Carbonation and the pain of Champagne

Sparkling wine – or beer, or soda, or seltzer* – triggers an unmistakable set of sensations, addictive or repellent depending on your predilection. But is that sensation a taste? A physical sensation? Something else? Probably some combination of the above, though figuring all of that out is trickier than you might imagine.

First, the bubbles in sparkling wine are carbon dioxide, either the product of yeast fermenting a last little bit of sugar in the bottle or mechanical carbonation with a tank of pressurized gas. Carbon dioxide plus water makes carbonic acid: CO2 + H2O ⇌ H2CO3 . Acids, by definition, are molecules with hydrogens which can and do pop on and off when dissolved in water. If the hydrogens tend to disassociate themselves easily, you’re dealing with a strong acid (e.g. hydrochloric or sulfuric) best used for cleaning glassware or dissolving an inconvenient corpse. If only a small number of hydrogens hop off at any one time, you’re dealing with a weak acid. Carbonic acid, needless to say, is a weak acid, or else seltzer water would be an industrial solvent rather than a cocktail mixer. Chemists were associating the perception of sourness with those free hydrogen ions back at the turn of the twentieth century, but they’re not sufficient to explain sourness alone, and twenty-first century chemists are still trying to work out the remainder. The ongoing search for a complete explanation of sourness is one of those excellent examples of how very simple daily phenomena can end up being unexpectedly complicated when scientists try to explain them in terms of chemistry and biology.

Second, the bubbles in sparkling wine are mechanical stimulation. If you stick your hand into a glass of sparkling water, you’ll feel the “prickle” of bubbles bursting along your skin, and your tongue and the interior of your mouth receives the same sensation. That’s not surprising.

A third component of how we sense carbonation is surprising, or at least it’s surprising to me as a carbonated beverage-lover. Carbonation appears to trigger nociceptors, the specialized receptors we have for sensing pain. Carbonation is, physiologically speaking, irritating.

Maybe it’s not surprising to find that Champagne belongs on the list of painful foods along with super-spicy cuisines and overly hot tea. Or, rather, a goodly number of people seem to find Champagne painful for numerous different reasons. Drinking Champagne and enjoying it is a social skill, but everyone seems to know at least someone who really doesn’t like the stuff. Some are folks who don’t enjoy wine or alcoholic beverages at all, and some are surely like me in liking sparkling wine but having mainstream Champagne sullied by thoughts of what other, more interesting wines could have been purchased for the same $40. Perhaps some of them are also troubled by unusually high sensitivity to the negative sides of carbonation. A recent study of how consumers perceive small differences in degree of sparkling wine carbonation attests that individual tasters have different thresholds for feeling – and maybe feeling discomfort from – carbonation. Occam’s razor still says that “Champagne”**-haters are more likely suffering from a combination of low-quality bubbly, ill-advisedly sweet food pairings, and excess consumption. But heck; the simplest answer isn’t always the correct one. Just look at the sensation of sparkling.

As for me, I’m strongly in the pro-carbonation camp. I also eat 100% unsweetened chocolate straight-up, take strong tea and coffee black, and eat bitter greens for breakfast all of which, I’m told, are rather painful suggestions to many people. Perhaps these statements are not unrelated?


For more on sparkling wine physics:

For more on Nobel prize-winning sparkling wine microbiology: and


*Or carbonated foods. This soup? Fermenting kimchi? Pop rocks?

**In quotes only because people who object to “Champagne” may be reacting to negative experiences of other non-Champagne sparkling wines and I’m not interested in picking a fight with the CIVC.

An unfortunate opportunity for misdirection, or, lack of evidence to support a biodynamic tasting calendar

A group of New Zealand sensory scientists have just published an article entitled “Expectation or sensorial reality? An empirical investigation of the biodynamic calendar for wine drinkers” with the open-access journal PLoS One. Without any offense whatsoever to the researchers, this is a bad paper, not because of how the research has been done, but because of how easily it’s likely to be misunderstood.

The study’s question was whether tasting wine on a fruit versus a root day, as determined by a biodynamic tasting calendar, affects how the wine tastes. The study’s method was to have 19* wine experts tasteT the same 12 New Zealand pinot noirs on a root day and again on a fruit day (or a fruit day and again on a root day; half of the tasters followed each order), scoring each wine (a few times over, for statistical consistency) as “low” to “intense” on each of twenty factors like “sweetness,” “tannins,” “expressiveness,” and “overall structure.”

The study’s conclusion was that the difference between fruit and root days made no difference to how tasters perceived pinot noirs in any way. That’s unsurprising for two reasons – that the idea of a biodynamic tasting calendar is hogwash, and that biodynamics is a spiritual system that can’t for the most part be relevantly tested by reductionist scientific means – but that’s not my main point.

My main point is that this paper is far too likely to be taken as empirical evidence that biodynamics is a load of nonsense, even though that’s not what the paper says. The paper says that perceptions of what’s in a bottle don’t systematically change between days categorized in a particular way by a calendar devised by Maria and Matthias Thun in 2010. Information about how they devised this calendar is difficult to find online, though I admittedly didn’t try very hard.

The question doesn’t address a core principle or practice of biodynamic agriculture. All the same, it’s far too likely to be inappropriately co-opted to support the “biodynamics doesn’t work when put to the empirical scientific test” argument even though the paper doesn’t support that argument. This danger of inadvertent misapprehension (or deliberate misapplication) is worse because of the relatively few peer-reviewed scientific papers published about biodynamics, which means that this one will get a relatively larger share of attention now and in future reviews than it would otherwise. Moreover, PLoS One is a generalist journal, and so this paper will be read by a lot of people who don’t know enough about biodynamics or wine to clearly distinguish biodynamic-guided tasting from biodynamic agriculture. That’s unfortunate. 

About those two reasons why this article’s findings are unsurprising. The first is that the idea that wine tastes different depending on astral movements just doesn’t cohere with, and indeed is contradicted by, enough other forms of knowledge to give it any credence. Bottled wine changes over time – call it “alive, “if you’d like – but over months and years, not days. And even without attacking biodynamics as a knowledge system, we have a lot of reasons to believe that astral movements don’t affect day-to-day life on earth.**

The second is that biodynamics is a “spiritual” system, which is to say that its efficacy is at least in some ways tied up with belief and personal development. Biodynamics treats the farm as a coherent ecosystem or “single, self-sustaining unit,” of which the farmer is a part. By that biodynamic logic, it makes sense that the caring, positive, trusting farmer is part of the efficacy of biodynamics on a farm, and that removing that person – or, indeed, isolating any one element in the biodynamic system away from the rest for the purposes of a controlled scientific trial – will disrupt the system.

All of that applies to biodynamic agricultural practices which, as I’ve said elsewhere, I think make a good deal of sense for the same reasons that following strange diets often benefits the dieter: in paying caring, positive attention to what you’re doing, you’ll probably do it better. Call it the placebo effect, though thinking about the farm as an ecosystem affected by everything you put into it and a living thing deserving of care is more than just the power of positive thinking; that’s good environmental stewardship. I can’t say the same about the biodynamic tasting calendar.

Of course, the placebo effect usually isn’t a bad thing, either. If opening your favorite bottles on fruit days helps you enjoy your wine more, who am I to say that you shouldn’t enjoy your wine? Just don’t use this new research as a reason why you (or, heaven forbid, someone else) shouldn’t enjoy a biodynamic one.


*Which makes you wonder what was wrong with the twentieth person’s data, or whether someone came down with a cold or had to go home to clean up an overflowing toilet.

**Beyond things like the psychological and sociological influence of full versus new moons, for example, which is a different matter and an important point, given how human psychological influences can ramify.

On the Times video about listening to lasagna and experiments in enjoying wine with your ears

The New York Times (sometimes flippant, often chic) “T Magazine” published a short video this past week in which Massimo Bottura makes and eats some lasagna. This is performance art or experiment, not a cooking show. Here’s why:

  • Bottura is the headline chef at Osteria Francescana, recently the first Italian restaurant to top the annual World’s Best list.
  • The “lasagna” comprises a small mound of meaty ragu topped with a puff of artfully piped dairy (some kind of fluffed ricotta cheese?) topped with “pasta crackers” made by pureeing cooked pasta, re-rolling the resulting dough into rectangles, deep-frying and then blow-torching the rectangles. The result does not look like lasagna, and Bottura eats it by picking up and dipping the cracker like a nacho.
  • Bottura and his two assistants prepare one serving of this lasagna in a heavily mic-ed studio. We listen.
  • Bottura feeds the dish to a humanoid robotic head with visible audio pick-ups in the ears by eating a bite next to the head, which hears him. It’s crunchy stuff.

As performance art, I think this is fantastic because it provokes questions about what food is, what we appreciate experiencing about food, and who can experience it:

  • How much of the enjoyment of eating has to do with the flavor of what you put in your mouth? How much has to do with how it looks, or how it sounds? How much has to do with the reactions of the people around you? How much of the experience of food happens as you listen and watch and smell during cooking?
  • Is the robot head hearing or listening? In other words, do those microphones just sit there while Bottura chews, or are the microphones the audience, or is the head “eating?” In the first case, X is acting on his own as an individual and presumably for his own sake (or at someone else’s command). In the second, X is performing, which changes his own experience. In the third, we’re now thinking about eating as something involving multiple senses and multiple people, which means that eating is always a communal activity, which means that sound is part of the experience of eating, which means that you eating changes your environment.
  • What do we pay attention to when we pay attention to food? What happens when you design a dish meant to be listened to?

We could design experiments to ask these kinds of questions about wine, too. We know that part of enjoying sparkling wine is the sound of popping the cork, and there’s plenty to be said in favor of the tenor of good glassware. But I wonder about creating an experiment that asks how enjoying wine could be tied to the richness of the experience of making the wine (maybe even thinking about the experience of the yeast?), and about how enjoying wine can be about someone else enjoying wine.

Here’s the hang-up: to me, the T Magazine piece is a successful, intriguing, worthwhile experiment. To some other people to whom I’ve shown it, it’s not. It’s absurd, it’s wasteful, it’s silly that all of this effort goes into making something that doesn’t look as good as a plate of good old saucy traditional lasagna. It just doesn’t work for them.

Huge swaths of contemporary cuisine are about blending performance art and fine dining to ask these sorts of questions about food and eating. Some folks think that’s brilliant; some call it balderdash.

How would we design an experiment to ask these kinds of questions about experiencing wine? I’ll be thinking about this for the rest of the weekend. Do you have any suggestions?

**The Times carries a companion piece to the video about Jeff Gordinier’s experience eating at Osteria Francescana. The best parts of the article talk about Bottura’s vision for his food as a tool for changing how people think through some kind of edible embodiment of seminal moments in his own experience. I wrote this post after watching the video and before reading the article, so now I can add that the video works for me, too, because it doesn’t depend at all on how I feel about Bottura and his restaurant (that’s a different matter), but uses a short film platform to great effect to ask a different set of questions.