I love a writing assignment that requires me to enjoy a glass of wine. But drinking wine while I read Wine for Women: A Guide to Buying, Pairing and Sharing Wine, by Leslie Sbrocco, quickly progressed from a research technique to a survival tactic.
Wine for Women is geared specifically to the supermarket wine shopper—apparently, a gender-specific activity—and it has noble intentions: to demystify the wonderful world of wine for the majority of wine buyers, which are, you guessed it: women. There is a need for simple, straightforward guides to wine for the supermarket shopper. I’ll even concede that I’d like to see such a guide targeted to women: the cooks and hostesses among us, along with those who simply, um, thirst for wine knowledge.
The problem with Leslie Sbrocco’s book is that she assumes women are less interested in wine than we are in not looking like idiots.
I welcome a beginner’s wine guide that allows me to leave books like Wine for Dummies and the Idiot’s Guide to Wine on the bookstore shelves. But does my guide have to explain wine to me using fashion metaphors? I’m going to need a bottle of Chianti for this.
According to Ms. Sbrocco, Chianti is made primarily from sangiovese grapes (okay, that’s helpful information) and it’s the “sleek Italian heels” of a wine wardrobe. If you’re not sure what that means because you buy your shoes at Payless, then I’m right there with you. Luckily, Sbrocco goes on to explain that she “gravitates toward stylish Italian heels that miraculously seem to make any outfit look elegant.” Wait, isn’t Chianti that cheap wine that comes in a funky bottle that looks half like a basket?
Okay, so maybe my experience with Chianti before my honeymoon in Tuscany was severely limited. However, I’m further confused when Sbrocco calls chardonnay the “basic black of white wine,” while cabernet sauvignon is the “classic suit of red.” I guess this means that women who love “spring dresses” would most enjoy Rieslings and gewürztraminers while only those who wear “seductive satin” would be into pinot noir. Not only do I still not know which wine to serve at my next party; I definitely have nothing to wear.
The assumption that fashion metaphors are the perfect way to guide women through the sophisticated world of wine is just one of this book’s many problems. Consider Sbrocco’s chardonnay “Design-a-Dinner” advice: “Stock your shelves with these chardonnay-friendly ingredients and dinner becomes a simple matter of mixing and matching ingredients, like a perfect pairing of blouse, blazer, and scarf or necklace. Start with the base, or bottoms, then add tops, and, finally accessorize.” She follows this just plain weird advice with a list of “bottoms” (pork, chicken, and salmon, among others) “tops,” (corn, squash, pumpkin, etc.) and “accessories” (Dijon mustard, carmelized onions, and toasted almonds). Apparently, we supermarket shoppers need basic cooking and pantry-stocking advice, too.
It gets worse. There is so much information in this book, that Sbrocco resorted to cutesy icons and section titles like “Leslie’s Label Links” and “The Buzz on…” and “Lingo Lessons.” These features are informative, but there are so many charts and sections and shorthand guides that I began to long for a simple topographical map. At least that would clearly illustrate the segmented, hillside vineyards of Burgundy better than this poorly written “Label Links” tip:
Somewhere Over the Cote d’Or no other place in the world has been able to embrace, coddle, and caress the [pinot noir] grape like Burgundy, in particular the thirty-mile slice of sloping land called the Cote d’Or (or “golden slope”). I think of this tiny sloping patchwork of vineyards as the Judy Garland of wine regions. Just as Judy was a petite thing with a booming, world-famous voice, the Cote d’Or is small, but oh-so-powerful in the world of wine.
Never mind that this is one in a series of Wizard of Oz references; I’ve actually been to Burgundy but I had to read this paragraph nine times to understand that Sbrocco was trying to tell me that Burgundy is small.
However poorly written, the Label Links sections are actually the most useful feature of the book: she includes pictures of the labels she likes and divides them by style—bright and earthy or juicy and ripe, for example. But her over-reliance on metaphors and her overly wordy writing style make most of the book difficult to follow, and even more difficult to absorb, which is the whole point of a wine guide.
I like that Sbrocco features female wine makers and sommeliers throughout the book—it almost makes the condescending title of the book seem like a feminist statement. I would love to think that Sbrocco is making this statement with this book: gone are the days when women retreat with “I’ll have a glass of white wine, please,” leaving the enjoyment of bodacious reds to men. But the patronizing tone of her writing, together with gardening metaphors, pantry-stocking instructions, and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” allusions just make this book a beginner’s guide gone wrong.
I know choosing wine and learning about wine can be overwhelming. After ten years of pretty intense study (read: regular, but focused, wine drinking paired with just two overseas wine-tasting vacations), I like to think I know what I’m talking about. But when I recently asked my local wine store owner to recommend a champagne that was lighter than Veuve Clicquot, she politely suggested that Veuve Clicquot was as light as it gets. Clearly, I have a lot to learn.
So the truth is, I need a wine guide. I don’t need vintage charts or a guide to building the perfect wine cellar. I just want to stock my wine rack with reasonably priced bottles I can enjoy with food and friends. I need a book like Leslie Sbrocco intended to write. I like to know where wine comes from; I like to be able to describe accurately how it tastes; I like to be able to go into a store and confidently ask for the type and style of wine I’m looking for and actually get what I’m expecting. This, I think, is what most women—and men—want. Unfortunately, Wine for Women is too confusing and too condescending to fit the bill.
