The Pasar and the Perfunctory

In Asia, people prefer to buy fresh meat, fish and vegetables rather than getting these from their freezers. So going to the food market each morning is an exciting and mandatory tradition. The place is called the “Pasar” or market. These massive warehouse-like centres bustle shoulder-to-shoulder with people and traders. The concrete floors are always wet and the air is filled with the gamy, meaty, fishy smells on one side and on the other the shopper’s nose is titillated by herbaceous notes, sweet and sour fragrances emanating from bell peppers, lime, tomatoes and exotic vegetables.

The Pasar is also a very noisy place as live animals and birds await their final sojourn before the shopper commands their execution for a fair price. I am more fascinated by the language of this food market. The sellers are all plying their trade by yelling, inviting and announcing their bargains in sing-song phrases. The buyers seem to be almost arguing as they banter and bargain with their sellers to get the best price for today’s recipe items. It is a place of ordered cacophony. The language is not the diction of kings nor is it polite nothings. The language is actually called “Pasar” language, literally “marketplace” jargon. Although it seems to border on the crude it is but a natural language ideally suited and appropriate for the location, time and context. Everyone understand exactly what is being communicated.

Having completed the shopping at the Pasar, the shoppers return to their respective homes where they transform their speaking into a more civilised but normal family language.

In contrast the language of wine has a grace of its own. If I were to use my Pasar language in the context of tasting and describing wines, I am most likely to be viewed as a “low-lifer”. It seems that I cannot say that a chicken is a “chook”, nor can I exclaim that a spoiled wine is “awful". Instead I apparently have to say that it is corked or use some acronym called TCA.

I find the Pasar language normal, fun, genuine and authentic. It is full of life. So why can’t I use the same Pasar language in the wine social gathering? Doesn’t the imposition of a different wine genre to describe wines seem all but perfunctory and lifeless as the placid dead fish?

Mismatched pairing in wine

The wine connoisseurs and gourmet chefs have one thing in common. Both profess to know something about paring wine with food or vice versa. The chef wants to show off his recipe by his presentation, the garnish, the expensive silver cutlery and the bone china crockery it is served on. Then comes the tasting of his masterpiece. Descriptors such as elegance, texture, rare, chewy, tender, thin, thick, exquisite or delicious are used. If you were the TV Masterchef, Gordon Ramsey you would simply use expletives such as “f…ing good or bloody awful”. Then you would sip that wine you chose to pair with that meal, to either wash down that unpalatable concoction or to enhance the taste of that heavenly recipe. I will also allude in passing to the finger handling of the servings, dipping the chef’s finger in the food for tasting and wiping it on his apron and repeating this action.

On the contrary, the wine connoisseur would use his expert knowledge to select a specific wine varietal or a blend to pair with the chef’s recipe. The wine expert’s language when expressed would be somewhat exasperating, confusing and even frustrating to the common person. But in the context of wine tasting the connoisseur’s table manners also mismatches the eloquence of the superfluous words. A cultured person would be disgusted with Gordon Ramsey’s expletives. But what about the wine experts swirling, spitting and sniffing? The only thing missing would be the gargling.

It is apparent to me that the mismatched pairing with the two experts (chef or the wine connoisseur) is not so much the wine and the food but the words they use and the somewhat “filthy” behaviour of these professionals.

I once used the adjective “yummy” to describe a wine I had tasted. I was swiftly reprimanded for this indulgence by some wine experts. Yet when I used the Indian word “nirvana” (bliss) to describe an Indian meal I had enjoyed, I was commended by a fellow Indian for my apt descriptor.

So this leads me to the question. Is the language of wine and the practices of expert wine tasters mismatched in the context of culture and normal behaviour? Or what I am saying is all “b…sh..t”?

Connoisseur’s logorrhoea

As a linguistics scholar, I am fascinated with new words and their etymology. Two words came to my mind when I thought about the words used in the wine world – connoisseurs and logorrhoea.

According to the dictionaries, a connoisseur is defined as a person with great depth of knowledge about fine arts or taste; or one who is a critic or a discerning judge of the best in the field. If that is the case then the wine connoisseur’s knowledge is expressed in words about wine. But I have a problem. How can something as subjective as taste and smell be critiqued without bias by the so called “discerning wine connoisseur”? In simply sampling the descriptors used by some American and British wine experts, I can see certain pompousness in the language used by the British verses a less formal approach in the lingo of the Americans.

I read the comments on a wine Facebook discussion on connoisseurs. Some saw their words as snobbish while others accepted the language as “technically posh”. Many couldn’t be bothered with the connoisseur’s logorrhoea or simply translated – verbal diarrhoea in need of a eupeptic.

There is no denying the fact that wine experts, MWs, Master Sommeliers and others with wine qualifications do have the knowledge and the ability to articulate the nose, the texture, the character, the color and other qualities of wine. However, a pet vocabulary from their wine portfolio simply and eloquently spewed out from a stuck gramophone does tend to irritate the common wine pleb or even an enthusiast.

But if those same words are imbued with genuine passion, integrity and a willingness to adjust the wine words to the situational and cultural contexts, I wonder if the connoisseur’s logorrhoea would transform into euphonious (pleasant sounding) wine words bringing an euphoric wine experience to the wine audience. Do you agree with me?

Sour grapes sets one’s teeth on edge

In the Bible (Jeremiah 31:27) there is an interesting reference to sour grapes. “In those days they shall say no more, The fathers have eaten a sour grape, and the children's teeth are set on edge. But every one shall die for his own iniquity: every man that eats the sour grape, his teeth shall be set on edge”.

What does setting one’s teeth on edge actually mean? What is the actual feeling like? I can think of two specific examples. When someone screeches a coin across a sheet of glass and you hear that high pitched squeaky sound, you sense an uncomfortable shrivel on the edges of your teeth. As an Asian I can quote you another example. Try eating an unripe green mango. It is sour to the core. When you bite it the acidic sourness makes your teeth grit and your teeth feels a tingle as if the enamel is going to melt away. You also feel a tingle in you head and spine. Your teeth have been well and truly set on edge. Yet we loved eating these sour mangoes and even worse we pickled them with salt and hot chillies to rocket blast you to the moon and back! There is so much pleasure in pain.

This intense tartness in the lush green and unripe mangoes is also found in New Zealand Sauvignon or in some warm climate Chardonnays or Chenin Blanc. So next time you drink these sharp wines and feel that acute tingle in your mouth, the feeling of someone gritting their teeth, remember to describe the taste as that of a green, unripe mango. But before you can describe that feeling with authority and experience you need to get your teeth into that green mango. Let me know how it really feels. You can then describe that Chardonnay in Asian terms.

Plum in your mouth - Was that a Java Plum?

If someone is said to speak with a “plum in one’s mouth” it does not mean that they have a bulging cheek stuffed with a plum. The idiom is used to describe the way in which someone from high class society speaks (e.g. British). Such posh and pompous language is also found in wine tasting events.

But “plum” the fruit is the taste most often associated with red wines e.g. Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Grenache and other red grape varietals. One tastes the sweet, sour and the astringency when drinking these red wines. For the Europeans, the plum is a common fruit found in one’s own garden or as jam on ones toast. It is so easy to understand.

Just the other day, I asked myself, how best I could describe the plum in the Asian context.

There is indeed a fruit called Java Plum (Syzygium cuminii – see picture) which tastes just like the European plum. Not only is it eaten as a fruit for enjoyment, Java Plum is said to have tremendous health benefits. Look at the picture. Doesn’t it look like the colour of red wine?

In Asia, I’d rather prefer to hear a wine host or judge speaking with no plum in his/her mouth. Why not simply say that it tastes like Java Plum and I will know exactly what that means. Wine hosts should contextualise their wine lexis don’t you agree? If the plum in your mouth is a barrier to communicating the taste of wine, simply spit it out!