Riesling is arguably the most misunderstood wine. Sommeliers, wine writers, people who spend too much of their disposable income on wine, tend to love it. And yet, "I don't like riesling - it's too sweet," is a common refrain from casual wine drinkers, whenever I rave about it.

That's understandable. Generations of Americans favored sweet wine, and riesling fit the bill. Whether inexpensive plonk from Germany or generic white wine from California, we drank lots of it. But somewhere along the way, we learned that "dry" wine is supposed to be better. Chardonnay and sauvignon blanc eclipsed riesling in U.S. vineyards and American imaginations.

Today there's a bit of a riesling renaissance in the United States. Riesling shines in certain regions, such as New York's Finger Lakes, Michigan's Old Mission Peninsula and Washington state's Columbia Valley. Some dedicated winemakers are crafting exceptional riesling in Oregon's Willamette Valley, and there are a few notable holdouts in California.

Here are five things to know about riesling and to encourage you to explore this exciting wine.

1. They are NOT all sweet!

Riesling is a versatile wine, because it can be racy and bone dry, unctuous and sweet, and everything in between. That's why consumers can be confused - we don't know what we're buying unless the label tells us. And it doesn't, usually. But there are clues.

Rieslings from Austria, Australia and New Zealand are almost always dry, and the rare dessert wines are usually marked as such. Dry German rieslings may be labeled as "trocken," and the top bottlings called "erste lage" or "grosses gewachs" are always dry. U.S. wineries may make a range of styles. These may be labeled as dry or semi-dry, to indicate moderate sweetness, which I prefer to call fruitiness. Ripe fruit, after all, tastes sweet.

The back label may sport a scale indicating dry, medium dry, medium sweet or sweet. This scale was developed by a group or wineries called the International Riesling Foundation, and it's a little more complex than it sounds. A wine's perceptible sweetness is not just a question of how much sugar is left in the wine after fermentation. The IRF scale factors in sugar, acidity and the wine's pH level to give us an indication of how sweet or dry the wine will taste.

2. Riesling is a great food wine.

A food-wine pairing maxim pitches sweeter wine with spicy Asian foods, because the sugar in the wine moderates the food's heat. Riesling fits that, especially a semi-dry version. But the wine's key is really its fruitiness and acidity, a combination that equal versatility.

"Riesling can be made in many different styles, from low to high alcohol, from dry, to off-dry and then the many dessert styles," says Stu Smith, winemaker at Smith-Madrone Vineyards on Napa Valley's Spring Mountain. Smith-Madrone planted its riesling vineyard in 1972 and is now celebrated as one of the few riesling holdouts in the land of cabernet sauvignon. "It goes with just about any food, meat, soup or cuisine - or all by itself."

Riesling is great with smoked fish, salads, curries, even braised beef - one of my most memorable meals was beef braised in riesling, with spaetzle. It may have helped that I was in Germany, of course. And if you buy a bottle that turns out to be too sweet for your taste, save it for a salty cheese or dessert.

3. Riesling is a megaphone for terroir.

A conversation with a German winemaker can turn into a dizzying discourse on how a riesling from a vineyard on blue slate soils tastes different from one grown on red slate. But you don't have to be a geologist to appreciate riesling's ability to express its origins.

In cool climates, such as New York's Finger Lakes and Michigan's Old Mission Peninsula, riesling takes on a lean, racy profile. Warmer climes such as the Columbia Valley in Washington state or Napa Valley give riesling a richer body, with riper fruit flavors.

But there are differences, and U.S. riesling is especially exciting now, as winemakers explore its different expressions. Rieslings from Seneca Lake in the Finger Lakes tend to have a delicate texture with an accent of lime zest, while ones from nearby Keuka Lake are richer. Brooks winery makes more than 20 rieslings, including several single-vineyard bottlings, that vividly demonstrate the terroirs and microclimates of Oregon's Willamette Valley.

4. Riesling ages well.

Wine lovers who are still collectors should keep a stash of riesling in their cellars. We tend to consider white wines at their peak just a year or two after the vintage, but riesling's acidity gives it a potential for long life.

"Why do I keep making riesling?" Smith asks. "Because I love drinking it while it's young, and savor it when it's aged."

5. They are NOT all sweet!

Whiskey-a liquor whose origins in medieval Scotland or Ireland remain murky-once was an uncommon, exotic liquor in the 13 colonies, where rum, gin and brandy were the strong drinks of choice. But during and immediately after the Revolutionary War, that all changed. Whiskey became a popular-and profitable-drink, and more than that, a crucial commodity in the economy of the new United States of America.

Whiskey's rise as an American liquor was due in large part to the fact that it didn't have to be imported. Unlike rum, which was made from sugarcane and molasses shipped from British-controlled islands in the Caribbean to distilleries in New England, whiskey could be distilled in this country from domestically sourced raw ingredients. Corn, in particular, was plentiful in America.

"The British cut off molasses and rum from the West Indies during the Revolution," explains William Rorabaugh, author of the 1979 book The Alcoholic Republic: An American Tradition, which explores the nation's drinking habits prior to Prohibition. "Domestic whiskey originally was a wartime substitute."

But even after the hostilities ended, the rum trade wasn't reestablished to the same degree as it had existed prior to the war, Rorabaugh says. Scottish-Irish immigrants, who were used to drinking whiskey in their own countries, took to American whiskey readily. An even bigger factor in whiskey's rise, he says, was as Americans migrated westward, they had access to more land to grow more corn.

"Surplus corn would rot, unless it was preserved by turning it into whiskey," Rorabaugh says. A whiskey boom was born and soon farmers were shipping crates of it East for cash.

In Europe, liquor was commonly made from potatoes, wheat, rye or barley, so American corn-made whiskey was unique, although it had to be made in small batches. "Corn scorched in large stills but worked fine in small ones," Rorabaugh says. "Most American distillers found that mixing a bit of rye or wheat (both more expensive than corn) made distilling easier. The new small stills also became more efficient, and the bite of raw whiskey was solved by aging whiskey in barrels."

Whiskey generated so much income, in fact, that when the new nation struggled under the weight of Revolutionary War debt, Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton proposed a tax on domestic liquor as a means of paying it off. Congress passed the legislation, but as Loyola University-trained historian Peter Kotowski explains, the tax soon met strident opposition.

To small farmers and distillers on the frontier in western Pennsylvania, whiskey was a means of financial survival, and they weren't about to share their hard-earned money with the federal government. They refused to pay, and began tarring and feathering tax collectors and seizing their records at gunpoint in what became known as the Whiskey Rebellion.

President Washington-who himself later made whiskey in a distillery at Mount Vernon after he left office-initially tried to quell the uprising with a 1792 proclamation that admonished the farmers to comply. But two years later, after the malcontents set fire to the Pittsburgh home of a tax official, Washington didn't have much choice but to respond with force.

He organized a federal militia of nearly 13,000 men and marched to western Pennsylvania, where 150 of the whiskey rebels were arrested. Only two were tried and convicted of treason. Washington, who'd made his point about the federal government's authority, eventually pardoned them.

Despite the brouhaha, whiskey itself remained popular, especially on the frontier. As Kate Hopkins details in 99 Drams of Whiskey: The Accidental Hedonist's Quest for the Perfect Shot, at a time when the nation lacked clean drinking water, whiskey provided a sanitary substitute.

"Whiskey was drunk on a daily basis, as a means to start the day or complete a deal, or even as prescribed medicine," she writes. In the west it even was used as an alternative currency, in places where actual dollars and cents were difficult to come by.

In 1802, President Thomas Jefferson eliminated the unpopular tax on whiskey, which gave the whiskey industry a renewed boost. Whiskey became an integral part of daily American life, with many drinking it at meals as well as starting and ending each day with a swallow or two. James Madison was said to have drunk a pint of whiskey daily. "By the 1820s, whiskey sold for twenty-five cents a gallon, making it cheaper than beer, wine, coffee, tea, or milk," Rorabaugh writes.

Even so, whiskey's economic importance eventually subsided, as the nation evolved. "After 1830 the U.S. economy became more industrial in the modern sense with mass production of textiles, shoes, books and other goods, as well as a transportation revolution that started with canals and steamboats and quickly turned to railroads," Rorabaugh says. "These new giant industries were highly capitalized in a way that whiskey was not."

Another factor that made whiskey less lucrative was the rise of the American temperance movement, which was strongly aligned with the nascent crusade for women's rights. To early feminists, alcohol abuse by men, who sometimes drank up their pay at the tavern and left their families struggling, had the effect of oppressing women.

In an increasingly industrialized, rapidly growing America, whiskey also got in the way of factory profits. Factory work required Americans to stay awake and alert for long periods during the Industrial Revolution. That's when another strong drink became popular across the country-coffee.

In the bad old days of the 1990s and early noughties, when American critics held immense sway over collectors’ tastes and wallets, new oak plus super-ripe fruit were paramount for red wines. Oak was a critical component of the sweet, rich style of top California Chardonnays during this period, too.

Nowadays, trend-setting somms hate those oaky, ripe wines, and the hippest winemakers avoid new oak barrels studiously. If the latter do go near them, they might choose vessels made of older oak that impart very little or no flavor. Or, they find other ways of aging wine: massive barrels called foudres, fuders, or botti, which span 1,000 to 5,000 liters in size; concrete tanks and eggs; terracotta (amphorae, tinajas, or qvevri, depending on their shape and where they come from); and, lately, ceramic spheres. Sometimes, though not often, they use stainless steel.

In some ways, this is a necessary correction. We don’t want our wines tasting too much like wood because, even though some people enjoy that flavor, it gets in the way of terroir. What’s the point in choosing a good vineyard site and working hard to produce good grapes only to iron out the character of the wine by blasting it with new oak?

But, as with any trend in wine – even a correcting one – the pendulum often swings too far. Just because over-oaking is a problem, it doesn’t mean that all oak is bad. Small oak barrels, including new ones, have a role in forming fine wines.

Oak can never truly be “over.” We simply need to be smarter about how we use, think, and talk about it.

Using oak to intentionally impart flavor is a relatively recent development. Originally, winemakers used barrels because they could capably store liquids in an age when stainless steel tanks and plastic didn’t exist. Barrels were practically unbreakable, more robust than terracotta amphorae and much easier to transport.

To make a barrel, you split the wood into thin planks called staves, which are seasoned for two or three years, usually outdoors. Then, you cut them precisely into shape, and assemble them into a barrel with the help of some metal hoops. At this point, you heat your half-constructed barrel over a fire. This makes the staves flexible enough to bend into shape, and subtly chars the wood that will become the barrel’s interior.

The flame-broiled effect, called “toast,” enormously impacts how these barrels affect flavor. (In fact, some winemakers use steam to adjust their staves, so as to avoid “toast.”) Whomever is purchasing this barrel can specify the degree of toast they prefer.

In the 1970s and ‘80s, winemakers realized barrels’ shape, type of oak used, and manner of construction could influence the taste and structure of wine. (Wine barrels are almost always made of oak. Variants composed of chestnut, acacia, or cherry wood exist but are rare.)

By the 1990s, the wine world cottoned to the fact that brand-new barrels add quite a lot of flavor; and, in conjunction with picking grapes super ripe, new barrels can produce sweetly fruited wines with spicy oak. This proved to be a winning combination, quickly seducing the palates of inexperienced wine drinkers.

The major flavor compound wine picks up from new oak is called oak lactone, which smells of coconut and vanilla. (Interestingly, barrels made with American oak impart more flavor because this type of wood has much more lactone in it.) Guaiacol, which smells quite smoky, is another property found in wood. It increases in tandem with higher levels of toasting.

Other properties found in wood include vanillin and furfural, which gives sweet, caramel, and nutty notes. Wood also contains tannins, and these add structure and alter color.

One of the real benefits of barrel-aging is it exposes the wine to small amounts of oxygen in a way that stainless steel tanks cannot. Barrel-aging also means the wine is in steady contact with the dead yeast cells at the bottom of the barrel known as lees. This is especially important for white wines, which are fermented in the barrel, because all the yeast cells will end up at the bottom.

As the yeast cell walls begin to decompose, they release the contents of the cells. These can interact with the wine, adding texture and keeping it fresh by scavenging oxygen.

Because the skins are involved in making red wine, fermenting in a barrel is a bit awkward. The reds usually complete fermentation in an open container on the skins, and then the wine is pressed and put into the barrel for aging. This means the lees aren’t quite as important, because there will be fewer dead yeast cells at the bottom.

Still unconvinced that we need to hang onto our barrels? Consider Burgundy.

Even the hippest somms go weak-kneed over quality red and white Burgundy. They may be disenchanted by Bordeaux, but Burgundy is a place of wine pilgrimage, making terroir-focused wines that, at their best, are peerless examples of elegance and power.

And in every Burgundy cellar, especially those making top wines, you will almost exclusively see small oak barrels.

The best winemakers in Burgundy are skilled proponents of what is known as élevage, which roughly translates as the bringing up of a wine. It’s an incredible skill set, the stuff that truly excellent wines are made of. And barrels are the principal tool of élevage.

Winemakers in Burgundy typically leave reds in small oak barrels in their cellars over winter, and then, in spring, as the cellar warms, the wine within begins its second, malolactic fermentation. The wine then spends more time in barrel until it is stable and clear.

Burgundy’s best whites ferment in the barrel, and then there are decisions about how to manage the lees — to stir or not to stir? — and whether or not to transfer them from one barrel to another in a process called racking. Winemakers also have to determine how long to leave these white wines in barrel.

Whenever international winemakers attempt to make high-end versions of Burgundian wines like Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, they use small oak barrels. When you ferment wine in a new barrel, the chemical process can impart certain flavors. The results are much less traditionally “oak-flavored” than if you’d fermented Chardonnay in a steel tank and then transferred it to a barrel.

The contemporary backlash to oak isn’t wrong, it’s just incomplete. Hipster somms have fallen out of love with barrels because of the ways oak aging was ruthlessly abused in the pursuit of spoofy wines. But barrels do have a place in the creation of some of the classic wine styles that even the most discerning wine professionals and enthusiasts know and love.

I am thrilled to see more concrete, terracotta, and large oak in cellars, but I also understand that small oak has a place. In skilled hands it can help fashion amazing wines.

We are certainly allowed to hate excessive oaking, but oak itself isn’t the enemy. Ignorance and bad winemaking are worse for wine than any barrel.

You attend a wine tasting. You nod your head while the winemaker says things like “notes of cherry bark” and “long, silky finish.” You fall in love with a certain bottle and purchase it for a special occasion, only to open it and discover the wine smells… off. Musty, maybe. Some describe it as wet cardboard, wet newspaper, even wet dog. It could mean your wine is “corked.”

Corked wine, also referred to as flawed or tainted wine, is caused by the presence of 2, 4, 6-trichloroanisole, or TCA, a contaminant sometimes found in food and beverages. TCA is produced when chlorine bleach meets wood. Since cork must be cleaned when it’s processed, TCA can get into cork and infect a wine. Though you can’t get sick from drinking corked wine, experts say at least five percent of all wine bottles are contaminated by varying amounts of TCA.

While most people associate it with cork contamination, TCA is a pervasive, insidious compound that can creep into a bottle of Cab during any step in the wine production process, especially before bottling.

It’s not just the cork, Before bottling is where the high occurrence of contamination occurs. It could be broken down into the woods it comes into contact with, the barrel, the wood in the tank, structures in the building, the winemaking materials… Even a screw cap can be corked. A very small amount can infect an entire winery or an entire batch of wine.

There are multiple strains of TCA, each imparting slightly different characteristics, none of them pleasant. One is the wet cardboard characteristic. The other strains will mask or mute a wine’s fruit character, thereby undoing a winemaker’s hard labor.

Cork taint is easier to identify in New World wines that are usually meant to be livelier and more fruit-forward, as opposed to a wine from Bordeaux or Rioja that exudes earthier, funkier flavors.

With cork taint, it takes a lot of times running into a corked wine before you can really start to hone in on what those flavors are.

Wine can possess other flaws, as well, not just from TCA. Wine can oxidize if the bottle is exposed to oxygen through a faulty cork or less-than-ideal storage. It can also be “cooked” when exposed to high temperatures for long periods of time. Flaws can also occur during production, as certain processes impart a funky flavor to wine.

If you’re having an unpleasant experience with a wine you should tell somebody. Once you can identify cork taint and are able to say ‘this wine is flawed,’ versus ‘this wine is not my preference,’ I think that will help. One way to do that, is to simply “drink more.”

Tainted cork has been a problem for ages. The industry has responded with alternate closures, such as the screw cap, glass stoppers, artificial cork, composite cork, and aging in stainless steel as opposed to wood barrels. Corked wine gets returned and refunded along the supply chain, so if you do taste something “off,” you’re doing the business a favor by saying something.

The foam atop a beer head is made up of proteins and sugars in a liquid around a large quantity of gas. Foam is derived from the three major non-water ingredients in beer: malted barley, hops, and yeast. Crucially, trapped within that foam are compounds responsible for beer aroma and, by extension, beer flavor.

“As the foam is slightly dissipating, that’s releasing those compounds toward your nose and allowing you to get a good read on those aromatic compounds,” says Brett Bauer, lead brewer at Idle Hands Craft Ales in Malden, Massachusetts.

Beer judges know that a beer’s aroma can be quick to fade, as those volatile compounds come out of suspension in liquid. Foam or head helps contain some of those compounds, keeping them around longer for your enjoyment.

How much of a head to expect on a beer varies based on beer style. A high-ABV barleywine or acidic Belgian gueuze might not have much of a head at all, while a hefeweizen or American pale ale should boast a noticeable, persistent head. Generally, “one inch of foam tends to be the guideline for a perfect pour,” says Jess Baker, editor-in-chief of craftbeer.com, a publication of the Brewers Association trade group. If you’re pouring a beer yourself, you can maximize your chances for getting a proper head by holding the glass at a 45-degree angle and pouring the beer down the side of the glass until it’s about halfway full, then turning the glass straight up and down and pouring straight into its center.

A proper, mousse-like head atop a beer is considered an important mark of quality if you want to fully appreciate what’s in your glass. But some consumers, perhaps with memories of college keggers still in their head, think any beer foam is a bad thing. 

“Some people looking at that head of beer and they’re like ‘Oh I’ll wait until you fill that glass up,’ like we’re trying to save a couple ounces of beer. Maybe there’s a public perception that they’re not getting what they paid for,” Bauer says. “That’s absolutely not the case. We’re trying to present the beer in the best way possible.”

Baker echoes that sentiment. She says advocating for proper beer pours and good glassware isn’t about trying to impress anyone: “This advice is not to be snobby, but truly to get the best experience the brewer of your beer intended

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I’ll drink easy-going backyard beers out of a can or bottle when the situation’s right, but if I’m trying to fully experience a beer’s flavor, I hope it’s properly poured—with a full head—into a clean glass. And not one shaped like a vase, fishbowl, or hummingbird feeder, either.