To the novice wine drinker on a budget, no one is more feared than the sommelier at a stylish restaurant. This is the person you expect to frown when you order the least expensive bottle of wine, and the person who will later terrorize you by offering a fraction of a glass of that cheap bottle, while he stands by, ostensibly awaiting your approval. But despite the formal exterior and unpronounceable title, not all sommeliers are creatures of intimidation.

Finn Anson, wine steward for the Emerson at Woodstock, is the kind of person people fall in love with. Single and married women of all ages adore him, as do the men who accompany them. Warm hearted and generous, he welcomes anyone into his wine-drenched world, and makes even a neophyte oenophile feel as if he or she belongs. An Irish citizen who was raised outside London, Anson, 37, recently lived for several years with his wife in the Dordogne region of France, an area that attracts poets, artists, and inspirationists—as well as epicureans who come for its food and wine. A few years ago, an influential member of the wine trade imported Anson to America, and he eventually moved to the Hudson Valley with his wife and two children.

Anson has toiled in the mud pruning vines in a monastery's vineyard, is schooled in the science of viticulture, has been wine director for a famous wine-producing estate, and has learned his craft—sip by sip—from some of the world's finest collections. He is a friend to bishops, barons, monks, and peasants, and if anyone can inspire a person to soar beyond their fears, and to begin an education—its him. 
"Wine does not have to be expensive to be good," says Anson, breaking down the fundamental myth that quality wining does not permit budgeting. "On the contrary, some very expensive wines are not particularly good."

Indeed, the finest wine Anson ever tasted was a non-vintage made from grapes so young that they never should have been harvested: "But it was a fantastic wine," he says. However, ask Anson to describe his most memorable wine, and he will fairly faint upon recalling his experience with a vintage from an ancient barrel in a Spanish cellar, dating back to 1789, the year of the French Revolution. Anson will blush and stutter as he tries to describe the taste. The words I can make out, through his bubbling British accent, tell of an experience that sent him "elsewhere."

It's not just Anson's accent that keeps me from understanding; there is a language of scent, sight, and emotion in which wine aficionados speak. French, Italian, and Spanish words roll off their tongues, and they refer to palate, texture, and tannins. To help in understanding, there are books to read, videos to watch, tastings to attend, and most importantly—there are many different people to speak with.
Ask Carol Matthews, manager of Hurley Ridge Wines & Spirits, what the first step is to understanding wine, and she will answer: "Honey, you should taste a wine with all your senses."

If you catch her on a day when sales representatives are offering their wares, she will demonstrate the tasting procedure. Before her first sip, she prepares her palate by holding the glass to eye level and looking closely at its color. Then she plunges her nose below the rim and smells quick and deep. These steps reveal clues to a wine's character. A swirl unlocks aromas, and the sheets of liquid which then drip slowly down the inside of a glass expose the body. "Fat legs are a good thing in wine," Matthews says with a laugh. ("Legs" are the beads of wine that adhere to the side of the glass after it is swirled; "fat legs" indicate high alcohol content.)

So much of taste is aromatic recognition, and linking scents with words can be a challenge. In a group, people sip and announce their perceptions, and someone's mention of a specific smell will clue another taster into recognizing what they can't place.

To assist wine connoisseurs, whatever their level of understanding, Anson has begun thematic wine events at the Emerson. At a recent two-hour tasting, he poured six wines he had chosen to illustrate historical points. One was made by a monastery in northern Italy that has been making wine since the 1100s. Another was pressed out of sun-dried grapes; we sipped this sweet, brownish, raisin-scented elixir, admired its 'fat legs,' and traveled back in time as Anson read a passage from Homer's Odyssey.

As a wine director, Anson has no desire to terrorize his guests. And when I admitted to him that, in my experience, ignorance begets terror, he was puzzled over the information for days—the thought had never occurred to him that someone could fear so intensely the bearer of libation.

In fact, he says the trial sip he pours into your glass is not for you to determine spoilage, or the presence of "cork." Anson knows every bottle he pours is fresh because after he presents it he carries it back to the wine room where he opens it and tastes a tiny fraction. Rather, the customer's sip, the approval, and the transfer of the liquid into a decanter are all part of a ritual that Anson adores.

Anson does realize that, to many, the appreciation of wine seems to be an elitist pursuit. He disagrees with this idea whole-heartedly, and while he appreciates the finest qualities of the very best wines (as only someone who has tasted 50,000 wines can), he reminds us to look where credit is due: "Wine is made by the common man, I don't care who says the contrary. Most wine makers are farmers."

Most nights, Anson moves from table to table at the Emerson, asking diners their impression of a wine, or suggesting another he feels they might find exciting. Every night before the doors are opened, he clusters the staff around a table to taste the wine of the evening—something special he has chosen to offer by the glass that is usually only available by the bottle. Anson asks each person what he or she senses, and he describes his own impressions. Chef de cuisine Jessica Winchell joins the tasters and suggests the menu items she thinks the wine would best suit.

It's one thing to feel like an insider when Anson is transporting you to sunny vineyards on French hillsides through his florid descriptions as you sip—but how to renew that feeling later, in less-forgiving company?

"Begin by awakening your palate by training your nose to be aware of smells," says Anson. From the pleasant bursts of citrus orange peel, to spicy floral, to pencil shavings, these will become your tools when struggling to describe the mysteries of the fermented grape. And, whether you prefer an inexpensive bottle of brand name wine, or swoon over the rarest vintage, people who know and love wine agree that, above all, you should drink it because it gives you pleasure.

In her store, surrounded by salesmen awaiting her opinion, Carol Matthews swirls a burgundy-colored liquid in her glass: "I learned a long time ago, when I first got into the industry, that there's a serious mystique surrounding wine. The bottom line is, wine is for drinking, it's not for worship. Although, if you want to worship, go to the hilt."