07 Gran Feudo Rosado, Bodegas Julián Chivite, 100% Garnacha, Navarra

SCENE: I am in the kitchen of the apartment I share with my boyfriend, the Mathematician. We are eating a lovely summery dinner I’ve prepared of poached salmon, patty pan squash and caprese salad.

ME: Want to help me taste the next bottle in my Toro wine experiment?

MATHEMATICIAN: Sure.

ME: Are you sure? I mean, I know you prefer whisky and you always make fun of me when I taste wine.

MATHEMATICIAN: No, I want to. I’m happy to help.

ME: Okay.

I twist off the cap, pour us two glasses, and we sit for a few silent moments, swirling the coral colored wine in our glasses.

ME: I’m getting some vanilla notes off the nose. And maybe some strawberries? I’m not sure, though — it’s too cold for me to tell right now.

MATHEMATICIAN: (Sipping) Hmm. I think it kind of burns rubber. It’s kind of like a swift kick to the balls.

ME: (Raising my eyebrows.) Oh, really? I think it’s lightly floral. The back of the bottle says it smells like rose petals and carnations. I get that. (Sipping.) It’s a little sweet, slightly fruit forward with an apple-y, crisp finish. I think it really compliments the richness of the salmon.

MATHEMATICIAN: Yes, yes. It’s totally not boring.

ME: Not boring…okay. Well, yeah, it’s kinda velvety on the palate at first, then it has this slightly tannic finish. Is that what you mean by “not boring.”

THE MATHEMATICIAN: I dont’ know. But I definitely think this wine is kind of flirty. Almost slutty, even. (Sips.) Yes, definitely slutty.

ME: Are you being serious right now? If you’re just teasing me I’m going to take it away from you and taste it later on by myself.

MATHEMATICIAN: Yes, I’m being serious. (Smiles at me ever so not-seriously over his glass and sips.) Seriously, I think this wine is a dichotomy of accessibility and sophistication.

ME: Huh. (I sip, suck a little air into my mouth over the liquid, and nod.) I agree.

THE MATHEMATICIAN: Like a Coney Island hot dog in a Burberry bun.

ME: Totally.

‘07 Cortijo III Rose, Garnacha/Tempranillo Blend, Rioja $22 

We’ve passed those novelty days of summer, when the first balmy breezes seem a refreshing counterpoint to, you know, winter. Now it’s just Boston in July: hot on most days, sure, but more specifically, humid. I swim through it to crack open bottle #3 on the Tour-o-Toro, the ‘07 Cortijo Rose III, on my friend Alexander’s backyard patio.

It’s like a jungle out here. An enormous, 250 year old tree dangles its branches above us (and all of the other surrounding patios in the back alley between Warren Ave and Gray Street) littering the place with fragrant little green buds. Just moments before I arrive, poor Alexander waged war on the tree droppings, which covered the stone patio floor, the table, the chairs and all the other vegetation, carpet style. He hosed the whole area down: the leaves glisten and the stone floor is wet, giving the patio a tropical feel. What better place to while away an afternoon over rose while pretending we’re not in the city?

There is just one small problem — I can’t smell a goddamn thing. Exchanging cheek kisses with Alexander has left the scent of L’eau D’issey on my skin (my Ex’s cologne, it trumps all olfactory-induced memories), and smoke from the cigarette he elegantly puffs wafts around us. Combined with the earthy, vegetal smells of nature all around us, my sense of smell is completely muddled. I’m certain understanding the smells of this wine will be tricky out here. This doesn’t stop us from trying.

This wine is a deep, bright red, unlike any wine I’ve tried so far, the color of fresh, just ripe raspberries at the farmers market. When we first uncork the bottle I can get barely any fruit flavors off the nose (for all of the reasons mentioned above.)

“It smells warm,” says Alexander, “Can I say that? Does that make sense?”

“We’re tasting wine, we can say whatever we want,” I tell him. I take a deep sniff and suddenly I smell hints of clove. Is that the warmth he’s referring to?

The wine is brightly acidic but balanced on the palate: I can feel it pricking my tastebuds and making my mouth water before I can really taste anything. It’s very dry, too, and cold when we open it, so I really can’t identify much in terms of flavor until we’re halfway thru the first glass.

Everything changes with our first few bites of creamy Tomme-de-something from Vermont that I picked up at Lionette’s. The Piave I bought isn’t the best match, but eating anything seems imperative with this wine, on this day. As it warms I begin to taste barely ripe strawberries, and again, that slight hint of clove. I don’t taste raspberries, exactly, but the tartness, the brightness, and the color of this wine remind me so much of eating them, fresh from the farmer’s market, or fresh off the vine in a patch.

With so many other sensory things going on, it’s hard to put my finger on this wine. The more I sniff the more I smell my Ex, the green buds from that tree, or the pungent floral smells of the other bushes blooming. (Perhaps this is why we usually taste wine inside?) The more I sip, the more I want to eat that creamy cheese. In the confluence of smells and flavors, this wine sort of fades to the background. Catching up with Alexander, who I haven’t seen in ages, if infinitely more interesting.

That said, before we know it, the bottle is gone. Suddenly I am rethinking this wine, especially at this low price point. I am wishing I’d brought another.

This wine is a special and rare find. We didn’t even know they made Txakoli rose, then one day, there it was! Like absinthe before legalization, or jamon from the mythical pata negra pig, or a chupacabra, sitting right there beside me at briefing.

Txakoli is a slightly effervescent, usually white wine made in three subregions in the Basque area of North Central Spain. The red is rare — we haven’t a single bottle on our list — made from Hondaribbi Beltza, which Wine Director Courtney Bissonnette plans to name her first born. But the Rosado? Dear wine, we had no idea you existed. It’s special and we were only able to get a few cases which means once it’s gone, it’s gone. A reminder that every wine is a limited edition.

I crack this bottle of the Gurrutxaga Txakoli Rosado on a really, really hot, sweltering day with my best friend, Marissa. It is soooo hot & humid in my apartment, but we don’t feel like leaving the house, so we stay home, and sweat and sip this wine to cool off. We can’t bear to eat in the heat. Before we know it, we’re a little tipsy.

The Txakoli’s acidity is bracing, mouthwatering, almost salty. It’s just slightly effervescent, not robust like cava, or some of the white Txakolis on offer at Toro. Try as I might, I can’t identify a single fruit flavor at first. There are hints of fruit flavors, undeveloped fruit ideas, but these are glimmers of fruity thoughts, not fully formed concepts. It reminds us of drinking 2006 Brunello with an elderly winemaking couple in Montalcino when it was just 2 weeks old. The old man climbed up a tall ladder to fetch a sample from the top of the primary fermentation vats. It tasted like musty grape juice, with hints of flavors-to-come popping in our mouths. He swore he could already tell it was a good year.

We swirl and sniff and sweat in my kitchen, and we agree: the Txakoli rose feels rustic and young in the mouth, busy at the front of the palate then fades quickly away. There’s something sulphuric in the nose, akin to the not-nice notes in the scent of dried apricots, and floral, with hints of grapefruit. But again, as soon as I think I taste a fruit flavor in this wine, it’s gone. A palate-teaser.

The Txakoli rosado is the only thing I can tolerate drinking in general in this heat, more palatable even than water. A bigger, heartier rose, like the Ciro Librandi Rosato or the Crios Rose of Malbec would feel as oppressive and unappetizing as a massive Barolo. It is so swampy out, breathing feels arduous. But drinking a limited edition bottle of the mythical Txakoli rosado? This I can handle.

And that is how I will always recall the Gurrutxaga Txakoli Rosado.

‘07 Muga Rose, Garnacha/Tempranillo/Viura, Rioja 28

Ah, the Muga Rosé (Rosado en Espanol). I don’t think I could have picked a better inaugural bottle for this project. It’s a delicious, easy drinking rosé (perfect for the heat wave that has had the city under siege for the past week), a staff favorite, and it hails from Rioja, Spain’s most famous Denominacion de Origen.

I crack this bottle in the solitude of my own apartment, pen poised at the ready to take notes. I’ve tasted this wine before, first when it debuted on the Toro wine list and again at Wine Director Courtney Bissonnette’s Memorial Day rooftop barbecue. But I have never tasted this wine with as much intention and purpose as I am about to today, concentrating in a quiet setting with the precise goal of imprinting it upon my memory forever.

As I untwist the cork from my wine-key, I realize: I’m a little bit intimidated. Exactly how am I going to record the experience of drinking this wine so I don’t forget it? How does anyone do that?

Maybe I should go back and do a little research first, about the Bodega, the wine-making style, and the climate and soil of the region, I think. Maybe I should ask Courtney if she can put me in touch with the rep who sells it to us, so I can query him for more information. I rush to my computer and dash her off a quick email. As I hit send, it dawns on me: I might be over-thinking this. Maybe I should just drink the stuff.

They say scent is your most powerful memory trigger, so I start the tasting process by sniffing. I can’t smell anything at first. Great, I think. I give the wine a swirl to aerate it, then stick my nose deep in the glass. Again, nothing. Have I lost my sense of smell? Am I secretly just bad at this? Then, a more rational voice takes over: It’s okay – give it a second. The wine is still pretty cold. I keep swirling and swirling and keep sniffing and in moments, there it is: the light scent of fresh strawberries.

I take a sip and at first, don’t taste much. Perhaps it’s because this is my first sip of alcohol of the day, and my palate just needs to wake up? I take another sip, leave the wine on my tongue, and suck a little air in through my mouth. I may not be tasting fruit yet, but I’m definitely feeling something – bright acidity that tapers off quickly, a light, crisp finish.

I taste something now, not exactly fruit but minerals, perhaps? After a little more swirling the wine is a tiny bit warmer, my nose and palate have done their own warm ups and are ready for wine-tasting calisthenics. Suddenly stone fruits appear! And an almost salty quality, I think they call that brininess? It doesn’t taste briny like an oyster, exactly, more like a soft sea breeze or the light saltiness that steals over your whole being after a hot yoga class.

I’m looking for answers now, for more images and memories that will shape the permanent impression of this wine on my mind. That slight saltiness makes me want to drink this while eating shellfish, like oysters or mussels. Or even better, with the steamed clams dipped in drawn butter that my father so proudly makes every summer on the Cape. They are simple, fresh, and rustic, occasional rogue grains of sand crunching against your teeth.

I keep drinking and thinking and soon I am feeling very mellow…and a little tipsy. In that moment the most effective mnemonic of all rushes in: the Bissonnette’s Memorial Day barbecue. We opened bottle after bottle of Muga Rosado that night and I drank many, many glasses as effortlessly as if they were water. Each sip made me want to take another—I’m sure I drank damn near a bottle of the stuff myself. Judging by the amount I’ve already imbibed in the name of this “Toro wine list tasting project”, it appears I’m trying to chase that feeling tonight.

The ’07 Muga Rosado is that kind of wine: a wine you’ll want to drink all night long while soaking in the warm summer evening as the day gives way to night on a friend’s mellow rooftop.

I am going to drink every bottle of wine on the Toro wine list.

One of the great privileges of employment at Toro ( 1704 Washington St, Boston, MA) is that we’re allowed to buy any of the non-reserve wines from the list at cost. Talking about the wine list and recommending bottles to guests is a job requirement. And what better way is there to really learn all of these bottles than to actually try them all, tasting every single bottle on the list one by one? I am starting at the top of the list with the roses, and will work my way through the whites, then the reds, breaking it up somewhere in between with sherry and cava.

When I began my waitressing career at the tender age of nineteen I knew literally nothing about wine. My family drank sweet blush wine at home, the kind that comes in massive screw-cap jugs, over ice to keep it nice and cold.

My first week as a waitress a senior server pulled me aside to teach me the proper method for opening wine at the table. I knew I was screwed. Presenting the bottle, cutting the foil off the top just so, twisting the corkscrew out and presenting it to the guest and waiting with anticipation as they passed judgment on that first sip – the whole ritual was so foreign to me, and the swirl of that first sip in the taster’s glass seemed insufferably pretentious – definitely a ritual designed for people of a different class. It struck fear in my little heart.

Eventually I stopped quaking with nerves every time a guest at one of my tables ordered a bottle of wine, and in time I became familiar enough with certain bottles to actually recommend them to guests. It would still be two years before I could legally taste anything on the wine list myself, and several more years before I could talk about wine with any real confidence.

Nine years later I love wine and thanks to working in restaurants, I now know a fair amount about the topic, but even today if I sense that I have a real wine aficionado at the table those old nerves will creep back in. Do I really remember what makes the Vall Llach “Embruix” Priorat different from the Zeta Z.? Is the Sonsierra Tempranillo more masculine than the Iporos? Or is it the other way around? I think with wine, the more you know the more you realize you don’t know.

Recently I’ve noticed that my palate is changing. I can get more than just citrus off the nose of the crisp Garnacha blanca that we pour by the glass and actually taste the nuanced imprint of aging in French versus American oak on the Garnacha/Cabernet blend from Priorat. But even more exhilarating than that, the smells and the flavors that I’m now picking up have begun to trigger real memories for me, visceral sensory moments that are tucked away in my brain. Like the day we tasted the new Mencia that just came on the list and I realized it smells exactly like the vanilla cupcakes I baked for a Memorial Day weekend barbecue. The delicious cupcake smell lingered in my apartment for an hour after they were done baking; there it was again in the glass. And the first mineral-y sip of a Provencal rose I tasted for a story I’m writing on for the upcoming Rose issue had me back on the beach outside the French seaside town of Sete, dipping a toe into the bath-tub warm Mediterranean for the very first time.

So, why not drink the entire wine list at Toro? One waitress. Eighty-two bottles of wine. Will my liver survive? And, more importantly, will I be able to recount the details of each by the time it’s said and done?

Check back here to find out.