The first time I ordered a bottle of wine in a restaurant I was petrified.  I had to check the label.  Then I had to approve the bottle, check the color, swirl the wine, and sip it before finally furrowing my brow in a portrait of concentration and informing the server in a casually elegant tone, “This will do”.  One slip up and I would be given away as a fraud, a common proletariat trying to pass

himself off as a member of the aristocracy.     My heart raced as I went through the motions.  I gazed at the label.  I scrutinized the color. I swirled, sipped, and tasted nothing particularly disconcerting, so I gave the server the go-ahead.  Soon enough, my rite of passage was complete.  I fell into rank with the casual wine enthusiast, your average restaurant goer, indulging in a two hundred percent marked up bottle of Stag’s Leap.

       But the whole thing got me thinking.  Was this elaborate song and dance really worth the perceived sophistication that went along with it?  Was this embarrassing tango between server, bottle and glass, anything more than an extravagant, yet demeaning exercise in self-indulgence?  Did I even like wine?  Just as swiftly as the questions posed themselves, a universally applicable answer emerged…

      No!

      The wine industry is an elaborate fraud, a well-executed hoax masquerading behind an impenetrable shield of sophistication.  No one can tell the difference between grape varieties, bottling techniques or glass based taste variations.  The possession of these skills is a myth, and any false claim to their ownership is nothing short of blunt pretension.  Wine tastes like wine.  Whether it comes from a bottle, a bulbous Bordeaux glass, or a cardboard box, it’s all the same.  Sure, there are minute differences - one variety might be a little bolder (a Rhone Valley wine), another a little fruitier (a West Hollywood wine)

- but the base flavor remains the same; it’s a constant truth, like the Pythagorean Theorem, or the futility of the knowledge of the Pythagorean Theorem.

      The differences in wine varieties amount to nothing more than garnish.  They are a dusting of sprinkles tossed upon the exterior of a cake, the sprig of parsley perched atop the congealed upper layer of a bowl of lobster bisque.  They are aesthetic, and atmospheric, but ultimately void of substance.  Yet these irrelevant qualifiers allow wine producers and restaurant owners alike to charge absurd premiums that must be acknowledged as immoral, unethical, or at the very least, obnoxiously Capitalistic.  Have you ever tasted a thousand dollar bottle of wine?  Well, I have, and yes, it’s good, but it sure as hell isn’t nine hundred and eighty dollars better than a box of Franzia!

      The truth is, anyone that loves* wine is (or at the very least was), extremely pretentious.  No doubt the palate can be developed, the ability to pick up on the subtleties learned.  But, at least initially, all wine tastes the same.  Its enjoyment is a skill that must be cultivated.  It demands effort, and the kind of habitual employment that isn’t born of an acute interest in the taste of fermented grape juice, but rather a burning desire to be the only one at the party that can effectively distinguish between a grand and premier cru.

      So, if wine’s your thing, fine (we all have our follies).  But if you’re of the opinion that a glass of wine is a glass of wine, then the next time your server hands you the restaurant literature, proudly give back the leather bound manuscript, and inform him, “No wine for me tonight, thanks… But you might interest me in a Coors Light.”

 

*This qualification is defined by a far more substantive interest in wine than the casual drinker’s.  The casual wine drinker enjoys a glass of wine, but neglects to make it his/her life goal to purchase several hardbound wine-based coffee table books, a subscription to “Wine Enthusiast”, and the Director’s Cut of “Sideways”.

 

Yours truly,

Gary

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