“The Judgment of Paris”
Part 2.
Chapter Four.
4.1 Other Characters:
10. Steven Spurrier (1941–2021)
An Englishman, a diplomat of taste, wine merchant, writer, teacher, and enthusiast. In 1970 he opened the wine shop Caves de la Madeleine in Paris, and in 1973 he founded the Académie du Vin, the first private wine academy in France aimed at English-speaking students. Many future wine experts studied there. He was not a judge of the event, but the conductor of this “symphonic madness.” His faith was in the honesty of taste memory; his dream — to break myths and stereotypes; yet he was haunted by the fear of being taken too literally. Spurrier’s goal was not to create a sensation but to show French professionals how far the “new wine worlds” — especially California — had advanced. He acted as the organizer and moderator of the tasting, but did not take part in the voting, his opinion was not counted. He explained his non-participation as follows:
— If I rate an American wine higher than a French one, I’ll be accused of bias. If the opposite — they’ll say I was afraid of the French reaction. That’s why I’m outside the hall.
Spurrier became known as a bridge between the Old and the New World; throughout his life he sought out new regions, new wines, and new names. Later he became a winemaker himself, founding the Bride Valley Vineyard in England.
“I simply wanted taste to speak for itself. But instead — it shouted!”
11.Patricia Gastaud-Gallagher (b. 1945)
Steven Spurrier’s right hand, American by birth but French in spirit, like a crossing between two worlds. Born in the USA, she moved to Paris in the early 1970s, where she worked as a journalist and cultivated her interest in wine. In 1973 she joined Spurrier at his wine shop Caves de la Madeleine and co-founded the Académie du Vin. The very idea of this historic contest belonged to her. In 1975 she visited California wineries, was impressed by the quality of the wines there, and persuaded Spurrier to include them in the tasting. It was her efforts in organizing and selecting the wines that made the event possible. Patricia continues to live in Paris and participates in wine events, sharing her experience and knowledge. She, too, did not take part in the voting.
“Wine does not ask where you are from — it asks who you are?”
12.George M. Taber (b. 1942)
An American journalist who played a key role in covering the historic 1976 wine tasting known as the “Judgment of Paris.” At the time, he was a correspondent for Time magazine in Paris and happened to be the only journalist present at the event. His article, published two weeks later on June 7, 1976, was the first public report that California wines had surpassed French wines in a blind tasting, a revelation that shocked the wine world. Taber worked for Time for more than two decades, covering a wide range of topics in both the US and Europe. After the “Judgment of Paris,” he continued his career in journalism and wrote several books, including «Judgment of Paris: California vs. France and the Historic 1976 Paris Tasting that Revolutionized Wine» (2005). This book gave a detailed account of the tasting and its impact on the global wine industry.
Taber’s presence at the tasting and his subsequent reporting played a decisive role in the recognition of California wine quality and in reshaping the perception of American winemaking on the international stage. One could say of him:
— He was the one holding the pen while everyone else was holding a glass.
Taber was not a judge, never took a sip, never assigned a score — but his lines echoed like a drumroll. He later described his attendance at the tasting like this:
— Honestly? I only went because I was bored. Paris, May, heat… Steven invited me: “Drop by the tasting — it’ll be fun.” I thought it would be another wine show for snobs, where pretentious connoisseurs speak in veiled phrases about hints of ‘wet stone,’ ‘underbrush,’ and ‘overripe gooseberry.’ The judges were French, the wines were French. And what chance did Californians have?
“They didn’t know I was writing it all down. But when it was over — I already knew it would be a bombshell…”
Paris. May 24, 1976. 10:58 a.m.
The waiters gently open the doors to the tasting room and bow slightly to those entering. The muffled sound of footsteps on the carpet. The wine has not yet been poured, but the air already carries a tension — like before an operation. No one speaks loudly. Someone coughs, another adjusts his tie. They enter not as spectators, but as jurors, unshakably convinced of their own judgment.
Napa Valley. The same day. 1:58 a.m.
In California it was still night, but dawn was about to break over the foothills. Farmers would soon rise — not from anxiety, but from nature’s rhythm. Through a dusty window of a winery, one could see a thermometer on the shelf. Beside it — a notebook recording soil moisture. One of the growers, gray-haired, with roughened hands, lifts his head from the pillow. He doesn’t know that in Paris the judges are preparing to evaluate wines — including his own. But he knows the vine is awake, and now the moment must not be missed.
— If she asks for water — don’t argue. If she fears the heat — don’t rush. Paris can wait. The vine cannot.
4.2 “Aromas of Truth”
Softly come the sounds of footsteps, corks popping, the light clink of glasses. The judges settle into their seats, exchanging brief remarks as they do:
Claude Dubois-Millot (sipping water):
— As for me, this tasting is nothing more than a curiosity. But Spurrier is a curious man — let him amuse himself…
Raymond Oliver (studying the numbered list):
— So there will be Americans? Well then… let’s hear what the New World — or a new fashion — has to surprise us with.
(Someone chuckles quietly. Papers rustle. One of the judges reaches for a cigarette, then remembers the rules forbid it and instead bites the cap of his pen.)
Odette Kahn (in a low voice to her neighbor):
— Have you ever tasted anything from California? I haven’t. And frankly, I’m not eager to. They don’t understand… Wine is not a beverage, it is an origin, a duty, a line of taste flowing from century to century. I can recognize a grand cru by its aroma. And they, Californians, think that sharp acidity and heavy oak make for aristocracy?
Pierre Bréjoux (adjusting his bow tie):
— Perhaps it will be fun. Wine is not war — though sometimes, you know… the consequences are similar.
Before each of them stood eight glasses of white, later to be followed by the same number of reds. Bottles were numbered — without names, without pedigree, without flag. Steven Spurrier, with a faint smile, gestured: they could begin. The judges reached for the first glass…
Odette Kahn inhales the aroma, narrowing her eyes slightly:
— This is Meursault, without a doubt. Or… no? Damn, such strange minerality. If it’s Californian — it lies too beautifully. If French — it fears losing itself.
Raymond Oliver takes a sip, brightening:
— This is powerful! Almost like Burgundy — but with an American suntan…
Jean-Claude Vrinat:
— And this — sharp, like a slap. Almost insolent. But in that insolence lies style. Too much sun, too little restraint. A Frenchman wouldn’t dare. Or would he?..
Christian Vanneque remains silent, jotting notes. He does not yet realize that his scores will soon be headlines in the world press:
— Damn it… but I like this. But why? Because of mastery or because of surprise? If it’s American… what will I say afterward?
Michel Dovaz (quietly):
— I knew blind tasting would be a trial. But I never thought the hardest part would be failing to recognize a favorite. (Aside) — We are tasting an era. We just don’t yet know which one.
Someone sighed loudly, someone set down a glass with too much clatter — nerves. Claude Dubois-Millot swore under his breath, staring at his notes as if written by a stranger’s hand. One judge hesitantly asked to return to sample #3. Another re-counted his points, then crossed them all out.
Steven Spurrier stepped forward slightly and reminded them:
— You are judging aroma, taste, aftertaste, and balance. Country of origin is not your guide.
Silence. Then a nervous laugh from someone:
— Then why does each glass feel like a challenge to a flag?
Two and a half hours passed. The judges leaned back in their chairs like musicians after a stormy symphony.
4.3 “The Outcome”
(“And was it really them?..”)
A little later Spurrier stepped forward. In his hands was the list that would change wine history. He spoke simply, almost casually, yet his voice carried the tension of a conductor about to announce that tonight, instead of Mozart, the victor was… a local school composer.
— So… First place among the white wines: Chardonnay 1973, Château Montelena, USA.
A moment of silence, astonishment, shock. One judge raised his eyebrows; another froze as if he had swallowed a stone of truth; someone’s fingers trembled on their pen. Drops of sweat appeared on the forehead of a judge, even in the coolness of the Parisian salon.
— First place among the red wines: Cabernet Sauvignon 1973, Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars, USA.
Dead silence in the hall. The judges stared at the results. Some exchanged glances, someone sighed, another frowned, one shook his head slowly.
Odette Kahn (to herself):
— It’s over. The veil has fallen. We were not all-seeing, but blind within our own temple.
Christian Vanneque (inwardly):
— It was not the wines that betrayed France. It was our own complacency playing a cruel trick.
Raymond Oliver (quietly, with a smile):
— Well then… chefs too sometimes try something new. The main thing is that it not be bland.
Wine had not lost — labels had. And for the first time in a long while, the judges left a tasting not with final opinions, but with the beginnings of doubt.
Steven Spurrier (inner voice):
— They came to judge the wines, but ended up delivering a verdict on themselves.
…That evening. Napa Valley. A winery cellar, half-dark.
A small plastic radio with knobs. A faint background hiss. The winemaker and his son sit on overturned crates. Nearby — empty bottles and work gloves.
A host’s accented voice breaks through the airwaves with a delay:
— And the winner is… from California…
A bottle rolls off a crate, falls, but does not shatter. No one speaks. The winemaker closes his eyes, unmoving. His son clenches his fists, unwilling to believe what he’s heard. The silence is the same as in Paris. But if there — it was an ending, here — it was only a beginning.
…Napa Valley. The next morning
When the news arrived from Paris that California wines had defeated the French, it did not explode across newspaper headlines, did not dominate the evening news, and did not send vintners dancing on bar counters. America in 1976 was a country looking inward. The airwaves were filled with debates about the presidential election — Democrat Jimmy Carter or Republican Gerald Ford? The nation was still recovering from the shock of Watergate, Nixon’s resignation, the Vietnam War — people sought comfort and truth through laughter.
Families gathered in front of the blue TV screen — with beer, popcorn, burgers under blankets or on the rug — watching sitcoms like All in the Family (1971–1979), The Jeffersons (1975–1985), or Barney Miller (1975–1982). On the streets they talked about the gas crisis, about Queen’s music — but certainly not about Paris, and even less about Chardonnay.
— And what’s a ‘Montrachet’? A new Pontiac model?
Two weeks later, Time magazine published a one-page story by George Taber under the simple headline: “California Wines Defeat the French.” Some read it, then tossed the magazine face-down on the couch.
And then it began…
One winemaker read it, then called another. That one pulled a bottle from the shelf, opened it, inhaled, and suddenly felt it was more than just wine — it was proof of labor, skill, and fortune. By evening in Napa’s small wineries, people first laughed at the article, then reread it. Someone placed an expensive long-distance call to Paris. Another just said:
— Well, damn it… looks like we really did it.
America was surprised, then — in its own way — delighted. It was real, broad, even a bit childlike joy. As if someone had said:
— Your boy won the Olympics… by accident, without doping, still wearing cowboy boots!
Wineries began receiving letters. Tourists headed to Napa: some from San Francisco and Los Angeles just for the weekend, others from New York — “to taste the wines that beat the French!”
And in a wine shop someone said:
— I’ll take that… what’s it called… Montelena. Yes, like in the magazine. I want to taste the winner.
Thus California first believed its wine was no joke, no mere craft, no accident. It was culture.
Barrels began to appear in garages. Someone replaced peach trees with grapevines in their backyard. In one school history class, a student said:
— You know, wine is a weapon too.
And just a few years after the “Judgment of Paris,” in 1981, the next U.S. president — Ronald Reagan — entered the White House as a true herald of California wine. Former governor of California, he not only knew his state’s wine valleys but took pride in them, promoting them enthusiastically at diplomatic receptions and state banquets. Under Reagan, a bottle of California wine became a symbol of a new American confidence — bold, sunny, flamboyant, but charming in its own way. A label reading Napa Valley was no longer a joke — it became a reason for a toast at the highest tables.
4.4 Reaction after the Tasting
Odette Kahn was shocked by the results. When the California wines unexpectedly emerged as winners, she demanded her tasting sheets back (which by the rules was impossible), and later refused to acknowledge the fairness of the outcome. According to witnesses, she felt she had been misled and that the blind tasting was poorly organized. She never published articles about the contest in her magazines, which was one of the reasons the event went largely unnoticed in France but caused a sensation in the United States. One can only assume that somewhere deep down she thought: “I was wrong. Or perhaps I just wasn’t ready to hear it…” But she never said so aloud.
Jean-Claude Vrinat is believed to have voted honestly, though cautiously. He was shocked by the results but did not make a scandal out of it. His reaction was detached, yet carried a profound awareness of a shift in the era.
Raymond Oliver — little has been preserved about his immediate response, but eyewitnesses recall he took the outcome with a smile and more of a philosophical mood. He cared about taste as such, and the blind format did not frighten him. Later, he did not comment publicly on the results, which matched his reputation as a man of deeds, not of scandals.
Pierre Bréjoux — his scores turned out to be rather high for some California wines, which caused a wave of criticism in France. Some claimed it undermined the authority of French wine. There were even calls for him to resign from his position as General Inspector of the INAO. Yet Bréjoux did not back down. He admitted that as early as 1974 he had visited California and was impressed by the quality of local wines. Later he noted that the tasting confirmed for him that winemaking excellence was not limited to France alone. He acknowledged that the Californian wines were indeed masterfully made, and unlike some colleagues, he never questioned the honesty of the contest. His role in the “Judgment of Paris” became a symbol of a new era in the wine world, where quality and craftsmanship outweighed national prejudice.
Claude Dubois-Millot admitted after the tasting that the results surprised him. He remarked that the confusion in identifying the origin of the wines showed just how high the Californians had risen in quality.
Michel Dovaz accepted the results calmly. He did not hide his surprise, but neither did he deny that blind tasting is blind tasting — and in that lies the honesty of the experiment. Later he emphasized that the event was a milestone, showing that great wine could come from anywhere in the world.
Christian Vanneque did not hide his astonishment afterward, but unlike Odette Kahn, he did not express indignation. In later interviews he admitted that California’s victory was a shock, but also an important lesson — and even confessed pride in having been a witness to the moment when history changed.
Aubert de Villaine received the unexpected triumph of California wines with surprise but also with respect. He did not share the panic or aggression of some colleagues. Later he explained it was a reminder of the importance of humility and openness: wine is not only history and origin, but also the taste created in a given time and place, by a given person.
Steven Spurrier himself was stunned by the outcome. He had not expected California to win — rather, he hoped their wines simply would not fail. The results made him a persona non grata in the French wine community for several years, especially after the story appeared in the American press. Judging from his memoir (Judgment of Paris) and interviews, at first he believed the tasting would end with a polite triumph of French wines, along with a friendly nod to the quality of the American entries — but without sensationalism. In one interview he said: “I felt the earth creak. The French judges began to taste blindly — not as patriots, not as gourmets, but as honest tasters. It was beautiful — and frightening.” Later he added: “The French never forgave me for letting them judge… with their eyes closed.”
4.5 Spurrier’s Reflections
Wine as a Mirror of Change
— Blind tasting: such a simple, almost naive idea — yet that day it proved stronger than centuries of tradition. It showed that taste is not geography; taste is honesty and craftsmanship.
— Wine is a mirror. Sometimes it flatters, sometimes it distorts. But at times — it reflects the truth.
— I never wanted a revolution. I just wanted each glass to speak for itself.
— They didn’t expect it. And neither did I. It was an experiment. A game. I wanted to shake things up — not to destroy them. I wanted the French to look at wine not as a relic, but as a living interlocutor.
— And you know, it was not a tasting. It was a performance. Or a mirror they looked into — and what they saw was not themselves. And that frightened them most of all.
— France is not just a country of wine — it is a fortress. I came from another culture, but I grew to love it. And then I realized: even fortresses have windows, and through them light finds its way in.
— The French wine world: classifications, AOC, terroir — an almost religious system of coordinates. Wine here is a cultural code, not simply a drink. At that time, the judges embodied such beliefs, not merely professional tasters. In the New World, the attitude was different: wine was craft + ambition + experiment.
— Tomorrow the judges will be angry, they will argue, some will say it was all chance. But you cannot deceive time — it has already taken its step. And I was there when it happened. And I know one thing: that day, they weren’t tasting wine. They were tasting the flavor of change. And still… how good it was.
His “Judgment of Paris” became a turning point in wine history, opening the door for New World wines onto the global stage.
4.6 Finale. Twenty Years Later
…Two letters written 20 years later in 1996
Napa Valley, California — Summer 1996
Hello, Jake,
You once asked me what it was like — that very day when our wines defeated the French. Back then I brushed it off and said: “Nothing special.”
But you know, that was a lie — a gentle one, just to avoid boasting. Today I decided to tell you how it really was.
That day was hot. Not Texas-hot, but Californian: dusty, dry, a little windy, and everything smelled of grapes. I was watering the vines, cursing at the squirrel that had once again stolen a cork, when Rick came running. Remember him? My neighbor, the one I always quarreled with over the proper placement of the fence dividing our vineyards.
He was waving a copy of Time magazine, shaking it like a manifesto.
— They won! — he shouted.
— Who?
— WE!
We went over to Bill’s place — he had a radio. We hooked it up, caught the news, short but real. Then we opened a bottle — not the one that had won, but another from our valley.
Then neighbors came. Then someone drove in from San Francisco. And then it began.
We didn’t jump for joy. We laughed, because none of us truly believed that someone across the ocean had actually tasted our wines — and declared them better than the French. We had always assumed Europe would forever treat us like the grubby kids in the backyard.
America then was different; we looked inward, not outward. We never imagined we could win something cultural. But the “Judgment of Paris” wasn’t about wine — it was about the moment someone said to you:
— You’re not just good. You’re the best — you just didn’t know it yet.
Twenty years have passed since. We build wineries of glass and steel, we fly to wine fairs in Tokyo, and people are already wary of us.
But what I remember is not the fame that suddenly fell on us. I remember that evening when we sat on wooden crates under the moonlight, with a glass and laughter — and no one said aloud that we had won. Because wine is not about shouting. It is about the silence in which pride ripens.
Paris gave us a medal, but we learned to believe in ourselves.
Embrace the vine for me.
— Your grandfather, Sam.
Burgundy, France — June 1996
Monsieur,
Twenty years ago I was only a young intern at the Académie du Vin in Paris. I was tasked with helping to organize some blind tasting where masters — the great judges, the legendary “noses” and “palates” with super-sensitive receptors — were to gather, as we joked at the time. I had no idea then that it would become one of the most important tastings of the 20th century.
I remember how we smirked at those bottles from California — flowery labels, English names, fresh fonts, no “depth.” At the same moment we opened our wines as one opens a Bible: with reverence, almost in prayer. We juniors had no voice, but — I’ll tell you a secret — we were allowed to taste the same wines after the judging ended. You understand: the bottles were open, and wasting good wine is a sin.
I remember pouring a glass of California Chardonnay and thinking: “This isn’t France. But damn, it’s delicious!”
And today, two decades later, I will say this: it was a cleansing. Not because France lost, but because French wine finally had to fight again for the consumer’s heart. We began listening more closely to nature, paying sharper attention to the harvest, treating our customers better.
Today I own a small domaine in the Côte d’Or. And sometimes, sitting in the cellar, I remember that day — not as a disgrace, but as an awakening. French wine once again learned to look in the mirror. We began to value anew what we were making. I never abandoned tradition — no, but I understood that tradition is not armor, it is roots. And a tree must grow.
And you know, I often drink California Chardonnay with friends in the garden. In the glass — Napa; on the plate — our Camembert. Because true wine is not about soil and prestige. It is about memory and honesty.
Merci. Bien cordialement,
Jean-Marie Lemetre
(former intern at the Académie du Vin, now a winemaker in Burgundy)
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