The 2010 vintage was one of the most peculiar I ever saw. (2011 was too.) It was, in short, cold. Californians aren’t used to chilly summers, and neither are grapes. The resulting wines were problematic.

That the harvest was problematic is testified by numerous statements from winemakers. Hidden Ridge, a fine winery that straddles the Mayacamas on the Napa-Sonoma border, declassified the entire vintage. A Napa vintner, who did not want to be identified, called the valley’s Cabernets “weak,” the problems being “high pH, low acid and a lack of concentration,” which is not a formula for success. I had a discussion, on Nov. 5 of that year, with the winemaker and assistant winemaker at Merryvale that boiled down to this question: how disastrous was 2010? Their conclusion was that, just because the Cabernets are “minty” and “herbal” doesn’t necessarily mean the wines are not of high quality.

That’s an interesting assertion. It harkens back to the notion that a vin de terroir will display its nobility even in a poor vintage. I suppose that’s true; and for sure, a wine like Lafite generally will perform better than its neighbors in a poor vintage, all other things being equal. Still, faced with the choice of drinking a mediocre noble wine and a rich common wine, I’d probably choose the latter.

Back to 2010: In my Vintage Diary I quoted the Santa Rosa Press Democrat newspaper, in late October, with this nightmare statement: “2010 was the worst grape harvest in recent memory, with financial losses possibly setting new records in the county…Many growers are still assessing their financial losses from crop damage that began with a mid-season mold outbreak and worsened with an August heat wave that scorched grapes and ruined entire fields…Last weekend’s rain added to an already miserable season. It spawned mold…Damaged fruit was left hanging on the vine.”

This awful scenario was repeated up and down the coast. Pinot Noir in particular suffered from mold. Now, when I do reviews, I’m not supposed to use the word “mold,” because I don’t have the ability to send wines to a laboratory and have them properly tested. But I can tell you that dozens and dozens of 2010 Pinots smell moldy to me. Keep in mind, I could quote certain Pinot Noir winemakers, some of them very famous, who told me, in the Fall of 2010, how fine their Pinot grapes were; but you’d rightfully mistrust those statements as being biased, because they are. The proof is in the smell.

Having said that, the best Pinot Noir houses produced some mighty good wines. This had to have been the result of careful selection, thereby diminishing case quantities from what was already a short harvest. Some of my personal favorite 2010 Pinot Noirs include Rochioli West Block, Foxen Block UU Bien Nacido, Siduri Hirsch (that must have given Adam Lee some anxious moments), most of Lynmar’s Pinots, and an interesting Sandhi Sanford & Benedict.

And Cabernet? Not looking good. I was shocked, just now, to go over every 2010 Cab I’ve tasted so far and discover that I’ve given only one of them 90 points. Everything else was in the 80s. I don’t think that would have been true of any previous Cabernet vintage, at this point, 17 months after the harvest. Of course, most of the top tier Cabernets haven’t been released yet, so there’s hope, but I think we’ll look back at 2010 and conclude it wasn’t a good year for Cabernet, either.

That doesn’t mean the top houses won’t produce splendid Cabs. I would think the best will come from the warmer regions. East Oakville, for example, could reward; ditto for Pritchard Hill, Calistoga, and St. Helena. Yountville might be compromised, and the mountains, including Spring, Diamond and Veeder. I’ll try to resurrect this post in two years and see if my prognostications bear any resemblance to reality.

I’m always faintly amused, but bothered, when someone representing a winery thanks me for being a “supporter.” It happens with some frequency. I’ll give a wine a good review, or mention it favorably in an article, and next thing you know I’m getting a signed “thank you” card in the mail, or an email, or a phone call, telling me how much they appreciate my support, often “over the years.”

I say this amuses me, because it suggests a fundamental misunderstanding of the role of the wine critic. We’re not here to “support” anyone, we’re here to say what we think of any given wine. But I also say this thankfulness bothers me, because I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I was consciously “supporting” any particular winery. That could lead to serious misreadings of situations. For instance, what if I give high scores to a winery that advertises in Wine Enthusiast? I don’t ever consider whether or not a winery advertises when I conduct my reviews (which are single blind in any case), but I am aware that the wine industry sees my reviews and may arrive at different conclusions–especially if a representative of that winery (owner, winemaker, P.R. person) is going around saying what a great supporter Steve is of their winery.

I can understand the instinct to thank someone for a good deed. It’s part of etiquette and politeness, so I don’t want to tell people to never thank me. When others have written something nice about me, I’ll often thank them. But the difference between someone writing something nice about me, and me reviewing a wine, is stark. In the former case, the person went out of his way to single me out for praise. He didn’t have to, but he took the time to give me a compliment. That’s deserving of thanks.

In the latter case, I’m not singling anyone out for praise nor am I going out of my way. I’m just reviewing their wine because they sent it to me. If it happens to score 95 points, it’s not because I have any warm, personal feelings toward that winery or winemaker (although I might). It’s because the wine is excellent. It speaks for itself; I, as the critic, am simply there to recognize its excellence. Therefore, when somebody calls me up to thank me, I have a standard response: Don’t thank me, thank your winemaker, or your viticulturalist; preferably both. Thank yourself! You’re the ones who did something worthy of thanks. I’m just the messenger.

There is a subtle but profound difference between a genuine supporter and a messenger who happens to give the wine a glowing review. A genuine supporter can be a consumer with nothing to gain by praising the wine–he or she simply loves it and wants to let their friends know. That is the purest form of support: grass roots word-of-mouth.

Then there are paid genuine supporters. This may be a P.R. or marketing person. She’s a “genuine” supporter in that she really does want the winery to do well, but there are agendas here that are not as transparent as they ought to be. This type of supporter is known as an “internal source.” [See these graphics for more explanation of brand advocacy and sourcing.

We wine writers have to be extremely wary about firewalls. In one of the graphics in the article I just cited, they talk about “external sources,” people not employed by the winery, but “Domaine experts with authority, reputation and social rank.” The best external source for brand promotion is the wine critic. This is the old “argument from authority,” and there’s nothing new about it; humankind always has turned to recognized experts in any field (knowledge of God, of healing plants, of books and, yes, of wine). Just because the technology nowadays of computers, the Internet and social media has changed doesn’t mean that the basic form and content of the argument from authority is any different from what it’s ever been.

The wariness we critics have to maintain stems from statements like this one: “With 90 percent of purchases subject to social influence, it’s no surprise that savvy marketers are looking to leverage social influencers to increase sales and awareness.” It’s fine if a savvy marketer (I am starting to hate that word “savvy”) wants to “leverage” a Heimoff review in any way she truthfully can to boost the brand’s reputation and sales. That’s her job. Mine is to protect my reputation for integrity by thwarting any and all efforts to make it look like I personally am endorsing any brand. I’m not.

Like you, I honored my mother yesterday. Gertrude died 6-1/2 years ago, at the age of 90, after a brief bout with cancer. I was with her when she passed, in the hospital. It was just the two of us, at 6:03 a.m. Something very mystical and inexplicable happened to me at the instant of her death, that I will always remember, but which I will not write about here.

Gertrude came to enjoy wine as she aged, especially after she moved to California. Her son–me–was, of course, making his living as a wine writer, so there was never any shortage of wine. She preferred Chardonnay, preferably a little sweet and oaky. That was something; I don’t think she’d ever tasted a decent wine in her life before she was 75. What wine she’d had was the occasional icky-sweet sip of Manischevitz, usually for a Jewish holiday. In that she was no different from my other family members of that generation. They didn’t know about wine, didn’t care about it, probably thought it was exotic and snobby; goyisch. The only reason they schlepped out the Manischevitz was because taking a little wine is part of the Jewish tradition, especially Passover.

Mom did like her Bloody Marys, though, although she was never a big drinker when I was growing up. Too much to get done, what with raising the kids, keeping the household running and, by the way, returning to school, in her 40s, to get her teaching credential and becoming the only mom I knew, of the vast hoards of Baby Boomer kids running around the Bronx, who worked for a living. (I know, being a mom is work. In that case, Gertrude had two jobs.) I was proud of her for that.

But like I said, after she moved to California, around 1994, she started drinking more. She had come from a dry culture to a wet one, and responded accordingly. When in Rome… I never saw her drunk, but I would watch her take a third glass of wine at a family gathering, growing more animated, her eyes sparkling a little more than usual, and it made me happy. In many respects, Gertrude’s wine journey paralleled that of America’s. As wine became more and more an accepted part of the culture in the 1990s, it became a more accepted part of Gertrude’s life, too. I remember the first time she asked me to bring “a couple of extra bottles” for her the next time I visited, so she could have something cold in the fridge for when she had “the girls” over to her apartment, which was in a nice retirement community.

Mom in 2004. See her little Kerry-Edwards button.

My father, Jack, who died 30 years ago, had been a purchasing agent for a major defense plant, on Long Island. Every Christmas, he would come home laden with bottles of scotch, gin, vodka, peppermint schnapps and cognac, gifts from clients who wished to let him know how grateful they were for him buying their company’s wares. He never brought home wine. But Jack wasn’t a big drinker, either, so he’d throw all those bottles of liquor in the closet. When I was 17, and about to leave home for the first time to go to college, I determined to see what getting drunk was all about, since, I figured, that’s what college students do, so I might as well get in some target practice. I purloined a bottle of Jack’s booze–what it was I have long since forgotten; could it have have been rye?–and, with my friend Charlie, my bad boy pal from down the block, I got blind-eyed drunk. I remember stumbling home, around midnight, with my parents already in bed. I was crashing into things, knocking stuff over, making a lot of noise. But my parents didn’t wake up.

During my freshman year in college, I drank way too much. I was away from home for the first time, free, liberated, ready to be the wild party boy I’d never been before. My crowd drank a lot of cheap stuff: Thunderbird, Ripple, Bali Hai. On some days we were drinking by 10 a.m. This period did not last long, however, because I realized, in some vestigial way, that I was drinking too much–that I probably had a propensity for addiction–that I’d better cut it down. I did. Ever since, I’ve understood that I have to control my alcohol intake. I never drink during the day, not even a glass of wine with lunch. Lord knows I make up for it at night, but I don’t think I drink too much. It’s very important for people in this industry to control themselves.

Looking back over all my relatives, on both sides of the family, I don’t think anyone ever had a drinking problem. My mother’s brothers, who were from Oklahoma and Texas, were southern gentlemen who loved their “bourbon and branch water,” but I never saw them get drunk, either. I myself drink hardly any hard liquor. I do love a dry vodka martini; the taste of gin does not agree with me. I’ll have beer on a very hot day, which doesn’t occur much in the Bay Area.

So how did I honor my mother yesterday? With Champagne, of course; but that was only the outward form. I honored her with memory.

My favorite under-30 mover and shaker in the American wine world, Alan Kropf (who’s 29, so he’d better get busy preparing to be one of the most important 30-40 year olds) is the publisher of Mutineer Magazine. He also has this traveling roadshow he calls the Millennial Wine Marketing Circus, a sort of pop-up that features speakers on various aspects of all things marketing.

Alan’s a smart, ambitious guy who’s achieving a solid foothold in wine media. I don’t know exactly where he’ll end up, and probably neither does he, because the future of the field he’s chosen to play in–which lies at the nexus of publishing, social media, event management, public speaking and consulting–is so obscure. There’s a lot of jockeying on the part of a lot of people to succeed in this nexus, and the way I see it, Alan has as much of a chance as anyone, and maybe better.

Anyhow, according to the article, at the Circus, “speakers will discuss notions such as authenticity, affordability, rejecting elitism and ‘inspiring’ consumers.” Alan didn’t invite me to be a speaker, but if I were, here’s what I’d say on each of these topics.

authenticity What is “authenticity”? It’s awfully hard to define, but I think most people recognize it when they see it. I think authenticity is based on the person’s personality. A strong personality that registers as authentic is perceived as honest, knowledgeable, incorruptible and opinionated. It also is free of contradictions. As we see all around us, people whose positions change with the weather are widely viewed as inauthentic. For an expert in wine, authenticity is very important, because it is the basis of credibility.

affordability Of course the world is searching for affordable quality wines. It’s impossible to argue with such an assertion. But stressing “affordability” can lead down a slippery slope, as I’ll explain in the next part.

rejecting elitism Let’s jump right into this. While I am first to admit there’s plenty of snobbery in the wine world at the top, I firmly reject the notion of “elitism.” What do people really mean when they criticise “elitism”? Usually, they’re people who are younger, less exposed to the great wines of the world, who can’t afford expensive wine, and often have an ambition to succeed in their field. In order to accomplish the latter, they have to knock off those ahead of them who already have succeeded–and an increasingly common way of doing that is to accuse them of being “elitists.” Needless to say, if these people eventually succeed, they themselves will someday be accused of being elitist.

Now, if what Alan means by “rejecting elitism” is simply that you don’t have to spend a lot of money to find good wine, I’m onboard with him! That’s obviously true. I recommend Best Buys all the time. But the “slippery slope” I referred to is that this anti-elitist attitude can lead to a dumbing down of wine understanding and knowledge. I don’t think that’s a good thing.

‘inspiring‘ consumers Let’s break this down. On the surface it sounds a little silly. Religious and political leaders inspire us. Sometimes a work of art can inspire us.  Can wine inspire us? Not really. So what does Alan mean? If I can crawl inside his head, I’d say he’s talking about average Joes and Janes who have an interest in wine, but are intimidated by what they perceive as its complexity. From their point of view, there’s so much rigamarole around wine that they shy away from it, even though they really want to get into it.

Enter Alan. He’s very good at public speaking. He’s a good-looking guy who pays attention to what he wears. He’s hip-cool. He’s like the old-fashioned circuit preacher who travels from prairie town to prairie town, exhorting the masses to Come to Jesus. In this he has his finger on a certain pulse of the masses. I think he means to inspire people to not be afraid of wine–to start by taking baby steps, which is where we all start all of our journeys. He tells them, “If I could do this, you can too,” which is the message all charismatic preachers deliver. So, if this is what Alan means by inspiring consumers, then he’s the perfect person to do it.

That’s what I’d say, anyway.

At dinner the other night a senior executive for a major wine company told me that labels are becoming one of the most important reasons why people make a spontaneous purchase of wine.

I’d always known that labels are important, but this executive stressed their importance even beyond what I’d thought. It’s difficult for me to put myself in the shoes of an uneducated shopper as she browses the wine aisle looking for something special to drink with the pesto pasta and fresh garden peas she’s making tonight. I would already have an idea in my head of what type of wine to drink with it–maybe a sprightly white wine, with good acidity and some sweetness; Gewurztraminer? From there, it would be a matter of selecting a trusted producer, at the right price. I might also be influenced by geographic origin. Alsace? Sure.

But our shopper doesn’t know anything about any of that. Instead, she has to rely on one of our oldest, most primitive forms of human sensibility: vision. What we see is immediate and powerful: it can do only one of three things: repel us, attract us, or leave us indifferent. Label designers know this, and design accordingly.

But this isn’t a posting about labels, it’s about buying wine based on “more visceral responses [of which] aesthetics is key.” Those are the words of a gentleman named Phil Hurst, who is board chairman of a newish company, H.D.D., which is described in this press release as “one of California’s newest and fastest growing wine companies,” with brands including Healdsburg Ranches, Stonegate, VML and Bradford Mountain. (I’ve reviewed all these wines in recent years. The results have been mixed.) What interests me about H.D.D. is their practice of what one of their angel investors, a San Franciscan named Daniel A. Carroll, calls “a truly disruptive wine business model.” Come again? “A Disruptive Business Model focuses on improving products and services in ways that the industry does not expect while designing for an evolving set of consumers in a new market environment,” explains the press release.

That’s a mouthful that I didn’t quite get, so I asked my friend, Mr. Google, about it. Here’s one definition: “The word ‘disruptive’ is bandied about when referring to surprising new entrants into an industry, new players with new technology, and sudden competition coming from unlikely sources.” Here’s another: “A disruptive innovation is an innovation that helps create a new market and value network, and eventually goes on to disrupt an existing market and value network (over a few years or decades), displacing an earlier technology.” And a third: “Disruptive business models focus on creating, disintermediating, refining, reengineering or optimizing a product/service, role/function/practice, category, market, sector, or industry. The most successful companies incorporate disruptive thinking into all of their business and management practices to gain distinctive competitive value propositions.”

Okay, I’m beginning to get it. The opposite of a disruptive business is a me-too business, one that uses stale, non-performing old models instead of revolutionary innovations.

Back to H.D.D. What are their disruptive models? One is direct to consumer. The other is that “visceral response” thing. “Decisions are made at point of purchase based on mood or occasion,” the press release says. That’s our pasta-cooking shopper. Perhaps she’ll buy H.D.D.’s Dearly Beloved Forever Red wine because the label’s so cool (especially if she’s a Deadhead).

Well, all right, this all sounds good, until you begin to think about it. What is really new about “a purchase based on mood or occasion”? Gallo understood that 60 years ago. Retailers have been trying to influence the shopper’s mood forever. So I’m not seeing what’s so disruptive about H.D.D., and it was even more surprising to see no mention at all of social media in the press release. I did an (admittedly quick) Google search to see if I could find any mention of H.D.D.’s online practices, and I couldn’t. I would think that a disruptive business hoping to upset apple carts would have social media as part of its practices. However, H.D.D.’s founding partners include Bill Hambrecht (he’s the H.) and Paul Dolan (he’s one of the D.s). Smart guys, industry vets. I’d put my money of them, if I had any.

I was sent a bottle to review. It was the Keller Estate 2009 Precioso Pinot Noir, with a Sonoma Coast appellation. As you can see from the picture, the neck is enclosed in black wax, with a bulbous top that hides the rim. As soon as I saw it,

my spirits drooped. Uh oh, one of those. I hate these wax tops, but still, it’s my duty to open them. Sometimes, it’s not hard at all. The screw goes right through the wax into the cork, and even though there’s no place to properly rest the claw when you extract, it’s usually doable, although I do use extra caution because I don’t want the claw to slip and gouge my palm.

However, sometimes that wax seal is so hard that I just give up. That’s what happened with the Keller. I tried cutting the wax with the blade on my somm’s opener; it was like trying to cut concrete. I thought about using the blunt end of my chef’s knife, to crack the wax until I could break it and chip the whole thing off; but then I thought about the hundreds of tiny little pieces of plastic-like wax that would litter my countertop and the floor. Been there, done that. A flash of resentment arose; the Keller people are just trying to justify the price by putting the wine into an extra-heavy bottle and then enbalming it in that ridiculous tomb of wax. So I gave up.

Went to Facebook, put the picture up, and wrote: “I tried to get the hard plastic capsule off this wine and couldn’t do it without risking driving the corkscrew into my palm! So sorry, I won’t be reviewing this wine.” Didn’t mention the brand; didn’t want anyone to think I was picking on Keller (although, yes, it’s obvious from the picture).

You never know when you put something on Facebook if you’ll get any replies or how many. In this case, as of this writing, 63 comments. Well, about 10 were replies from me, so let’s call it more than 50. That’s a lot of comments for a Facebook post.

One of the comments was from Keller’s proprietor, Ana Keller. A nice lady. She wrote her reply exactly 30 minutes after I posted. In other words, it took a mere half hour for my post to find Ana! It reminded me of Rick’s line, in Casablanca: Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. That is the power of social media! I don’t know how Ana found out, who told her, etc. But it blows my mind that information passes so quickly around the world.

It seems to me, reading the comments, that other people are bothered by this trend to put wine into impressive packaging as a statement. I’m not picking on Keller; lots of wineries do it. I try to put myself into their shoes. Their thinking must be, “We worked really hard on making the best wine we could, and it deserves to be perceived as special.”

I can understand that. But there’s also a form of hubris behind it. What matters is what’s in the bottle, not what it looks like. In fact, if anything, when I see a big, heavy bottle and a fat, heavy blob of wax on it, my suspicions are aroused. Liptick on a pig? In most cases, I will admit, the wine inside a heavy bottle and a waxed seal is usually pretty good, but that’s not the point. The point is, We’re trying to make wine more accessible for people. Less intimidating, not more; friendlier, not less. By “friendly,” I don’t mean a simple, modest little wine, without presumption. I mean the physical act of opening it. Lots of people are actually intimidated by a corkscrew (which is why the screwtop has been so welcome). I sometimes wonder if the people who dream up these impossible seals have actually tried to open the bottle. If they’d put themselves in the customer’s shoes for a moment, instead of trying to make a statement, they’d realize that their creative bottling concepts can be self-defeating.

Maybe I’ll try again to open the Keller Pinot. I’ll use some of the suggestions in the comments: heating the seal. Heating a knife. That seems pretty silly to me–should a consumer really have to go through all that hassle?–but I have given the Precioso Pinot really high scores in the past (96 for the ‘05, 95 for the ‘07), so I might be missing out on something special. But I’m telling you, if I slice my hand open, Ana Keller is gonna hear from my attorney! (Just kidding.)

A few years ago, following the Murphy-Goode “A Really Goode Job” contest that the inimitable Hardy Wallace won, the Big News throughout wine country was wineries hiring Social Media Directors.

The idea, near as I could tell, was to bring someone onboard who was young, social media savvy, creative and hard-working, who would give the winery a strong presence on platforms like Facebook and Twitter as well as the winery’s own website. From there, the theory went, sales would soar as engagement with consumers took off.

Well, as far as theories go, it was all right–a good and necessary first step–but in retrospect I think we can all agree that the reach exceeded the grasp. Perhaps that’s why we began hearing less and less about Social Media Directors, as that function was transitioned either upward, as a rather small part of the Technology Officer’s or Human Relations manager’s duties, or downward, to a mere intern’s (or maybe a son’s or daughter’s) responsibilities.

The turnabout was to be expected. Social media arose so quickly in the U.S. that, not only did few see it coming, but even when it got here few knew how to use it. As usual, the adults thought it was just something for the kids. And the kids, well, they just liked it and didn’t over-analyze it or try to figure out how they could make money off it. (Okay, Mark Zuckerberg did, but you know what I mean.) It was like the Internet itself: when it came of age, in the 1990s, nobody knew what to make of it. Everybody said it was revolutionary and would change the world–but exactly how that was supposed to happen, no one knew. If you go back to the early and mid-1990s, you’ll remember the search for “the killer app.” It turned out to be search engine (well, actually, it was porn, but we’re not supposed to talk about that). And then after search it was social media. One-eighth of the population of the world has a Facebook account!

I suppose there could be even more “killer apps” in the future as the technology improves (keep in mind Moore’s Law), but it’s hard to wrap my mind around that, since we haven’t fully absorbed the lessons of the social media we already have. The focus so far has been on what used to be called B2C: the business-to-consumer use of social media. Given the temporary (let us hope) hiatus that so many wineries are experiencing in this area, some companies are starting to think of social media in terms of B2B (business-to-business). For example, Brian Margolies, the CIO of Allied Beverage Group, New Jersey’s largest distributor of wine and spirits, wrote last week that his company has spent the past year researching how to use social media to facilitate relationships with its clients (“liquor stores, bars, and restaurants”). As hard as they’ve worked it, Margolies writes, “[W]e’ve seen little discernible effect on sales, demand, brand awareness, usable business intelligence, or even facilitation of community.” He’s savvy enough to realize that this doesn’t necessarily mean social media is useless for B2B purposes. Maybe it was something Allied did wrong, or didn’t do right. “Have we missed something in our approach or not given the program sufficient time to evolve? Have we overlooked something obvious, or is our target community already too defined?” Good questions, and a good posture of self-examination.

That’s where the wine industry is at: the bloom is off the social media rose, but it’s impossible to shake off the feeling that it really, truly could be something incredible, if only…what? We still don’t know, which is why Margolies’s questions are so vital.