Tell someone you’re learning about wine, and their response is often predictable—a smile, a polite “that’s great,” or sometimes a confession, “sweet, I love wine but don’t know anything about it.” But it rarely sparks a real conversation. No deep dive into favorite varietals or producers. No discussion of the bottle that changed everything for you. And that’s the disappointing part. You put it out there—this thing you’re sinking into, this world you’re peeling back—and mostly, people don’t seem to care.
Then I think back. To the years before I cared. Before I understood why my cousin became a sommelier or why my college best friend is now a prestigious wine buyer. Before I noticed how our friends in Paris developed their own love for Champagne and had their favorite houses. What did I think then? Was I indifferent? Did I nod, smile, and move on? And if so—why wasn’t I more interested?
In hindsight, I was curious, just not eager to admit what I didn’t know. I loved wine, but I couldn’t articulate why. And I wasn’t about to expose my lack of knowledge in a conversation where I didn’t have the prerequisite vino lingo. Worse, I actively disliked certain aspects of “wine culture”—the overly opinionated aficionado who corrects my pronunciation of Chehalem Mountains, the anxiety of picking a bottle for someone who actually knows wine, the rehearsed pronunciation of an Italian label before ordering at dinner.
Which is fascinating, right? That a beverage can trigger anxiety, indifference, or outright judgment. How many other foods or drinks carry that kind of baggage? Wine is steeped in history, culture, and layers of perception. It’s both simple and complex, accessible and intimidating. And when someone chooses to study it, we project our own assumptions onto that decision.
So, I approach these conversations differently now.
Rather than assuming indifference means disinterest, I recall my own hesitation. I tell people about the gloomy February day I got a text from my best friend asking if I wanted to take an introductory wine class. Without much thought, I said, “sure, sounds fun.” Then I share two of my favorite things I learned: pairing Champagne with fried chicken and discovering Walla Walla, Washington.
Then I reveal the big secret—most people aren’t uninterested; they just don’t want to look stupid. But they ask great questions:
· How do you know if a wine is good?
· How much should you spend?
· What’s my favorite wine or varietal?
· Are Costco wines any good?
· What are “legs” in wine?
· Is boxed wine really that bad?
· Do I want to be a sommelier?
I tell them these are the same questions I had for years before taking a class. I answer one or two, briefly but enthusiastically. Then I ask about their favorite drink. And that’s it—we’re off. Maybe we talk about wine, maybe we talk about cocktails. The pressure is gone. The fear of “sounding dumb” is acknowledged and dismissed. The conversation is low-stakes, fun, and open-ended—an invitation to sit on a sunny patio and explore.
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