occupation), and the most rational and indeed rigid system of living one could find.

For all severity, and sacrifice of personal desire or appetite, however, she is well repaid, for her services command the munificent sum of $25,000 a year — good pay, rather, and quite worth her while, you will admit. Higher benefits in a personal sense are a part of the moral of our sketch.

Mademoiselle the wine-taster visits regularly the establishments of certain famous European wine manufacturers, and by a mere sip of the lips is able to detect a pure beverage (in the sense of genuineness, not as to being harmless) from an adulteration. Further, she can by the taste alone not only tell the exact age of any brand of wine, but state accurately its source; that is, from which particular locality, not only giving the specific vineyard and kind of grape, but detecting to the minute degree of valley or hillside. A most unique faculty, certainly!

And how does she do it? — As was said, by "a sip of the lips," and only a sip. This is vitally important to this discussion, for it is the keystone principle in the preservation of her wonderful powers of taste.

All ye who are devoted to the sparkling glass and flowing bowl, should you chance upon these lines, and scanning, surmise that thus far the narrative is on your side — a tale of wine for wine-drinkers — if such has been your opinion, read again, please, that this expert under no circumstance ever swallows the slightest portion of the beverage she is testing. Nor does she at any other time, in her private life, when "off duty" as one might say, ever permit herself to taste even, not to say drink, of any stimulant whatsoever.

In other words, she is that very individual at whom most of her employers would scoff, — a teetotaler in the strictest sense.

She is quoted as saying: "I drink wine? Never! Should I do so, I would at once lose the keen edge of my sense of taste, by which I am able to detect the fine discriminations between the many sorts of beverages I am required to test."

And she goes farther with her temperance — or abstinence, rather. Tea, coffee, cocoa, are equally tabooed. Also all spices and condiments, as pepper, ginger, mustard, are excluded, as well as rank cheese, pickles, preserves, pastries, and confections. Among vegetables she rejects onions and all others of strong flavor.

Quite a dietitian, one must allow. In other words, here is a case of childlike simplicity in the matter of diet, with marvelous results as to health in general, and the highest development of special nerve sense in particular. But the path traversed is admittedly very straight and narrow. Well might the scorner appropriately apply this most decisive epithet — "health reformer" — in this connection!

No dissipating indulgences, no enervating irregularities here; but rule, and law, with order, and more than "moderation in all things."

And by the bye, ladies, we would here append the minor detail that our heroine (for she is certainly heroic in her soldierly self-discipline) is possessed of the most matchless complexion, exceeding fresh and fair as the rose petal; and that her toilet-table is innocent of those cosmetic aids so in vogue nowadays, her chief resource in this line being the blessed boon of pure soap and clear water, so simple and accessible to all.

Also, it is to be noted that this condition of bloom includes a charming youthfulness of contour and serene repose of expression, free from those aging lines with which the pursuit of perverted appetite and desire so soon engraves and hardens the face.

Here is a lesson, all ye whose chief diversion is "beauty culture," your shrine the "beauty parlor," and patron saint the "beauty doctor," so called, tho a poor physician he generally proves to be, in the long run, for by his arts and artifices true beauty — which can result only from a state of harmonious health — is apt to die a certain death.

Well, we will not attempt to analyze more fully the régime of this remarkable young woman’s daily living, except to conclude that her habits one and all are of the strictest, simplest sort — of such a character that as a result, she is possessed of the most perfect degree of physical health, upon which, she asserts, her unusual abilities entirely depend, for she has demonstrated that whatever affects the first, depletes the second, in a direct ratio.

Hence that she may maintain her "mastery," she is "temperate in all things." How much more worthy that they so strive who aspire to the eternal ascendency!

And what would happen if the gentlemen — and ladies — of Monsieur the Winemaker’s clientele, votaries of Bacchus the Bibulous, were to emulate the pattern of her whose skill they so much esteem, and upon which their own indulgence so largely depends?

Did the legions of this multitude but adopt the principles of purity and simplicity which govern the wine-taster’s daily routine, it is self-evident that the young lady herself would soon be out of a situation, for the bottom would surely drop out of the hogshead of the wine industry, for the law of economics ever operates — when the demand discontinues, the supply must inevitably cease. And how wonderful the vision one glimpses in such a reverse of conditions, could the change really occur!

Instead of the battered and broken wrecks of humanity that totter blear-eyed and sodden into decrepit age or premature graves, along a pathway hedged with poverty and strewn with shame, tragic to the last extreme in the degree of its misery and wreckage — instead of this sad picture, which we know to be the actual one, could the principles of abstention and self-control prevail, the eye beholds a procession as of a vast and noble army, all picked men, clear-eyed, noble-browed, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, strong-limbed and free of action, as with firm step and manly stride they march on and up the heights of worthy achievement, each man alert, his every faculty keen to the highest point of efficiency.

And the emotional concomitant of such a state of health, mental and physical, could only be happiness, in the peace and power of such priceless possessions.

Then would life become "one grand, sweet song," despite its burdens, and the upward way a triumphant processional of praise — a "consummation devoutly to be wished."