Right then, loves. Let's have a proper chat about wine language, shall we? I've sat through enough wine tastings where someone bangs on about "pencil shavings" and "wet gravel" to last a lifetime. And whilst those descriptors are technically valid (more on that later), the truth is this: wine vocabulary shouldn't make you feel like you're auditioning for Masterpiece Theatre.
During my time studying oenology in Burgundy, my French professors taught me something brilliant: le vocabulaire du vin isn't about showing off - it's about communication. Wine language exists to help us share what we're experiencing in the glass. Nothing more, nothing less.
So today, we're going to build your wine vocabulary without any of the pretentious nonsense. You'll learn the essential terms that actually matter, discover how to describe what you're tasting honestly, and - most importantly - gain the confidence to trust your own palate. Because here's the thing: if you taste strawberries and your mate tastes raspberries, you're both absolutely right.
Before we dive into the fancy stuff, let's nail down the foundational vocabulary. These are the terms you'll use in 90% of wine conversations, and they're refreshingly straightforward.
Now we're getting into the fun bit - describing what you actually smell and taste. Wine aromas fall into several broad categories, and understanding these helps you articulate what's happening in your glass.
The backbone of wine description, and thankfully, the most accessible. Here's the key: be specific when you can, but don't stress if you can't.
These are subtle but absolutely gorgeous when you catch them. Rose petals, violet, orange blossom, jasmine, elderflower - particularly common in aromatic whites and elegant reds like Nebbiolo. If it reminds you of a garden in spring, you're in floral territory.
Grass, bell pepper, eucalyptus, mint, thyme, dill, green tea - these can be delightful (think Sauvignon Blanc's herbaceous quality) or a sign of underripe grapes (excessive bell pepper in Cabernet). Context matters.
Ah yes, here's where things get properly French. Mushroom, truffle, forest floor, wet stones, slate, chalk, graphite - these are tertiary aromas that develop with age or reflect specific terroirs. Burgundy lovers, this is your language. And yes, "wet gravel" is a legitimate descriptor for certain Bordeaux - it's not just wine wankers showing off.
Black pepper (classic Syrah), white pepper, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, vanilla, anise - these can come from the grape itself or from oak aging. Vanilla and baking spices? That's almost always oak influence.
Vanilla, toast, smoke, caramel, coffee, chocolate, coconut, cedar - if you're tasting big, rich Chardonnay or aged Rioja, oak is probably contributing significantly to the flavor profile. American oak tends toward coconut and vanilla; French oak is more subtle with toast and spice.
Look, I love wine language, but there's a fine line between useful description and utter bollocks. Here's how to stay on the right side of that line.
The golden rule? Use language that genuinely reflects your experience and helps communicate what you're tasting. If "fruity and delicious" is accurate, say that. You don't need to conjure up "notes of forest floor and autumn leaves" unless you actually smell them.
Let's clear up some confusion, shall we? These terms get thrown around incorrectly all the time, and it drives me absolutely bonkers.
The myth: "This wine is really dry - it's making my mouth pucker." The reality: That's tannin, not dryness. "Dry" simply means the wine has little to no residual sugar. You can have a dry wine with high tannins (Cabernet) or a dry wine with low tannins (Pinot Noir). Conversely, "sweet" refers to sugar content, not fruitiness. A wine can taste intensely fruity whilst being bone dry.
The confusion: These often occur together in Chardonnay, but they're different. The truth: "Oaky" refers to flavors from barrel aging (vanilla, toast, spice). "Buttery" refers to a creamy texture and flavor from malolactic fermentation, a bacterial process that converts tart malic acid to softer lactic acid. You can have oaky without buttery, and vice versa.
The myth: "Look at those legs - this must be excellent wine!" The reality: Legs (the droplets that form on the glass) indicate alcohol content and glycerol, not quality. A cheap, high-alcohol wine will have prominent legs. A brilliant, lower-alcohol Mosel Riesling won't. It's physics, not prowess.
The debate: Wine professionals argue endlessly about this one. The practical approach: "Minerality" describes a certain flinty, stony, saline quality in wine - think Chablis or Sancerre. Scientifically, you're not actually tasting minerals from the soil (that's largely debunked), but the term remains useful for describing a specific sensation. Use it when you get that wet-stone, chalky, or saline impression.
Here's the secret my French professors taught me: your wine vocabulary grows through deliberate practice. You're not born knowing what "cassis" smells like - you learn it by smelling actual blackcurrants and then encountering that aroma in Cabernet Sauvignon.
I know, I know - it sounds terribly earnest. But writing down your impressions forces you to articulate what you're experiencing. Start simple:
After a few months, you'll have a personal reference library. "Ah yes, this Barolo reminds me of that Barbaresco I had in June - same rose petal and tar character."
The Wine Aroma Wheel, developed by Dr. Ann C. Noble at UC Davis, is an absolutely brilliant tool for building vocabulary. It organizes wine aromas in concentric circles, from general categories (fruity, spicy, earthy) to specific descriptors (blackcurrant, cinnamon, mushroom).
When you're tasting wine, start broad and work inward. "I'm getting something fruity... it's dark fruit... specifically, it's blackberry." The wheel prevents you from getting overwhelmed and provides a structured approach to identifying aromas.
You don't always need to reach Level 3. Sometimes "red fruit" is perfectly adequate. The wheel gives you options without demanding precision.
Here's the thing that took me years to learn, even with all my formal training: your tasting notes are valid. If you smell banana in an oaked Chardonnay and the critic's notes say "baking spices and vanilla," you're not wrong. Our individual palates emphasize different compounds. Our personal experiences create different associations.
I once tasted a Syrah with a student who kept insisting it smelled like her grandmother's Sunday roast. She was picking up on the black pepper, rosemary, and roasted meat notes that many tasters describe as "gamey" or "peppery." Her association was different, but completely accurate.
Wine vocabulary exists to help you communicate and deepen your appreciation - not to make you feel inadequate or create barriers. The best tasting note is the one that's honest and helps you remember (or communicate to others) what you experienced.
To get you started, here's a practical list of wines that brilliantly demonstrate specific characteristics. Taste these, and you'll have a solid vocabulary foundation:
Spend around $15-25 (USD) per bottle for these learning wines - you want decent quality to properly experience the characteristics, but you're not breaking the bank.