Deborah Hansen writes Deborah Hansen was the Chef-Owner-Sommeliere of Taberna de Haro of Brookline, Massachusetts for 26 years. Prior to that, she was the Chef-Co-owner-Sommeliere of Cornucopia en Descalzas, an upscale restaurant in Madrid Spain, where she completed her Sommelier Certification (1997). She has just launched a new venture called Wine Matters, a consultancy specializing in Spanish wine, dedicated to education, curation, degustation, and translation. She lives in Brookline MA with her partner Daniel, who is also a wine professional, and loves visiting her two daughters Inés and Camille, in Burlington VT and Chicago IL, respectively.
Why Spain?
What made you choose Spain? I am asked that question frequently. Simply put, Spain is where my very belief system got turned onto its head. My sturdy, loving, Anglo Saxon-descended parents gifted me a perfectly fine, well-fed life in the suburbs of Boston, and sent a clear message about the value of hard work. The family mantra was something like this: “Study hard, put your nose to the grindstone at sixteen, don’t look up until you are sixty-five, and no harm will come to you.” I bought it hook, line, and sinker.
At the age of nineteen I visited Spain for the first time as a Bates College student. On day two, Professor Mayer took us to his favorite bar in Salamanca, and amidst the din of this taberna, I had a life epiphany. The world quieted down to a protracted, slow- motion scene for me as I took it in with all my senses. The smell of potatoes frying in fragrant but heavy olive oil, the sight and scent of paprika-vermillion chorizos hanging in loops along the wall, the tang of red wine spilled on a floor strewn with olive pits, the rich ocean-y aroma wafting off an octopus being lifted out of a pot, even the earthy smell of black tobacco cigarettes, gave my olfactory sensors the biggest thrill they had ever known. I saw entire families, from grandma to infant, seated casually at low tables, forking tidbits of foods I couldn’t yet identify from shared plates placed in the center of the table. The children drank Tri-naranjus while the parents quaffed house red wine served out of earthenware pitchers, poured into squat glasses. The waiters wore vests and bowties and were scrupulously polite. I peeked into the back room and saw a more formal dining room where men clad in fashionable suits dined in courses and drank wine from bottles with gold metallic net woven around them. Grand Reserva wine, I would soon learn, and adorned with the gold netting to signal from across the room their exquisite taste. The sound of countless conversations warbled, and I noticed that greetings were loud and physical occurrences that required back slapping, shouts, and kissing.
The conversation closest to me involved two middle-aged women in smart skirts who were discussing something in sentences so rapid I comprehended almost nothing. One of them gestured wildly and knocked over the glass of wine I had ordered but had not yet touched. She turned to make amends quickly, but was not about to cease making her point to her friend. She kept up the argument over her shoulder, stopping only long enough to order me another glass of wine. She grabbed a handful of the waxy little napkins, as weightless as they are useless, from the dispenser in front of us and attempted to wipe me off a bit, and then told the bartender to add a tapa of sautéed garlic shrimp to go with my wine, and to put it on her bill. Without further ado she resumed her discussion, dropping those silly little napkins to the floor. The laughter that bubbled up and out of me snapped me from the reverie, and I knew my family credo was toast. I’d been had. Duped. Here it is 2:00 in the afternoon, and this bar is full of happy, chattering people who have made time in the middle of their day to convene and consume. The afternoon’s toils are utterly on hold, and surely not more important than the rite of breaking bread with others. They just know the best work is done when the body is nicely fed and the soul is joyfully nourished.
I turned my attention to the wine. It was cool, and even my untrained palate recognized that it was somewhat simple. However, like a jar full of wildflowers, simple beauty can be extraordinarily attractive. It conjured up images of Concord grapes ponderous and aromatic on a hot September day at a farm stand. A slip of lilac and a nip of raspberry. Ripe and giving, the wine spoke in plain words of things fresh, blue, and benignly tart. The raw purity of its untroubled expression was sensual and refreshing. The youthful, unfettered vibrancy showed me for the first time that wine is a living thing and a thing I must have in my life.
Spain is where I learned to love wine. Spain is where my new mantra was born: Make time for joy, make time for good food, and keep the wine flowing.
The photograph, of Deborah Hansen in a vineyard with dark purple grapes, is the author's own.
