Part One. Stories and Legends Surrounding Wine
Why Can the Same Wine Taste Different? How stories, expectations, and the psychology of perception shape flavor even before the very first sip.
Chapter One
We Do Not Simply Drink Wine—We Drink Its Story
🍷🍽 …Marseille, France—Present Day
A fine dining restaurant in Marseille, not far from the harbor. May.
A couple had come here to celebrate the purchase of their new home. It was their first visit, although they had heard many good things about the place.
They were seated on the open terrace. On one side stretched a magnificent view of the port; on the other, the historic quarter of the city.
A quiet harbor. The still blue waters of the Mediterranean. Ships anchored offshore and yachts gently swaying at their moorings. A light breeze carried salty air, the scent of seaweed, and faint traces of a busy commercial port.
The view captivated the man—he kept looking out toward the sea.
His companion, meanwhile, gazed in the opposite direction, toward the towers of an old medieval monastery still active to this day. They glowed in the reddish light of the setting sun. From somewhere in the distance came the soft sound of church bells.
A friendly waiter brought them the restaurant’s wine list.
It was substantial—more than two hundred wines from around the world, though naturally French producers dominated the selection.
Between the sea and the silence of the monastery, a story is born that shapes the taste of the wine even before the first sip
Most of the names meant very little to the couple. Country, grape variety, vintage, price—all of it offered only the most superficial understanding. Nothing more.
For a moment, they hesitated. What should they choose?
The evening felt special, the weather was beautiful, and they wanted the wine to match the mood. They wanted something more than flavor and aroma—something with meaning and a story behind it. Perhaps even a small mystery.
So they turned to the waiter for advice.
— What would you recommend for a pleasant and celebratory evening like this? — the woman asked. — Something unusual and memorable… Maybe there are wines on your list whose labels hide interesting stories?
The waiter paused for a moment, noticing the directions in which his guests were looking: he toward the sea, she toward the monastery.
— Many of our wines are not as simple as they may appear on the wine list, — he said. — Behind many of them stand entire dynasties of winemakers, centuries-old traditions, legends, and farming practices…
— That sounds intriguing, — she smiled. — Could you give us an example of something like that from your collection?
— Of course, — he replied. — I happened to notice that you are both drawn to two different views from this terrace—the sea and the monastery…
He paused briefly.
— Would you like me to tell you about two wines from our list? One is connected to the sea. The other—to the traditions of the Cistercian order.
— Oh, we’re listening very carefully…
🤿🍷 The Story of the “Sea Wine”
(as told by the waiter)
The waiter leaned slightly toward the table, as if sharing something not entirely ordinary.
— Then let us begin with the wine connected to the sea.
He gestured toward the harbor, still quietly shimmering in the evening light.
— It comes from a small estate on the coast not far from Marseille. It is called Domaine des Deux Courants (‘The Two Currents’). Some time ago, the owners became fascinated by stories of wines discovered aboard sunken ships. Some of those bottles had spent decades underwater and were still found in remarkably good condition.
— And they decided to recreate it? — the man asked with a faint smile.
— More like… to understand it, — the waiter replied thoughtfully. — They were not chasing sensation or spectacle. They were curious about what might happen to wine in an environment completely unfamiliar to it.
He continued:
— They began lowering part of their bottles to the seabed at shallow depths, placing them in special cages. Down there, there is almost no light, the temperature remains stable, and the wine rests in complete stillness. Another portion of the same vintage was aged traditionally so they could compare the results later.
He fell silent for a moment, as though allowing the words to settle.
— One of those wines is on our list. It is called ‘Équilibre Submergé’ (‘Submerged Balance’).
The waiter smiled slightly.
— They say that in the beginning, even the owners themselves were unsure whether the experiment should continue. And once, there was supposedly a conversation between them that went something like this…
His tone changed subtly, as though quoting from memory.
— But we do not know whether the wine will become better.
— And if it does not, at least we will understand that this does not work.
— And if it does?
— Then perhaps we will simply learn to listen to the wine differently.
The waiter looked carefully at his guests.
— And since then, they have continued the experiment.
The couple listened attentively.
— So… does the taste really change? — she asked.
The waiter spread his hands slightly.
— Some people insist that it does. Others say the difference is minimal.
Then he added more softly:
— But almost everyone agrees on one thing: the wine feels… calmer. More composed. I would recommend trying it with something from the sea—perhaps seafood risotto or baked fish. That way, you may sense the connection more clearly.
The couple exchanged a glance. The man looked once more toward the water.
— Let’s try that wine, — she said.
— Excellent choice, — the waiter nodded. — I’ll bring it right away.
In the glass—wine. In the mind—the sea: the story has already begun to shape the taste
🍷 First Tasting of the “Sea Wine”
The waiter returned a few minutes later. He carefully opened the bottle, poured a small amount into each glass, and lingered beside the table for a moment.
— I would recommend trying it first on its own, — he said. — And only afterward with the food.
They lifted their glasses almost simultaneously.
The man slowly swirled the wine, held it to the light, and inhaled its aroma.
The woman took a small sip as well.
A pause.
— Interesting… — he said.
— Yes, — she replied. — Very calm.
They tasted it again.
The man frowned slightly, as though trying to catch something elusive.
— Listen… — he said. — Don’t you feel there’s something… slightly salty here?
She tasted it once more, more attentively this time.
— There is… — she answered slowly. — Almost like… a faint taste of the sea.
He smiled.
— Although, of course, that’s impossible.
— Of course, — she nodded. — The bottles are sealed.
She raised the glass to her lips again.
— And yet the sensation is there. As though it’s not simply acidity… but something more mineral.
— Yes, — he agreed. — As if it had really been there somehow.
He laughed softly.
— Funny… five minutes ago I’d have called this just a fresh white.
— And now? — she asked.
He took another sip, slower than before.
— Now I’m searching for the sea in which it was aged.
She added quietly:
— And finding it.
He paused for a moment in thought.
— And there’s also a feeling of… depth.
She smiled faintly.
— Maybe because it truly came ‘from the depths’?
They looked at one another and both laughed softly.
🍷⛪ The “Monastery Wine”
When the “sea wine” was nearly finished and nothing remained of the seafood risotto, the woman leaned back slightly in her chair and once again glanced toward the monastery towers. The sound of the bells had grown softer now.
She signaled to the waiter.
— The white wine has become clearer to us, — she said. — Its story moved us and, in some way, affected how we perceived it. It made us notice things we would never have paid attention to otherwise, had we not known the story behind it.
She paused briefly.
— And now I’m curious—do you have a wine somehow connected to the monastery? To medieval winemaking traditions? I can’t seem to take my eyes off that monastery on the hill.
The waiter smiled slightly, as though he had been expecting the question.
— We do indeed have such a wine, — he said. — And I would suggest making it the second wine of your evening. It is entirely different—you’ll see that immediately.
For a moment, he too looked toward the monastery.
— If the first wine is connected with the sea and movement… then this one is more about silence, time, and patience.
⛪ Entering the Story
He lowered his voice slightly.
— This is a red wine from a small estate whose lands once belonged to a Cistercian monastery.
He spoke unhurriedly.
— They made wine there for centuries. Not for sale. For themselves. Not for pleasure alone, but for the state of mind it created. The estate is called Clos de Sainte-Serre. The monks lived in seclusion there. They worked slowly. For them, it was part of the order and rhythm of life.
He smiled faintly, though without the lightness from before.
— There is an old legend… one that is often retold. Many centuries ago, the monks supposedly had a conversation that went something like this:
— Why do we not try to make the wine better?
— Because it is already good enough.
— But surely we could achieve more?
— We could. But then we would begin to hurry.
The waiter lifted his eyes and added, a little louder:
— It is said that ever since then, they have tried not to accelerate anything.
In the glass—wine. In the mind—the silence of monastery cellars, where the taste resonates more deeply
After a brief pause, he continued:
— It is a red wine. Perhaps not the brightest from the first sip. More… restrained. Even somewhat closed.
Then he added:
— But if you give it time, it opens itself gradually. I would suggest pairing it with something simple. No complicated sauces. Nothing that interferes.
He smiled slightly.
— This wine does not like being helped.
The woman looked toward the now-dark silhouette of the monastery—the sun had already disappeared beyond the horizon.
— It sounds… completely different from the first one.
The man nodded.
— Yes. As though this is no longer about taste, but about a state of mind.
— Let’s try it, — she said.
— Excellent, — the waiter replied. — I’ll bring it right away.
🍷 Tasting the “Monastery Wine”
The waiter returned with a new bottle. Without unnecessary movement, he uncorked it, poured the wine into their glasses, and stepped back slightly, as though giving it space.
— This wine should not be rushed, — he said quietly. — Give it a little time.
They did not reach for their glasses immediately. The pause was longer this time than it had been with the white wine.
The woman was the first to lift her glass. She took a small sip and paused for a moment in thought.
— It’s… completely different, — she said.
The man tasted it as well.
— Yes. As though it’s more… closed.
They exchanged glances.
— Not as obvious, — she added.
They both took another sip.
— At first it seems simple, — he said. — Or even a little… severe.
— Yes, — she nodded. — As though it isn’t really trying to please anyone.
For a brief moment, both of them looked again toward the monastery. By now, the bells had almost completely faded into silence.
The woman tasted the wine again—more slowly this time.
— You know… — she said. — Maybe this isn’t really ‘closedness.’
— Then what is it?
She thought for a moment.
— More like… restraint.
— Yes… — he agreed softly. — As though it doesn’t reveal everything at once.
The wine itself remained the same. Yet their perception of it was gradually changing.
— Funny, — he said. — Give me another few minutes, and I’ll start talking about its depth.
He set the glass down on the table.
— If we hadn’t heard the story… I probably would have said it lacked something. But now it feels as though not everything in it is immediately accessible.
— And somehow that already feels like a virtue, — she added.
🍷 Two Wines — Taste and Perception
Two glasses stood on the table.
In one—a pale, almost transparent white wine.
In the other—a dark, dense red.
They were barely speaking now. Dinner was drawing to a close. Cool air drifted in from the sea. The city was gradually growing quiet, though the port remained awake, its commercial life still in motion.
The man took another sip of the white wine.
— Funny… — he said. — It still seems slightly… salty to me.
The woman smiled.
— Even though we both understand that it isn’t. And yet the sensation hasn’t disappeared.
She lifted the glass of red wine and took a small sip.
— And this one… — she said quietly, — feels deeper now.
He looked at her.
— Or maybe we simply gave it time?
She thought for a moment.
— Perhaps. Or… perhaps we just began to perceive it differently.
The man shifted his gaze from one glass to the other.
— You know, — he said, — in reality nothing has changed.
— What do you mean? — she asked.
— The wine is exactly the same. Then and now. But our sensations changed. First, we ‘found’ the sea in the white wine. And silence in the red. Even though, strictly speaking, neither of those things is actually there.
She looked at him.
— Or perhaps they are… just not where we are used to looking for them.
He reflected for a moment, then said slowly:
— It seems we do not simply taste wine. We taste what we already know about it.
They each took another sip.
If they had tasted the first wine with their eyes turned toward the sea, then the second seemed to reveal itself only after they had mentally descended into the silence of monastery cellars.
The Story Does Not Change the Wine in the Glass—It Changes the Person Who Drinks It
And perhaps this is not only true of wine.
The same thing happens with food—we experience not only its flavor, but also everything we know about it.
To be continued…
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