The nose of wine

What I like about strolling among the stands of theWine Week, the international wine fair in Barcelona, ​​is where everyone coming and going has a trained nose. If you never smelled thyme, rosemary, or even savory as a child, you don't know what thyme, rosemary, or even savory are, and then, as an adult, they are foreign and incomprehensible to you. Sniffing is opening the doors to our most secret and complicated sense, more so than hearing, more so than touch. Sniff a classroom, with the mixture of smells from pencils, room-temperature snacks, and lice treatment. Sniff a newspaper office at lunchtime, where you often smell mandarin oranges. Sniff a wet dog. Sniff a stable. Sniff leather. Sniff, if you can, of course, a strawberry, a cherry. Sniff lavender. Think about what happens when you take the Wine SET tasting course.They talk to you about acacia, and perhaps you've never smelled it. Sniff Marina Rossell's perfume, which is very specific (I'd say it's the same one Mònica Terribas uses) and makes her who she is, and makes you think of her when she leaves a room. Sniff the Leslie cologne by Sírex, a cologne many men wear. Sniff and smell, the wild perfume of a fricandó (that cinnamon), smell the forest and say: "It smells like boiled rice," because there's bay leaf.

All the noses that wander through Wine Week are sniffing. And people who smell and smell are sensory; they often feel emotions like jolts, because the nose is the gateway to the heart. We could be bored by the most attractive model in the world if she stinks, we could love the ugliest thing if it smells. Scent and stench. Our tongue distinguishes their nuance. Whoever smells—like the animals we are—then tastes. But half the joy has already been experienced. Long live the wine people, who care for the land and know its essence.