Ray Chung writes Ray Chung is a Certified Sommelier based in New York City with a deep curiosity for food, wine, and sake. A former educator of children’s literature in Hong Kong, he has worked in wine retail and on the floor of a Michelin-starred omakase restaurant in New York, and is currently exploring new opportunities in wine and sake.
Grenache, my Grenache
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What was this? I scrolled the website as I half-listened to the lecture at the Institute of Culinary Education, where I was taking an Intensive Sommelier Training class. I clicked into the topic titled, “NYC – March 24th Blind Wine Tasting Dinner – BIG, BOLD, YOUTHFUL,” and knew I needed to go. Bring two wines, with the only parameters being “young, high octane, full bodied, high alcohol, with one being around $100 and the other over $200.” How difficult could that be? I was already tasting over 300 wines just by being in this class.
Granted, I had near-zero knowledge of wine at all before I had enrolled in this course a few days before 2025. Why did I register? I was the textbook definition of someone having a mid-life crisis. Having moved halfway across the world between his hometowns of Hong Kong and New York City, yet again, two years ago, I had no real place to call home, right? Or a man with two homes, take your pick. Either way, my personal story seemed very similar to the premise of this wine dinner.
So I went, with confidence that my Sine Qua Non “Distenta II” Grenache 2020 would be the Wine of the Night. I decanted for six hours that morning, anticipating the slightly over-budget liquid gold I was about to pour for everyone. I tucked it safely into my secondhand wine fridge at home and served it around 60 degrees Fahrenheit at Corkbuzz, the soon-to-be late NYC staple. I strategically contrasted it with my other wine, G.D. Vajra Barolo Brico delle Viole 2019, providing the perfect spotlight for the opulence of the SQN to shine. I raised my hand to volunteer just as the duck breast with fig jus and flatiron steak with bordelaise were served.
Polite sips, gentle appreciation. A nod. General consensus that I read across the faces around the table? “It’s fine. I don’t know what it is, but it’s fine.”
After the Big Reveal, reactions varied. Some raised their eyebrows. One person looked annoyed, like I’d wasted their time and their palate. A few went back to their glasses for another taste, as if another sip might somehow justify their mistaken guesses. It wasn’t just that they had missed the region or the country— they had missed the grape entirely.
And that’s what fascinates me about Grenache— it’s unexpected. It doesn’t care if it fits your tasting grid. It doesn’t cater to those chasing typicity. It’s a grape that shapeshifts over time, even when it’s showing its true self. And let’s be honest, when is it not? Unlike all these other supposed wine experts who were trying to one-up one another, Grenache, my Grenache, had no shame in showing who they were.
The next day, I reflected as I checked the forum. I wasn’t surprised to see that no one had liked my SQN the most. Why? It was ultra-limited, critically acclaimed, decanted thoughtfully, given enough air time, and showed beautifully. Maybe it didn’t fit the theme of big, bold, and youthful? They probably saw it as more restrained next to fruit bombs of Andremily and Réva. As if a few minutes of swirling and sniffing could and should decide anything important in life.
I decided I was fine with that. I would like my wine regardless of the opinions of others. The nuance wrapped in leather gloves: the spice, the texture, the acidity under the helmet of that fruit roll-up, the slow seduction. This was the frequency I was tuned to; this was what I decided was worth $244.99 before tax. I would trust my instincts, my tongue, my nose.
I would show up April 23 with more Grenache, this time Garnacha, and June 2, with another, Cannonau di Sardegna. I would keep showing up, keep refining. I am who I am today because of that first, expensive, bottle of Grenache.
This grape made me trust myself. At a time when I was still trying to learn the rules of wine, still trying to act and sound like someone who belonged, this grape kept showing up in my glass and telling me that it was okay to like what I liked. I didn’t need to chase structure or cellar-worthy austerity. I could like spice, fruit, and (Southern) charm. I could like wines that confuse others and I would stand by my decisions.
Grenache let me step into the wine world not through textbooks and lectures, but through experience. It helped me listen to my palate. I now look for that same quality in people— those who don’t demand attention, but earn it anyway, in their own way. Those who have nothing to prove, but still show up with character and clarity. That’s Grenache to me— not the wine that dominates the table, but the one you remember long after it’s gone.
I still bring this grape, with its many names and guises. I still smile to myself when people guess wrong. And I still love it. It’s no longer about being right. It’s about sharing something that means something to me— and maybe getting someone else to pause, just long enough to taste without expectation. That first expensive bottle of Grenache didn’t draw much applause, but it planted a seed inside of me. And that, I’ve learned, is worth far more than winning Wine of the Night.
Photo credit: Peter Brush. Caption: 'a tasting moment during the NYC blind wine dinner where the author’s Grenache was revealed'.
