The First Pour: An Introduction to the Glass Behind The Vine
A kid in Anaheim, a kind old man with Concord grape juice, and how a life in wine actually begins
The Vine is The Dinner Bell's wine education series — and this is where it begins.
It started with Concord grape juice in a tasting glass.
I was maybe seven years old, sitting on a barrel in a small wine shop in Anaheim, California — down the street from Disneyland, along one of those wide roads that felt quieter then than they do now. My sister was with me, probably five. The barrels were big enough to sit on, which tells you something about how small we were.
The shop was dark inside. Cool and still, the way good cellars are. The ceiling was a crosshatch of old wooden beams, bottles stacked everywhere, some boxes ripped open mid-discovery, and photos and pictures of another era covering the walls behind the tasting counter. It smelled like wine and wood and something older — the particular cold aroma of a room that has been keeping something worth keeping.
The owner had white hair and a kind face, and he shuffled, that’s the word, he shuffled, over to where my sister and I were perched on our barrel and handed us each a small glass of Concord grape juice. Like we were tasting too. Like we belonged there.
I’ve never forgotten it.
My father had no taste buds to speak of. He couldn’t tell you a Burgundy from a Bordeaux, a Syrah from a Zinfandel. That wasn’t the point. The point was the stopping. The pulling over when you passed a sign for a tasting room in Temecula or Paso Robles, the walking in without a reservation or a plan, the talking to whoever was behind the counter about nothing and everything. Beautiful day, isn’t it? What are you pouring today? Smells wonderful in here!
My dad could walk into any room — a restaurant, a tasting room, a stranger’s kitchen — and within five minutes know the person behind the counter, their story, their favorite pour, probably their dog’s name. He just talked to people. Not to network. Not to get something. Just to brighten up their day and his.
I am shy, genuinely shy, in the way that doesn’t always show. But put me in a tasting room — a celebratory space, a place where people have already decided to be present and generous — and something opens up. I talk to strangers. I ask questions. I linger.
I learned that from him. I just didn’t know it until recently.
In the early 1990s, when tasting was still free, and the world felt wide open, my friend and I would drive up to Sonoma and Napa on a whim. My sister came sometimes. We’d just go — no itinerary, no education, no agenda beyond the adventure of it. We didn’t know what we were tasting. We just knew it was good, and it was fun, and the drive home felt like something worth repeating.
That was before wine became serious for me. Before the WSET levels, before the study guides, the blind tastings, and the technical ledger. Before I understood what I was actually tasting when I tasted it.
But here’s what I’ve come to understand: my father was already doing The Vine, in his way, long before I had a name for it. He just couldn’t tell you why the wine was good. He only knew that stopping for it was always worth it.
I can tell you why now.
That’s what The Vine is for.
This Week’s Pulse: Stop
Find a place to taste this week. A wine shop, a tasting room, a friend’s kitchen. Stop when you pass the sign. Walk in without a plan. Talk to whoever is behind the counter.
You might be surprised by what you remember fifty years from now.
The Ledger Entry
What’s your first wine memory? The glass someone handed you before you were ready, the tasting room that smelled like somewhere you wanted to stay, the bottle that made you pay attention for the first time. Leave it in the comments — The Vine is better with your story in it, too.
This is such a good memory not just about learning about grapes and the vines but the memory of your father and how much you enjoyed your special times with him
I hope others take their own journey through their memories
Thank you