The Truth About the Aspen Food & Wine Classic (as Told by a Local)
Ah, June. That magical time of year when people who can afford the world's fastest cars drive them over Independence Pass at a pace better suited for funeral processions. Yes, Aspen's annual Food & Wine Classic is upon us.
As a local kid, I used to play on the jungle gym just outside the tasting tents, watching the white canopies go up and the parade of "fancy" people flood in. I'd peer through the fences thinking, One day, I'll be in there too.
These days, the fancy people descend from all corners of the country—hell, the world—only to guzzle the same Sonoma Chardonnay they drink by the truckload back in Texas. But this time it's edgy because they're doing it 8,000 feet up while micro (or macro) dosing Colorado weed gummies and mushroom capsules.
The outfits? Deranged. The cars? Obscene. City folk suddenly awaken their inner rancher, donning $1,200 Kemo Sabe hats and white pleather cowgirl boots that have never seen a pasture—or a puddle.
And then there are the sparkle spitters. Don't let the name fool you—they very rarely spit. These are the would-be Grand Tasting-goers wearing Gucci slides and sleeping halfway up Independence Pass in their Teslas because they blew their lodging budget on "Apres All Day" trucker hats. You're practically guaranteed to find one attempting a bear selfie outside the Wheeler at 2 am.
The Grand Tasting is the ultimate FOMO trap. Onlookers crowd the perimeter, watching the action inside with the yearning of a Dickensian orphan outside a Parisian pâtisserie. But let me save you some grief: the endless supply of La Marca Prosecco isn't worth wetting your designer briefs over.
You will, without question, drink more shitty pre-batched cocktails than actual good wine inside the tent.
I can say this with confidence—I've been to the Grand Tasting eleven times. I've attended it, poured at it, and taken an unplanned siesta at it.
One year, I poured next to Bartholomew Broadbent. Just before closing time on Saturday, a woman wobbled up to my table, her glass caked with the remnants of something that looked suspiciously like a Bloody Mary. She demanded Chardonnay. I poured her a splash of Riesling.
She took a sip and sighed, "This is the best Chardonnay I've ever had," before dropping her phone into the spit bucket.
Without hesitation—and I do mean none—she reached elbow-deep, white lace long sleeve and all, into that winey soup of backwash and vintage dreams, fished out her phone, gave it a shake, and declared:
"It’s fine. I think I’ll have another."
Broadbent and I just stood there. Silent. Eyes wide. Processing.
Aspen, baby.
