Now pay attention, fellow winelovers. The following may save your life.
Or at least your reputation.

This is a shallow dive into wine trade shows—where people who “like wine” discover whether they actually like wine…or just like drinking. This also applies to consumer shows, which often immediately proceed the trade/media events, with an hour or two in between to clean up the event space and prepare for the public and their credit cards.

For those who have never attended a wine show, you are greeted with a glittering army of perfectly polished stemware lined up like glass soldiers. Grab one and go. This glass will be your partner in crime—until it becomes so smeared, streaked and crusted with dried Cabernet that you start questioning whether the wine is cloudy or you just live like a barbarian. It’s at that point that you should sidle back to the entrance, trade it in for a pristine upgrade, and pretend that last glass didn’t belong to you, while staff and newly arriving show attendees look upon you with disdain.

The second order of business is to pick a table, any table—ideally one without a crowd. This is where the professionals and the “free wine day tourists” part ways. Pros are there to speed‑date dozens of wines in a few hours, spit like champions (and not like you just had five cavities filled on one side of your mouth), to take hopefully legible notes and then somehow walk out still of sound and sharp mind.

However, even in a room full of trade and media, there’s always that other crowd—the ones who resemble Dionysus on a day pass. They march straight to the Barolo, Bordeaux, big-ticket Napa—anything with the whiff of triple digits. They don’t ask many questions—at least not good ones. They don’t take notes. They do, however, return for generous pours. If nothing else, by 3:30 p.m. they’re at least among the happiest, friendliest people in the room, while their recall of specific wines hovers somewhere between “red” and “that one near the corner.” Some of them are ‘influencers,’ so at least will have lots of selfies alongside expensive wines and attractive people most of them wouldn’t have otherwise remembered.

Regardless of their various lots in life, everyone eventually makes their way to the food stations. Virtually every show offers at least a charcuterie table or two—cheeses, breads, fruits, nuts, olives and meats to help get you survive the next two or three hours of tastings. A few shows are downright full-on dining experiences (traditionally anything sponsored by Italy, including the world-travelling Gambero Rosso expo, qualifies). This is survival rule No. 1—Don’t Skip the Dishes.

SPITTING WITH STYLE

Survival rule No. 2 is Make Peace with the Spittoon. At the Wines of Greece show last month at Arcadian Loft, as with most such events, every exhibitor’s table included a silver bucket, gleaming away like an innocent little champagne cooler. It is not innocent, though. One bad angle and you discover the dreaded splash‑effect: a fine aromatic mist of other people’s Syrah and Chardonnay on your cheek. Keep your glass—and your torso—well away from the blast radius. And for the love of God, don’t wear anything white. Swirl, sniff, take a very modest mouthful, think about acidity, structure, balance and finish—and then commit to the spit. And stay vigilant. Swallow a few times too many and you’ll be hugging people you’ve never met within 30 minutes.

At the new SIP: The Ultimate Tasting Experience on April 23 at the Fare + Social Food Hall on Bay Street, there was a twist in the spittoon: dozens of floor‑mounted bins lined in red plastic, like industrial‑strength sacrificial altars for non-imbibed wines. You could dump the remnants of your glass straight in, or first use paper cups provided at the entrance to temporarily hold your leftovers before sending them down the red plastic chutes at your convenience. It was a whole choreography of responsible wasting—way better than having to reach past 10 people for the silver bucket and deftly spit while carrying on an interview with the table host.

TO MASTERCLASS OR NOT

I typically never miss a trade show masterclass opportunity. These are the civilized, seated parts of the day where you’re walked through a focused lineup of wines—grapes, regions, stories and all—so you can actually learn something in peace before being released back into the swirling, sloshing chaos of the main floor. There was no time for masterclasses at SIP, though, given its mere three-hour 2–5 p.m. sprint through one of the most international lineups imaginable: a patchwork of agency portfolios plus Chile, New Zealand, Austria, Australia and at least a dozen more countries featuring booths, along with a dedicated Ontario section.

That local corner included two of the most enjoyable people in the province to talk to about wine: Thomas Bachelder, the Chardonnay/Pinot Noir/Gamay whisperer, and Southbrook Vineyards’ owner Bill Redelmeier. Put either of them in front of their bottles and they’re like kids in a candy store, lighting up as they dig into clones, soils, organics, fermentations and every other detail you secretly wanted to know—and some you didn’t. But it’s always an absolute joy to speak with them—even though I’m constantly reminded how little I know about the industry compared to those two guys.

IT’S ALL GREEK TO US

The Wines of Greece show had a different rhythm. There was a masterclass for this one, and, quite frankly, I needed the refresher. As long as you’re not looking for big, brawny reds, Greek wines offer solid value—especially when you need that food-pairing acidity. The Kecheris and Seméli winery tables were my favourites for quality throughout the lineup, including Kecheris’ unique Tear of the Pine, a palate-cleansing modern take on traditional Greek Retsina where Aleppo pine resin is added during fermentation. Because when you get bored of just using grapes, try adding something that is secreted from tree bark! Seriously, though, it’s worth a taste! And who am I to argue? They’ve been making wine in Greece for 6,500 years, so they might know a little something about viticulture.

The wines from this sun-drenched Mediterranean nation have been steadily gaining in popularity in local restaurants, despite the fact that most of us have a hard time ordering a wine whose spelling looks like a bowl of alphabet soup exploded across the label. Pronouncing Greece’s grape varieties is, you have to admit, an exercise in linguistic CrossFit. On the other hand, they do offer multiple opportunities to win a game of Scrabble in a single word: Assyrtiko (crisp, salty-citrus energetic white), Xinomavro (high-tannin, structured, savoury Nebbiolo-like red), Agiorgitiko (plush medium-plus-bodied Cabernet/Merlot-like) and Moschofilero (aromatic, floral white), to name—but not pronounce—just a few.

Information‑wise, the Greek show was a notetaker’s dream: handouts of maps and booklets that included—crucially—the local agencies for each wine listed. That seriously, and surprisingly, doesn’t happen often. It’s for shows like these that my ever-present backpack is non‑negotiable—I typically need somewhere to stash all those pamphlets that I fully intend to organize “later”—i.e., someday…possibly in retirement. Because while you’re doing all this sampling, spitting, photographing labels and scribbling things like “laser acidity, great with seafood”—you’re trying to learn something from each pour: Are the tannins satiny, sandpaper or ‘dental work required?’ Is the oak a gentle frame or does it taste like I’m chewing on a 2-by-4? Does the wine say something about where it’s from, or could it be from anywhere with a marketing budget?

The art—the real, underappreciated art—is walking out of that room clear-headed and useful. Your phone is full of slightly crooked bottle shots. Your notebook contains hieroglyphics that, with effort, will translate into actual recommendations. You’ve spat a lot more than you’ve swallowed, and you’ve treated each wine as a tiny interview rather than a free top‑up.

That’s how you avoid getting hammered and maintaining a decent reputation—treating the show like work (OK, admittedly really fun work). Taste, think, spit, write, repeat. Then later, when the “free wine day” contingent is trying to remember if they parked on this street or the next…or if they in fact drove here at all…you’ll already be home, typing it all up, still of sober and sharp mind.

Mostly.