Colombian Wine-Tasting Events: Describing Tannins in Spanish

Uncorking My First Cata de Vinos in Bogotá

I still remember the exact shade of crimson that pooled in my glass the first time I attended a formal wine-tasting event in Colombia. A Bogotá drizzle tapped the skylight of the tiny Chapinero loft where twenty strangers huddled around a makeshift bar. I was fresh off a flight from Santo Domingo, clothes smelling faintly of ocean salt, and my Spanish—though serviceable after a decade in the Dominican Republic—was suddenly auditioning for a new role. The sommelier twirled her glass and murmured, “Este Malbec tiene taninos sedosos, casi se sienten como terciopelo.” Every head nodded in communal understanding. Mine stuck out like a stubborn cork. I could ask for a cold Presidente on the Malecón in perfect Caribbean slang, but “silky tannins” in Spanish? That detail betrayed me. It was that night I vowed to learn Spanish all over again, this time paying microscopic attention to texture, aroma, and the rapid-fire adjectives that swirl in a wine glass.

Many expats reach this same crossroad. You learn Spanish for taxi rides, grocery runs, maybe a flirtatious chat at a beach bar. Then you walk into a wine-tasting in Medellín or a highland vineyard tour in Valle de Uco and discover a brand-new linguistic vineyard demanding you differentiate between astringente and aterciopelado. This post is my guide—equal parts palate cleanser and cultural compass—for any English speaker who wants to learn Spanish beyond the basics and speak as confidently about tannins as you do about traffic or tipping.

The Hidden Music of Taninos

In everyday Dominican Spanish you’ll hear wine described in broad strokes—“dulce,” “fuerte,” “suave.” Bogotá sommeliers, on the other hand, love microscopic detail. The word tanino is your starting note. Pronounce it with a soft second “n” and let it tumble like a grape rolling off a vine: tah-NEE-no. Tannins are the polyphenols in grape skins and oak barrels that create that mouth-drying sensation. In Spanish tastings you’ll often hear them framed musically: “taninos punzantes,” “taninos redondeados,” or the poetic “taninos carnosos.”

Example in Spanish:
“La Cabernet Sauvignon 2018 de Villa de Leyva tiene taninos firmes que se ablandan con cada sorbo.”
English translation:
“The 2018 Cabernet Sauvignon from Villa de Leyva has firm tannins that soften with every sip.”
Context:
Here “ablandan” paints a gradual mellowing—a useful verb when comparing first and final impressions of a wine.

Dominicans might swap in the adjective “apretado” to mean tight, yet in Colombian tastings “estructurado” wins. If you want to sound native in Medellín, say: “Estos taninos están bien estructurados.” Switch to Santo Domingo, and “taninos apretados” feels more beach-casual, but still correct. The difference is subtle, like soil types—same grape, new terroir. By noticing these micro-preferences you learn Spanish nuances that textbooks rarely capture.

Sipping Through Regional Accents

Dominican Lightness vs. Colombian Precision

Back on the island, a friend describes red wine by shrugging and saying, “Ese vino es fuerte, manito.” One word does the heavy lifting. In Colombia, I’ve watched a single sip yield a paragraph: “Se siente acidez media-alta, notas de ciruela negra, y un final prolongado con taninos granulados.” Colombians relish taxonomy; Dominicans relish rhythm. That disparity becomes a gym for our ears. Jumping between them forces the brain to stretch, and we learn Spanish in stereo, not mono.

Spanish example:
“En Santo Domingo le bajan con queso frito a la astringencia; en Bogotá prefieren maridar con queso Paipa.”
English translation:
“In Santo Domingo they tame the astringency with fried cheese; in Bogotá they prefer pairing it with Paipa cheese.”
Context:
Notice the verb “maridar”, meaning to pair food and drink—a conversation staple for wine lovers.

Accents That Affect Flavor Descriptions

Beyond vocabulary, the melody of each accent shapes perception. Colombians articulate every consonant, so “tanino” feels crisp. Dominicans swallow consonants: “ta’ino.” Practice saying the phrase both ways and you’ll grasp more than pronunciation—you’re tasting how culture dresses sound. Every time you toggle between these styles you learn Spanish with a musical ear, the ultimate secret to understanding rapid bartop banter.

Describing Mouthfeel Like a Local Sommelier

Mouthfeel—“sensación en boca”—is the Everest for expats aiming to sound native. It forces you to weave adjectives with a level of sensuality not required when ordering coffee. The trick is tagging a sensation to a material you know: velvet, chalk, silk. Here are two sentences I overheard at a Cartagena rooftop tasting and immediately pocketed:

Spanish example:
“El final es sedoso, casi mantequilloso, y deja la lengua acariciada.”
English translation:
“The finish is silky, almost buttery, and leaves the tongue caressed.”
Context:
Speakers often personify wine, giving it agency—“deja la lengua acariciada.” Mimic that structure for eloquent flair.

Spanish example:
“Siento taninos granulados, como si mordiera cacao en polvo.”
English translation:
“I sense grainy tannins, as if I were biting into powdered cocoa.”
Context:
Food analogies anchor abstract sensations, helping listeners conjure taste memories instantly.

Spanish Vocabulary

Example Conversation: At a Wine Tasting in Medellín

Sommelier (usted, Colombian):
“Buenas noches, ¿ya ha probado el Syrah de la casa?”
“Good evening, have you already tasted the house Syrah?”

Me (tú, neutral):
“Aún no, pero me intrigó cuando dijiste que tiene taninos suelticos.”
“Not yet, but I was intrigued when you said it has slightly loose tannins.”
(suelticos = Colombian diminutive of “sueltos,” conveys lightness.)

Sommelier:
“Exacto. En boca es medio cuerpo y el final es muy limpio.”
“Exactly. On the palate it’s medium-bodied and the finish is very clean.”

Dominican Friend (tú, DR slang):
“¡Diache, loco, ese vino cae suave como merengue!”
“Dang, dude, that wine goes down as smooth as merengue!”
(Diache and loco are Dominican interjections.)

Me:
“Yo percibo un retrogusto a mora que se va lentamente.”
“I pick up a blackberry aftertaste that fades slowly.”

Sommelier:
“Buen ojo… o mejor dicho, buen paladar. Esa nota a mora es típica del terroir antioqueño.”
“Good eye… or better yet, good palate. That blackberry note is typical of Antioquian terroir.”

Dominican Friend:
“Pues brindo por ustedes, ¡salud y a seguir catando!”
“Well I toast to you all, cheers and let’s keep tasting!”

Cross-Cultural Tips to Sharpen Your Spanish Ear

Every time I ping-pong between the DR and Colombia my ears recalibrate. Dominican Spanish trains me to decode rapid vowel slurring; Colombian Spanish reminds me to articulate each syllable like a precise pour. Alternating countries is like switching between free-hand sketching and architectural drafting: both improve your craft. If your goal is to learn Spanish as an expat and dominate wine talk, treat each flight as linguistic cross-training. Tune in to adjectives people use for texture, not just flavor. Keep a notebook of new words and ask locals where that adjective is most at home—vineyard, coast, or barrio bar.

When you notice a new phrase—say, “taninos juguetones” (playful tannins)—repeat it aloud in both accents. Feel how the Dominican glide clips the “s” and how the Colombian crispness taps each consonant. The more you mimic, the more you learn Spanish in living color. Your palate sharpens because your ears do, and vice versa. Wine vocabulary is sensory; say it like you taste it.

Closing Reflections & Invitation

After ten years of Caribbean sunsets and countless weekends in Colombian highlands, I’ve realized that mastering Spanish is less about grammar drills and more about showing up curious, glass in hand, ready to taste adjectives. Whether you’re discussing a bold Malbec or a beachy rosé, let culture season your words. That’s how you truly learn Spanish—not by memorizing, but by savoring. Comment below with your own cross-country discoveries, favorite tasting terms, or any quirky slang you’ve picked up between sips. Let’s keep this linguistic cellar well-stocked. ¡Salud!