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There’s a certain irony in how we, as wine professionals and enthusiasts, spend our careers chasing perfection only to discover that some of the most memorable tasting experiences come from imperfections. Faults, flaws, and subtle deviations from the textbook ideal are often dismissed as errors, but should they be?
This article is an invitation to reconsider the uninvited guests in your glass. The ones that linger. The ones that challenge. The ones that whisper stories of winemaking decisions, oxidative journeys, and microbiological flirtations. In short, the forgotten aromas.
To understand the beauty of a flawed wine, we first need to separate faults from flaws.
A fault is generally accepted as a negative characteristic. Something that overwhelms, dominates, or interferes with a wine’s balance. Think TCA (cork taint), excessive acetic acid, or aggressive levels of Brettanomyces that mask the fruit and structure.
A flaw, however, can live in a grey zone. Oxidation, reduction, mild VA, or even a whisper of Brett can, in certain conditions, contribute complexity, narrative, and charm.
I’ve spent years using sensory kits like Le Nez des Défauts, and I can tell you firsthand that wine doesn’t live in a binary world. Faults are not always fatal. Flaws are not always flaws. Context is everything.
Let’s take oxidation. In a young, fruit-driven Sauvignon Blanc, even slight oxidation feels like a betrayal. But in an aged white Rioja, oxidative character is part of the identity. It brings nutty richness, bruised apple notes, and a savoury core that many enthusiasts seek out.
Similarly, a touch of reduction like matchstick, flint, or struck stone can elevate a fine Chardonnay when integrated properly. These aromas can signal tension and minerality, especially in wines from cool climates or reductive winemaking styles.
The problem arises when we apply rigid, commercial expectations to all wines equally. Wines are not products. They are expressions. And like all expressions, they carry personality.
I still recall a blind tasting in Burgundy years ago. A Pinot Noir came across with unmistakable Brett. Damp leather, cured meat, and a faint medicinal edge. Most around the table dismissed it as flawed. But I was transfixed. The wine had soul. It pulsed with tension and quiet power.
In another setting, during an aroma workshop I led in Las Vegas using Le Nez du Vin and Le Nez des Défauts, a young trainee described an oxidized Chardonnay as “apple pie on a rainy day.” I’ve never forgotten that. She saw not just aroma, but mood. Memory. Emotion.
That’s the crux of sensory evaluation. Not just identifying compounds, but feeling them. Letting them speak.
In my consulting and training work with wineries, I use faults as educational stepping stones. We isolate volatile phenols, esters, sulfur compounds, and acetic acid in training kits. These are the very tools professionals use to map their olfactory vocabulary.
Smelling ethyl acetate or 4-ethylphenol in a pure form is humbling. You begin to appreciate how small doses shape perception. You also learn to notice thresholds, volatility, and interaction with other aromas.
As Jean Lenoir emphasized in his work, naming a smell gives you power. It is no longer mysterious. It is a reference point. That is why I pushed to incorporate fault recognition into our certification program at the Council of Whiskey Masters. Without it, we’re only tasting half the story.
Let’s return to oxidation. Most modern wines are made in ultra-clean stainless-steel styles, protected from air at every stage. This ensures freshness but also uniformity. Wines that embrace oxidation stand apart.
Sherry, Madeira, Vin Jaune, and some natural orange wines are not afraid of air. They embrace it. These wines evolve, deepen, and become layered in ways that sterile wines often cannot. Nutty, spicy, saline, and umami-rich. These wines speak of time, place, and transformation.
Oxidation, when done intentionally, becomes part of the art. Not a flaw. A statement.
Brettanomyces often sparks arguments at the tasting table.
It can produce unpleasant aromas like band-aid, sweaty saddle, or barnyard. In excess, it dominates. But at low levels, it adds intrigue. Notes of cured meat, black olive, leather, and spice can bring rusticity and complexity.
In many classic wines, especially from the Rhône and parts of Italy, Brett has long played a silent supporting role. It reminds me of phenolic smoke in Islay whiskies. Polarising, yes, but essential to identity.
The question is not whether a wine contains Brett, but how much and what it contributes.
One of the most rewarding aspects of my work has been tasting across disciplines. Whisky. Wine. Coffee. Even chocolate.
Each category has its own aroma lexicon, its own idea of flaw and beauty. In coffee, volatile acidity is often prized. In wine, it’s judged harshly. In whisky, phenolics are adored. In Pinot Noir, they cause panic.
By tasting widely and thinking broadly, we refine our sensory understanding. We build bridges between categories. We learn to question bias and embrace complexity.
This is why I often recommend that wine professionals spend time tasting whisky or evaluating coffee. The more you expose your palate to different paradigms, the sharper it becomes.
Let’s take a deeper look at context.
Astringency in young Barolo? Expected.
Astringency in mature Rioja? Likely a problem.
Volatile acidity in Amarone? Often accepted.
Same level in a Pinot Grigio? Likely a fault.
The same applies to oak. A heavily oaked Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa might be the norm. That oak level in a Chablis would be catastrophic.
Understanding typicity, the expected character of a wine based on origin, grape, and style, is critical. Only then can you fairly judge whether a deviation is a creative flourish or a flaw.
There’s a Japanese aesthetic concept called wabi-sabi. It refers to the beauty found in imperfection, impermanence, and incompleteness.
Some wines reflect that philosophy. They are not polished or poised. They are raw, wild, and unpredictable. They are wines with a heartbeat.
Natural wines often fall into this category. Not all are successful, but the best of them offer experiences that linger. You remember them not for perfection, but for personality. They challenge your assumptions. They stir curiosity.
These wines may never score 95 points. But they start conversations. And sometimes, they change careers.
One of the most significant tensions in the wine world today is between technical perfection and emotional connection.
Sterile wines are easy to sell. They are clean, consistent, and crowd-pleasing. But they are rarely memorable.
Flawed wines, when the flaws are managed or purposeful, can be unforgettable.
I’ve tasted wines that broke every rule of commercial winemaking, yet moved me deeply. These wines would never pass a lab test. But they passed the far more difficult test of memory. I still think about them years later.
If you are a student of wine or spirits, my message is simple:
Learn the rules. Train your palate. Build a vocabulary.
But don’t be afraid to embrace the grey zone. The wines that defy your expectations are the ones that shape you as a taster.
Some of the greatest wines in history would fail a modern QC panel. But they endure. Not despite their flaws, but because of them.
Perfection may be the goal. But personality is the reward.
Let’s not forget the aromas that make wine human. The ones that don’t fit in the textbook. The ones that whisper rather than shout.
Because in the end, it’s the cracks that let the character shine through.
Cheers!
Helping you make sense of scent, one glass at a time.
Sébastien Gavillet is COO of Wine Aromas – Le Nez du Vin. A renowned wine and whisky expert, winemaker, and distiller, Sébastien has been working with Le Nez du Vin for over 25 years. He is the author of Discovering and Mastering Single Malt Scotch Whisky and the International Whisky Guide series. He serves as a panel chair and examiner for The Council of Whiskey Masters, shaping global tasting standards and mentoring the next generation of spirits professionals.
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