"We have gone back to vinegar's beginnings to rediscover that the tastiest and mildest vinegar is made from wine in a process as careful as wine making itself. We have begun seriously to appreciate its flavor, which can be piquant, complex, and subtle, all at the same time."
Jennifer Harvey Lang, Tastings

Every day a dozen people ask me about olive oils, which is the best? which one do I like? which will they like? But when it comes to vinegar, it's usually left to me to do the asking:

"Looking for a little vinegar to go with your oil?"
"Oh yeah," they answer absent-mindedly, "vinegar."

We tend to take vinegar for granted: an inexpensive, all-purpose acid that moistens salads, pickles cucumbers, cleans windows, and gives Canadians something to sprinkle on their French fries. The truth is, vinegar can be a great tool for cooks looking to add flavor to their food. It deserves our attention.

Below are the most commonly asked questions from people who are ready to move to a higher level of vinegar awareness.

Can you really taste the difference?

By far, this is the most commonly asked question from uninitiated vinegar buyers. It's easy to understand where they're coming from. How could you not be cautious about buying "upscale" vinegar if all you've ever tried to date was Distilled White?

"Shouldn't I just be satisfied with the standard supermarket stuff? Will I really be able to taste the difference?" people ask themselves.
"Can it really be worth the extra money?" they ask me.

The money part is a personal thing. But my answer to the first question is an emphatic, resounding, resolute, YES. If you're willing to stop for a second and taste test, you will most definitely discern the difference between good, traditionally-made vinegar and its commercial counterpart. And-I'll say with equal emphasis-you absolutely do not need to be some kind of gourmet or gourmand to tell the best from the bogus.

This was confirmed for me on an otherwise unremarkable Friday evening at the Zingerman's Deli. I was standing, thinking, watching, listening, in front of the eight-foot pine rack that holds the vinegars. A guy was staring quietly at the glassed-in shelf where we show the elegant little glass flasks of aged balsamic vinegar. Since they're priced at $100-plus per piece we keep them under lock and key. I could see he was wondering what on earth could possibly be inside these bottles. Since I knew he wasn't going embarrass himself by asking, I volunteered:

"That's real balsamic vinegar," I offered.

He looked at me, kind of quizically, like I must have mistaken him for some more food-knowledgeable customer. Like most folks he wasn't about to initiate a conversation on a subject he knew nothing about. But hey, you have to learn sometime.
"Want a taste?" I inquired.
"Oh no." He pushed his lips together and shook his head slowly. "It'd be wasted on me. I wouldn't know the difference. Besides, we're not gonna buy any. We're just here to have a sandwich." "It's great stuff," I offered. "Really, I don't care if you buy it, just taste it. It's good. " He wavered. I waited.
"OK, come on. We're gonna taste," I told him. "I'll bet you can tell the difference." No time like the present for tasting good food.
"Well, let me get my wife," he said.

A minute later he was back with his wife and teenage son, both of whom were sporting the look of, "What has dad got us into this time?" They'd had balsamic vinegar, but, as with most folks, they'd only tasted the usual industrial stuff with the green and orange label. I started them there.

"Yeah, we've had that," they responded right away.

Then on we went to a tiny cupful of the much more flavorful Cavalli Balsamic "condiment"-a better vinegar, aged longer, more complex flavor, smoother, infinitely less harsh. Their eyes told the story: they could tell the difference.

Now for the clincher, I thought. I unlocked the glass case, took out our open bottle of the traditional balsamic.

"This one's about sixty years old," I offered. I pulled out the tiny cork, and grabbed the traditional glass "straw" we use to get the vinegar out of the bottle.
"You have to taste this one off the back of your hand," I told them.
The man looked at his wife for support. They were worried. This was starting to get a little weird. She nodded her OK. They'd gotten this far . . .
I left a droplet of the dense vinegar on the back of each of their hands. Warily, verily, they tasted. This time their eyes really lit up (which happens whenever anyone tastes this vinegar for the first time.) It even elicited a "Wow" from the teenage son. Dad smiled and shook his head. "You were right. That's amazing." He thanked me about five times, and then, smiling all the way, went off to eat his sandwich.

I don't know if he ever came back to buy balsamic or not, but I felt good about our tasting regardless. What matters most to me is that someone else got to get a hint of just how great great vinegar can be.

So, to make a long story short, yes, absolutely, 100% guaranteed, you can tell the difference.

Why make vinegar?

Most likely, the first wine vinegar wasn't made on purpose. It just happened to some unsuspecting wine maker. One day he had wine, the next day he had none. Vinegar remains a wine maker's nightmare waiting to happen. At the same time, a great wine is the precious raw material for the master vinegar maker.

Few people realize it, but vinegar is the natural conclusion of the wine making process. Vinegar finishes what wine making starts, taking the intricate flavors of the grape and converting them into the form of a food we can use, day in and day out.

In fact, the two processes are so closely linked that although many wineries make vinegar, the two have to be kept strictly separated. It's like two kids who can't be left alone together and have to be sent to their separate rooms - in this case separate buildings, usually in different neighborhoods . A few stray bacteria circulating in the air from a barrel of vinegar can turn an winery's production to vinegar.

Are all vinegars made from grapes?

Not at all. Anything that can be made into alcohol can be turned into vinegar.

The best known, non-grape, vinegar in North America is that made from apple cider. New Englanders have sworn by the stuff for centuries. If you travel, you'll find cider vinegar popular anywhere apples grow in abundance, like France's Normandy and Spain's Asturias.
Top-notch cider vinegar starts out with the best whole, fresh apples. Producers on the skimp use up old apples, cores, peels and skins that aren't good enough to go into juice or fresh cider.

Mexicans make many mild fruit vinegars. The fruit varies with what is readily available in each region; you'll find pineapple vinegar in the area of Oaxaca, cider vinegar in the north. Bananas and cactus paddles (nopales) are also common vinegar bases.

The Chinese have been making rice vinegar for over 3000 years. Used mostly as a condiment, there are three main types: red, white and black. The black (jit cho) has a rich, sweet-sourness that sets it in the same flavor-family system as Italian balsamic. The red (hak mi cho) is used most often as a dip for spring rolls, boiled crab or dim sum. The white (bok cho) is a added to sweet and sour dishes and dressings for vegetables.

The Japanese also make an array of interesting vinegars. There's a delicate rice vinegar, called su, which is used with sushi rice. Aji Pon , flavored with citrus juice and soy sauce, is frequently used for grilled meats. They sprinkle Tosazu , flavored with fish stock, sugar and soy, on fish and vegetable dishes. Ume-su vinegar is made from plums, and has an exotic, salty, sweet flavor.

In medieval Europe vinegar makers worked with mead, the traditional honey-based alcoholic beverage of the era. Malt vinegar has been a long time favorite in Britain-it is to beer and ale what wine vinegar is to wine. In the Philippines, they use coconuts for their vinegar; in the Caribbean they convert cane syrup; in Malaysia, pineapples.

(Take note, too, that there are vinegars that start with grapes which aren't ever made into wines, and hence, aren't really wine vinegars. Real Balsamic vinegar comes to mind, since it is made from Trebbiano grape "must"-the juice of the freshly pressed Trebbiano grapes-not from Trebbiano wine.)

What can you learn from the label?

The label can't vouch for the flavor of what's inside the bottle, but it should give good background info to the prospective buyer. For openers, it ought to tell you where the vinegar was made, and by whom. If it's Italian, check for the two letter city code: "MO" stands for Modena and "RE" stands for Reggio-Emilia; these are the two areas of Italy where Balsamic has its roots, and they remain the only legal sources of Balsamic vinegar in Italy. Like great wine, Balsamic vinegar is protected with the equivalent of a government mandated "denomination of origin."

A quick glance at the ingredients list is often telling-there's no need for extracts, sugars, preservatives, or colorings, so if you see them, stay away. If it's a wine vinegar, it may well have sulfites, since they're found in the vast majority of wines. (Some people, particularly those with asthma, may be allergic to sulfites. If you're one of them be sure you stick to the vinegars from Kimberly in San Francisco or Tait Farms from Pennsylvania. See your doctor for details.)

"Pasteurized" on the label is not necessarily a plus-it's usually a sign of industrial involvement which adds shelf life, but robs a vinegar of much of its character and complexity. "Raw vinegar" is unpasteurized, though not all unpasteurized vinegars will say so.

On occasion, the label will tell you that the vinegar was "naturally converted," possibly using the terms, "Methode d'Orleans" or "Vinaigre de la Ancienne." This is a positive sign for the selective vinegar shopper. Unfortunately, the best producers rarely note this all-important fact on their labels. As is often the case, those who have stayed true to the traditional, take their own extraordinary efforts for granted.

What's the right level of acidity?

The acidity level of a vinegar is another feature that's often noted on the label. You'll see it marked either with a percentage (%) or a degree (°) symbol.

Acidity is the edge which gives vinegar its vinegariness. (It's the lack of acidity in olive oil that makes the two such a good match.) It would be logical to assume that the acidity level is an indicator of a vinegar's harshness or mellowness, but that isn't necessarily the case. Most vinegars will be in the range of 6 to 7%, though some in Asia are made to come in around 4%. But it's the aging and the skill of the vinegar maker-not the actual acidity level-that create the desired balance and richness on the palate. Two vinegars may share the same lab-tested acidity level, yet have almost nothing in common when it comes to mouthfeel and appeal.

How can you spot a good wine vinegar?

There are two questions to ask when you set out to check references on a vinegar's resume:

A) Was it made from great wine?

If you want to make a great wine vinegar, then you've got to start with great wine-no amount of industrial alchemy can convert low quality wine into top-notch vinegar. Nevertheless, too many modern day vinegar makers ignore this basic reality. As I've walked trade shows or answered inquiries from assorted salespeople over the years, I've learned that a few quick questions usually separate pretenders from purveyors of quality:

"What kind of wine are you using?" I inquire of my potential vinegar supplier.
"Red wine," they answer confidently.
Now, I've got to tell you, "red wine" just isn't enough; what I really want to know is the variety of wine. Cabernet, Bordeaux, Burgundy, Chianti? The better the wine the better the vinegar. "What kind of red wine?" I persist.
The best vinegar makers look up, then light up. They love to talk about their vinegar and the wine from which it was made. But they've become so accustomed to people not paying attention that they rarely initiate an in-depth conversation. They proceed to share the source of their wine, the region in which it was made, the characteristics they look for when they're buying each year. The more they talk, the more excited they, and I, become.

But all too often, the supplier simply stares back and almost imperceptibly stutters. "Red wine," they answer simply, though a little louder than before, the way people talk to foreigners who failed to understand them the first time. When that happens I usually just say thanks and head on my way.

B) Was it converted naturally?

If you're looking for superior vinegar, there's no proselytizing permitted; the conversion has to happen naturally, using what is known in the vinegar world as the Orleans process.

Wooden barrels are partially-but never fully-filled with wine, allowing the remaining air inside to interact with it. Two or three holes are drilled in the side of the barrel to allow additional air to move through the barrel. In the process, the acetobacters (i.e., active bacteria) in the environment naturally convert the alcohol in the wine into water and acetic acid. After a time, some of the vinegar is drained off and more wine added. The process of conversion is therefore ongoing, blending older vinegar with newer, livelier wines, one of those ever-repeating cycles that historians like me love to linger on. Good vinegar is truly timeless; because new vinegar is regularly blended, or seeded, with older stock, there isn't really the same kind of exact vintage dating we get with wine. A bottle of Balsamic formally put in wood in 1956 is "started" with much older vinegar (same idea as sourdough bread), and thus it carries the seeds of its grandparents and great-grandparents to your table; a dressing with dreams of centuries past.

Unfortunately, most modern vinegar makers have long since abandoned the Orleans process and turned instead to an industrial quick fix, known as a "generator," (or an "acetator"). A generator force feeds air through the wine, usually at a temperature of about 100°F, to convert it quickly into vinegar. Alternatively, you can run cheap wine at high speed over wood shavings; the wood acts as the medium for air and bacteria. Either way, in less than a day you've got yourself a vinegar. Compare that to the one-to-six month tour of duty that's involved with the Orleans process, and you've got a 400-plus% reduction in production time. Not surprisingly, there's a comparable cost in reduced complexity of flavor.

When you do taste a good vinegar, I'll wager you'll be surprised how much you notice. Let the flavors unfurl in your mouth, let the subtleties settle over your tongue. Wait and see how it finishes. Feel every sensation and notice every scent; the good, the great, the bad, and the ugly will quickly make themselves apparent.

But before you taste, it's best to begin by smelling; the aroma will tell you much of what you want to know. Most everything they say about wine bouquet should hold true for vinegar. It should smell good, with an aroma that's distinctly reminiscent of the fruit from which it is made. If the aroma beckons you further, follow your nose, and taste it.

Some experts recommend tasting by dipping sugar cubes into the vinegar then sucking the vinegar off; the sweetness is supposed to keep the taste buds open to sample the sourness. All I can taste like that, though, is the sugar. Personally, I prefer using a small piece of non-sour bread. Or, alternatively, I like to taste vinegar straight, by sipping off small spoons, or out of wine glasses. In the case of aged balsamics, tradition is that you taste off the back of your hand; your body heat warms the vinegar a bit, and nothing else gets in the way of the flavor.

Remember that most good vinegars are going to have a bit of an acid kick, so sip slowly. Just a drop or two is enough to get the flavor of the thing.

When you actually get it in your mouth, a well-made vinegar should taste alive, interesting, appealing. The acid should be noticeable, but it's not supposed to be dagger sharp. The flavor ought to strike an enjoyable, lively, but manageable balance between the tingle of the acid and the fruit of the wine; it should be full-bodied, with a long-lingering complexity. Amongst the better vinegars there's not really a host of hard rights and woeful wrongs. Taste and compare: you'll be surprised how much difference there is from one to the next. And, in the process, you'll pick out your personal preferences.

What's wrong with the standard stuff they sell in the supermarket?

Under the right circumstances, not a thing. But given the option, why not sample something a little more interesting? "Distilled White Vinegar" is to a well-aged bottle of wine vinegar what sliced processed American singles are to a great farmhouse cheddar: flat. When it comes right down to it, "Distilled White Vinegar," is just grain alcohol, converted to acetic acid, then watered down to a manageable level of 5% acidity. Its only aging takes place in the warehouse waiting to be shipped. Ever drink grain alcohol when you were in college? (If you haven't had the "pleasure," I'll save you the trouble. It wasn't worth it.)

Time + Good Wine = Fine Flavor

Making vinegar the old fashioned way is not a spectator sport; good vinegar is converted from wine at something slower than the speed of molasses in Michigan on a January afternoon. Days, weeks, months, years slip past-come back two years later and all you'll see are the same old wooden barrels sitting right where you left them. The change, however, will be very evident where it counts most-in your mouth. What starts out as sharp as a saw has been transformed into an elegant, smooth set of flavors that will sparkle on any nice salad.

As in the crafting of great bread, well-aged cheddar, and so many of the world's best foods, time is a critical ingredient in making the best vinegars. Industrial makers do their best to avoid any extra aging; time, as we all know, is money. I'm sorry to have to break the news, but despite the hype, commercially-made Balsamic vinegar is aged for about as long as it takes the boat to get from Italy to New York. If you're buying Balsamic, find one that spent some quality time in its aging barrels.

The more time a vinegar spends aging, the more its flavor mellows, the more it develops the complexity of flavor that's so appealing. Sherry vinegar at a year old is OK; at ten years very good; at 25, outstanding; at 75, like an incredible aged cognac. Now I'm not saying that age alone is enough to ensure quality; to the contrary, lousy vinegar set aside for a few decades will never approach greatness. But who would bother putting lousy vinegar aside to age for 20 years?

What's wood got to do with it?

Getting good wood on a vinegar is essential; whatever worldly magic wood works on the flavor of well-aged wine, it provides a similar service to vinegar. The wood makes possible long years of effective aging, mellowing, and maturing. Wood takes. It absorbs. It breathes. It gives back flavor, depth and color.

Commercially-made vinegars may get a bit of time for "wood aging" but the impact is rather minimal-the tanks used by large producers hold thousands of gallons of vinegar, compared to the fifty-gallon wood barrels used by smaller makers. The influence the wood-critical to making good vinegar-has almost no influence under those conditions.

Unfortunately, I don't have any fool-proof advice on how you can know to any degree of certainty which vinegars are, or are not, barrel-aged. Too often the labels don't tell you. Ask your vinegar purveyor. In the end, taste for yourself-time in the barrel should be noticeable in the flavor of the finished vinegar.

Real Balsamic vinegar is the ultimate in vinegar-woodworking. During its decades of aging, half a dozen different woods leave their mark on the finished vinegar. Oak, cherry, mulberry, chestnut, and ash seem to be the standards, but every Balsamic maker has their own special sequence, and each has a "secret" twist they put into the mix to make their vinegar special.

Different woods, different flavors. True Spanish sherry vinegar must be aged in California white oak. That's it. No other wood will do. On the island of Crete, vinegar makers use chestnut barrels. Taste Larry and Ruth Robinson's Chardonnay vinegar made outside of San Francisco and there's no mistaking the oak-aging barrels which helped contribute to its character.

But no, don't even think it. You can't use balsa wood barrels to make "Lite-Vinegar."