A very eloquent nose

Alexandre Schmitt made an unusual leap from the rarefied world of luxury fragrance to another realm just as intimately connected to aroma: fine wine. He owes this career shift, in part, to a fortuitous encounter with Jean-Claude Berrouet, then technical director at Château Petrus. In 1995, Berrouet proposed an exchange: he would teach Alexandre the intricacies of wine, in return for a deep dive into the world of scent and olfaction.

Today, Alexandre is in high demand across the wine world. Estates large and small call on him to help their teams develop a shared vocabulary—crucial to fostering meaningful dialogue during tastings.

Q: Alexandre, you’re what’s known as a ‘nose’—an aroma specialist from the perfume world—and now you work as a blending consultant in wine. What does your organoleptic approach involve?

Alexandre Schmitt (AS): For me, it all begins with sensation. The term ‘organoleptic’ refers to every sensory impression a wine gives—from the initial nose to what we perceive in the mouth, including retronasal aromas (those picked up as the wine lingers on the palate). It encompasses smells, flavours, textures, the sensation of heat or cold, the burn of spice or alcohol.

Each of us is shaped by our personal experiences: a child raised on a farm in Cambodia will not have the same sensory memory—the same ‘library’ of smells and tastes—as one brought up in a London townhouse. Our first reflex when we encounter a wine is to compare what we’re smelling to what we’ve already known. That subjectivity is unavoidable—but it needs to be organised, given structure.

‘It’s important to train the nose.’

Q: How do we move beyond subjectivity and find common ground between professionals or even wine lovers?

AS: Practice is essential. In the professional perfume world, we’re trained to identify more than a thousand molecules and scents blind. Like learning a musical instrument, you rehearse scales—you build a structured, shared vocabulary.

In wine, this kind of training is often underestimated. People assume that having a “good nose” is an innate gift, but the truth is, it must be educated. The more you train, the more sharply you perceive. And the more clearly you can describe and evaluate a wine’s quality.

When I present cedarwood to a group of ten people, they all describe something different: some think of Christmas trees, pine needles, sap; others, of plaster, dust, or pencil shavings. To clarify that perception, I break it down into two notes: a fresh, resinous one, and a dry, woody one with astringent edges. Bit by bit, we create a shared framework of understanding.

Q: How does this framework differ from the more traditional approach taken by wine enthusiasts?

AS: Most informed amateurs tend to focus on regions and grape varieties, which makes sense—it’s how we learn, through terroir and appellation. It’s useful, even essential. But if you stop there, you risk becoming trapped in a rigid, academic mindset.

A sensory-first approach is different. I focus on balance, on structure, on harmony. I pay attention to tannin texture, brilliance, acidity, and the finest nuances of the wine’s aromatic profile.

It doesn’t mean there’s nothing to learn—far from it. But to truly trust your senses and interpret what they’re telling you, you need to practise. Daily. Like a musician rehearsing their scales, young tasters must train to build a reliable sensory memory. Yes, you must absorb knowledge—but eventually, you also need to break free from it, and trust yourself. That self-confidence is one of the great challenges in wine tasting.

There are more than thirty families of aromatic notes to recognise—fruity, floral, woody, spicy, and more. And the taxonomy includes faults as well: reduction, oxidation, cork taint, and so on.

‘The sensory nature of tasting is rooted in language. It gives every tasting a poetic dimension—and that’s a wonderful thing.’

Q: You’ve spoken about aroma analysis, but tasting wine also involves retronasal perception and tactile sensations, doesn’t it?

AS: Absolutely. Tasting engages at least four senses: sight, smell, taste, and touch—the texture of the wine in your mouth. Retronasal perception is distinct from what we pick up on the nose: the mouth is 34 degrees, the wine in the glass is closer to 17. Once in the mouth, oxygen and saliva release new aromas, changing the sensation entirely.

And yet we often lack the words to describe these sensations with any precision. Language evolved to help us survive—not to express olfactory nuance. There are over 2,000 words for things we see, but only a handful when it comes to taste. For aromas, the vocabulary is practically barren.

So we speak in images and analogies. From vision—‘the wine is round, linear, or fleeting’; ‘bright, matte, or cloudy’. From touch—‘sharp acidity’, ‘metallic’, ‘astringent’ tannins. Even from sound—‘a high-pitched acidity’. Tasting is deeply intertwined with language. That’s why it so often feels poetic.

‘Blending is an aesthetic act.’

Q: You’ve mentioned the poetry of wine. How does that translate into the aesthetic choices behind blending?

AS: When a winemaker blends wines from different plots to create a final cuvée, they aren’t following a strict recipe. They’re guided by a vision—by tradition, of course, but also by personal taste. 

Do I want to emphasise freshness by lifting the acidity? Or add roundness, sweetness, power? It’s a bit like being an artistic director at a fashion house—making creative decisions that speak to the house style, the terroir, and the identity of the wine.

‘Temperance: the balance between finesse and power.’

Q: There’s an ongoing debate about the pursuit of aromatic density at the cost of finesse. What’s your view?

AS: A New Zealand Sauvignon, for example, might be extremely aromatic—explosive on the nose. Impressive, yes—but power can quickly become monotone. It risks smothering nuance and complexity.

A truly great wine isn’t defined by intensity alone. It’s about harmony—where every note is present but none dominates. It’s the interplay of freshness, volume, length; a dialogue between subtlety and depth.

When a wine is too forcefully aromatic, it can feel vulgar. But finesse on its own isn’t enough either—without structure, it lacks presence. You need what I call temperance, in the Platonic sense: a human-crafted balance that feels completely natural, effortless—something whose beauty is both immediate and complex.

Q: To illustrate this quest for balance, do you have a memorable tasting memory?

AS: Yes, I remember a casual, improvised lunch at Château Lafite Rothschild. We blind tasted two extraordinary – and very different – wines. The first, a Château Lafite Rothschild 1961, was of great elegance, almost chalky, with silky tannins, a wine of pure refined raciness. Then came a Latour 1917, a wine steeped in history. As I drank it, I could see black-and-white footage in my mind: the trenches of Verdun, vines harvested in wartime by women alone.

The Latour was more expansive, with a texture closer to velvet than silk, with that clayey base giving it more power and unctuousness. Two great Médoc first growths, geographically close, but with such singular soil expressions.

‘Trust your senses.’

Q: Finally, what advice would you give to wine lovers looking to improve their tasting skills?

AS: Practise your scales. Learn to distinguish the characteristics of different appellations, grape varieties, and regional styles from around the world.

Ideally, seek out training—be open to correction. Test your impressions against a shared, precise vocabulary. Enter the world of nuance, detail, and accuracy—that’s what separates a good wine from a truly exceptional one.

In short: learn, absorb everything you can…then try to forget it. That’s how you’ll find joy in tasting—by trusting your own senses, above all else.