Hugh Johnson had a marvelous column in The World of Fine Wine. The man certainly knows how to turn a phrase, and the elegant way he displays his wide knowledge of wine is one more reason why he has been the King of Wine Commentators [a word he prefers] for so long. The bloggers who hope for lengthy shelf lives (not to mention money) at this gig would do well to study his books.
I want to riff on something Johnson wrote in his opening paragraph: “A sense of place. That’s what everyone says they’re looking for these days. Not balance. Not harmony. Not structure or strength or typicity or even mysterious beauty. We read phrases like ‘a wine that comes from somewhere.’ It should be music to people who write wine-atlases. But do we actually know what it means?”
Johnson mentions no specific names of critics who say they’re looking for “a sense of place.” Nor shall I, but if a certain one pops into your brain, so be it. When I read Johnson’s opening words, I thought he was going to demolish the concept of “a sense of place,” but no. He casts doubt on the ease with which some writers claim to find it–and then creates his own list of “vineyard sites that stamp their wines with recognizable character”: Scharzhofberg, Les Santenots, and even a minor white wine from the Languedoc that, Johnson writes, he preferred to Montrachet “at that minute”–nice hedge. Well, there are minutes I’d prefer a cup of coffee to Montrachet.
Johnson also devises a category aside and apart from wines of place: those from producers “who leave such a clean imprint on their wines that it’s the house you see first, then the vineyard.” Among these he includes the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. This surprised me, I must say, since the DRC’s wines always (in my reading, at least) have been accounted as among the world’s greatest expressions of terroir. So I’m not sure what that statement means, although I’m on clearer ground when he places Champagne in a kind of murky, third tier (“wine[s] of high pedigree that evoke plenty of abstract approval but not the sense that you are somewhere”…). This is, I suppose, because most Champagne is blended.
So three Johnson categories:
1. Wines of a place
2. Wines of a house
3. Wines “of abstract approval” that don’t have a sense of place, yet are of “high pedigree”
I thought it would be useful, and perhaps even interesting, for me to play with the Johnsonian categories and see if there are California wines that neatly fit into each. So I researched my reviews in Wine Enthusiast’s database. I soon realized, however, that things are not as cut and dry here in California, for me, as they are in Europe, for Hugh Johnson. For example, when I considered the wines of a place, the vineyard of David Hirsch immediately leapt into mind. It is a vineyard I can at least claim to know with some fuzzy precision, having been there a few times, and certainly having been in the Fort Ross-Seaview, several-ridges-in neighborhood of Bohan Dillon Road many times over the years. Just as with that minor white from the Languedoc Johnson delighted in (not least because, as he drank it, he could visualize “the vines sloping down to the sea” which led him to describe it as “a sort of seaside Sylvaner”), I can and do picture the Fort Ross-Seaview ridgetops everytime I drink a Hirsch (or Failla, or Flowers, or Wild Hog wine: the high-above-the fogline clarity, the piney forests, the wild herbs, the brilliant sunshine and chilly nights, the red soils that give way to sandy Gold Ridge in the best spots, the sheer, isolated remoteness and–the human element?–the attractive, somewhat eccentric vitality of the winemakers). Surely the wines from these vineyards, including Hirsch, reek of a sense of place?
Well, yes…and no. Not to this critic, anyhow. Nor would I describe them as “wines of a house” whose producer style immediately marks them as distinct. So are they from Johnson’s third category–wines “of abstract approval that don’t have a sense of place, yet are of high pedigree”? You certainly can’t describe them as such. They do have a sense of place…but it’s not as pronounced as the utterly inimitable distinctiveness Johnson finds (or claims to find) in Scharzhofberg and the others.
This is why I’ve never written that such-and-such a wine “could only come from” such-and-such a vineyard. It might have contributed further to my branding as a wine critic were I to do so. After all, nothing halos a critic with more glory than to make such sweeping pronouncements, which inform the public of the critic’s discernment and expertise.
But the fact is that I’ve always valued fact and truth more than anything else, including hyperbole, in my wine writing, and have resisted the temptation (whether from me, or from others) to make sweeping pronouncements I can’t really justify. This is especially true in the context of blind tasting, when it’s impossible to summon the visual memory of “vines sweeping down to the sea” based merely on what’s in the glass.
If I take the bottle out of the paper bag, so that I know what I’m tasting, then it’s a lot easier to find “that sense of place.” Here, then, are some wines that do seem to exhibit a “somewhereness” every time I taste them. Each is from a particular vineyard. I make no claim, nor ever will, however, that a vineyard-designated wine must be superior to a blended one: Johnson concedes as much in the case of Champagne, while I need mention only one wine–Cardinale–to make the same point.
David Arthur Elevation 1147 Estate
Anything from Hirsch Vineyard
Chardonnays from the Dutton Ranch Rued Vineyard
Goldschmidt’s Game Ranch Cabernets, from Oakville
Certain Beckstoffer To Kalon Cabernets. Janzen and World’s End, both 2009s, are good examples.
Shafer Hillside Select
Marimar Torres’s Pinot Noirs from the Don Miguel Vineyard
Zaca Mesa’s Black Bear Block Syrah
Rochioli Pinot Noirs from south (or east) of Westside Road, especially West Block and River Block
Williams Selyem Pinots from Allen Vineyard
Each of these wines conveys something of its origins, but I would not want to bet my mortgage on identifying them in a blind tasting. Each of them also conveys a “house style”, but it’s important to realize that most of them have been produced over many years, by the same winemaker, so who’s to say what part of the wine is pure terroir, and what part is the winemaker’s considered opinion when it comes to such interventions as fermentation particulars, type of oak barrel, length of barrel aging and so on? As usual, we arrive at that conundrum: a great wine sits at the median point of natural terroir and its interpretation by the winemaker.
The point, I think, is that we get so mesmerized by place-centric musings that we run the risk of delegitimizing certain wines that don’t fit into our preconceived notions of what makes wine great. That is why I was happy to see Johnson talk about that Languedoc wine (which he did not identify by producer). He might simply have dropped the names of Great Growths and Grand Crus like so many critics airily do, but part of what has made Hugh Johnson so compelling for so long is that he refuses to play that game of “I drink better than you can or do.” It no longer matters to him (if it ever did) to say he prefers a Languedoc white to Montrachet; he loses no prestige nor reclamé as a wine critic by doing so.
On New Year’s Eve I opened a bottle I’d had in my little wine storage unit for some years years: Anthill 2005 Demuth Vineyard Pinot Noir, from the Anderson Valley.
I studied the wine, in a Riedel glass, as I walked Gus, on a mild, early winter night in Oakland. It was all right–dry, tart and with some good cherry and cranberry fruit. But it was evident that there were problems, chief among which was a pruny or raisiny finish, along with accompanying heat.
The wine, in short, had not aged well.
I went to Wine Enthusiast’s database and looked up my original review, from July, 2007. I gave the wine 90 points and described it this way: “There are suggestions of wintergreen mint and tart rhubarb, but the cherries save the day, giving enough richness to make the wine interesting. Despite the high acidity and dryness, I don’t think it’s an ager, but it’s a beautifully complex, food-friendly Pinot.”
It’s always gratifying to see that I made a good call (although I can already hear some sourpusses whining that I’m promoting myself). I’ll be the first to concede that I don’t always get things right, especially in the matter of predicting ageabiity. So how do I come up with ageability estimates?
First of all, you can age any wine you want. All that means is putting the bottle someplace for as many years as you want. (Obviously, that place should have proper storage conditions: still, cool and dark, and a little moist.) Most wines, probably 99.9% of them, will not benefit at all from aging; they’re meant to drink as soon as you purchase them.
What of that other .01%? They will age–but what does this mean? We’ve all tasted older Burgundies, Bordeaux, Barolos, Champagnes and the like, and so we know what they can do. In my experience, aging California wine is considerably “iffier.” To take, as examples, the best Cabernets, in the ideal situation they lose their fresh, primary fruit, starting at about eight years, and then begin to dry out, showing “secondary” fruit character and bottle “bouquet.” As the tannins precipitate out, the wine becomes clearer, more translucent, silkier in body (which is perhaps the best thing about aging it).
But aged wine is an acquired taste. I try to keep that in mind when I review a wine. If it’s superbly balanced, rich and tannic (we’re mainly talking reds here), it’s much more likely to age well than a wine that has the slightest imperfection, because that imperfection will only grow increasingly obvious with bottle age. In the case of the Anthill 2005 Demuth, if I recall correctly, my impression that “it’s not an ager” was due to certain imperfections, mainly a touch of raisining in the finish. It does take an experienced palate to discern those slight irregularities that prohibit the wine from aging well. I’m not saying I have a great palate, but it’s an adequate one, and you do learn a few things when you’ve tasted as many wines as I have for so long.
I’d love to have the time and opportunity to taste more old California wine, to see how my predictions panned out. Since we’re on the subject of 2005 red wines, here are some from that vintage that I tasted when they were first released, and to which I gave a “Cellar Selection” designation, meaning that I recommended the wine be aged. I haven’t had any of these wines since, and, since they’re now a little more than eight years old, all should be at that exciting, interesting transition point of losing primary fruit and picking up secondary notes. If any of the proprietors wishes to afford me the pleasure of sending me a bottle, I promise to share the results here in the blog–for better or worse.
Trefethen 2005 Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon
Colgin 2005 IX Estate
Flora Springs 2005 Rennie Reserve
Goldschmidt 2005 Game Ranch Single Vineyard Selection Cabernet Sauvignon
Nickel & Nickel 2005 John C. Sullenger Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon
Far Niente 2005 Estate Cabernet Sauvignon
Kendall-Jackson 2005 Highlands Estate Napa Mountain Cabernet Sauvignon
Hanzell 2005 Chardonnay
Chardonnay? Yes, every once in a while a California Chardonnay is worth aging. Which brings up an interesting point. How do I know Hanzell Chardonnay is ageable? Because I’ve had old ones, up to 20 years in age, and they can be remarkable. Does that knowledge influence my appraisal of the wine? Absolutely. Why would it not? On the other hand, I’ve also given Cellar Selection designations to Chardonnays that I’ve never had the opportunity to taste when they’d been properly aged: Joseph Phelps 2011 Freestone Chardonnay, for example. While I’ve only had that wine as a new release, I’d bet my bottom dollar it’s good for at least eight years–and I wouldn’t mind trying it in 2023, when it will be 12 years old. And then, there’s Hartford Court 2005 Stone Côte Vineyard Chardonay. That wine is now eight years old; I sure would like to see if my Cellar Selection call was right on, or an unmitigated disaster.
Gus ate a pound of salami a couple days ago. It was an accident on my part. Someone sent it to me in a box–I thought it was a book and left it in the iivingroom, unopened. In the middle of the night, Gus’s magnificent olfactory sense discovered it. The next morning, there was nothing left, except the shredded box.
The next morning, Gus was vomiting it up. He knew he’d been a bad dog. He got that guilty look in his eyes, tucked his tail down below his hind legs, and followed me around the house wherever I went, looking morose and mopey. Dog owners know that look: “I’ve been bad, I feel terrible about it–but really, I just couldn’t help myself. Please don’t hate me.”
Now on to winemakers. Yesterday I heard from one, whom I respect a great deal, and whose wines I usually–not always–score well into the 90s. He wrote of his 2011s, “they probably won’t get high scores, they are not showy wines, but there is not a musty or lacking wine in the bunch.”
In other words, he was apologizing for his wines even before I’d tasted most of them! (He’s already sent a couple of the less expensive ’11 early releases, but not his heavy hitters.) This is what reminds me of Gus. My dog didn’t have anything to apologize for–really. I wasn’t angry at him; he was just doing his doggie thing, and after all, it was my fault for leaving the meat out where he could get to it. If I was mad at anyone, it was me.
Now, this isn’t to single this winemaker out. He’s a fine gentleman who’s earned his celebrity status in the wine industry. But I do want to use his “probably won’t get high scores” comment to make an important point. Why do people feel the need to apologize for not making the kind of high alcohol, ripe, oaky wines that tend to get the highest scores? (Believe me, he’s not the only one.) If this winemaker sticks to his guns (and he has) and lets his terroir tell him what to do, rather than to try and appeal to the palate of 2 or 3 critics, then he’s going to be a better, more honest winemaker.
The wider problem is when winemakers are so insecure and needy that they deliberately undercut their own terroir, not to mention their natural instincts. They take fruit that is not naturally geared toward high alcohol, ripeness and oak, let it hang until the last possible minute while the acidity drops lower and lower and the sugars rise as much as they physically can, ferment the hell out of the grapes to maximize every molecule of fruity essence, and then load up on the new oak (and possibly the Mega Purple too). That may fool some critics, but discerning ones will simply find the wine overworked and tedious, and say so in their review.
I think a certain steadfast attitude is necessary for a winemaker, as it is for all of us in every aspect of our lives. One should not fear letting the wine be what it wants to be, just because it might not get 97 points. If winemakers need scores to market their wines, they should know that there are many critics around who can appreciate a lighter-bodied, more elegant wine just as much as a big, heavy one. Winemaking at the highest levels should be all about what the terroir wants to express, guided perhaps by the winemaker’s hand, but gently.
If the winemaker who wrote me those comments reads this, I’d tell him not to worry, not to apologize, to stand tall and respect the values that got him into winemaking in the first place. I’m sure that, 25 years ago, he didn’t stress out over scores. He doesn’t have to today. His wines are respected in the right venues, and so is he.
I was asked to moderate a panel next month at the Unified Grape & Wine Symposium in Sacramento, and while I had to decline due to circumstances beyond my control, I was intrigued by the topic: The Proprietary Wine: Rethinking the Constructs of Blended Wine.
The person who invited me, David Akiyoshi, is winemaker at Lange Twins Winery. (I remember years ago visiting them, when I covered the wines of the Sierra Foothills.) David explained to me, in an email, what he was looking for:
“The moderator should have the ability to provide an overview of historical wine trends from the generic 70’s chablis/burgundy, the demographic shift beginning in the 80’s to wines with varietal labels and the latest trend of proprietary red/white wine blends. There has always been a market for these wines such as with the European Meritage or Rhone blends and today’s consumers are more accepting of this category. Significant for the success of these wines is that there is less need for consumers to be a connoisseur or to be handcuffed by the latest 100 pt score. Quite simply, it is all about the enjoyment of wine as a beverage without artifice or social stigma of making the ‘wrong wine choice.’”
One could obviously write a book about all this, but I’ll try to fit it into a blog-length post. We know, of course, that from the end of Prohibition up to some point in the 1970s, American wines (mainly from California) labeled “Burgundy,” “Chablis,” “Rhine,” “Sauternes” and the like dominated sales in this country. Educated people understood the wrongness of this; as early as the 1930s, folks such as Frank Schoonmaker argued for true and honest labeling: “Napa Valley Red Wine,” that sort of thing. By the time the boutique winery era was rolling, in the late 1960s-1970s, and mainly in Napa and Sonoma, this point of view had become the accepted norm. Varietal labeling was celebrated as being refreshingly honest and distinctly American, an early practice of truth-in-labeling.
In the late 1980s, a group of vintners who were producing Bordeaux-style wines in California became frustrated with varietal labeling. They were blending the major Bordeaux varieties to produce the best wines they could, but the amount of any given variety was insufficient to meet the Federal government’s requirement of at least 75% of that variety in order to so label the wine. So they held a contest to come up with an alternative name (a contest I entered, and lost). The word “Meritage” won. The concept was good, but unfortunately, that term proved not to have staying power. Although some wineries still use it, it never caught on, and seems to me to be in dimenuendo.
However, that never stopped vintners from blending to below the 75% threshold. They simply called their wine by a proprietary name, like Joe Phelps did with Insignia. At first, these blends were almost exclusively Bordeaux varieties, but by the 1990s, Rhône-style blends began appearing. Spearheaded by the “Rhône Ranger” movement and the Hospices du Rhône organization, these wines were modeled after southern Rhône blends, usually based on GSM: Grenache, Syrah and Mourvedre. They, too, could not be called by a varietal name, so the wineries gave them proprietary names, such as Tablas Creek’s Esprit de Beaucastel. (Some of these wineries also produced white wines, most often based on some combination of Roussanne, Marsanne, Viognier and Grenache Blanc.)
David Akiyoshi asks, “Are [these] blended wines merely a fad, or are they creating a new and lasting category of wines that promises to bringing new consumers to the table?” My answer, clearly, is a loud NO, they are not merely a fad, and YES, they are a lasting category, although I couldn’t say whether or not they’re “bringing new consumers to the table,” which is a complicated issue.
I’ve blogged about this and written about it in Wine Enthusiast, and in fact, one of the main reasons why I successfully argued for Paso Robles to be the magazine’s Wine Region of the Year was due to the success of the blends, red and white, made there, often of varieties previously unrelated by region or historical practice (Tempranillo, Zinfandel, Petite Sirah and Merlot, for example).
There’s no reason why a varietally-labeled wine is necessarily better than a blended one. Bordeaux itself is always a blend of varieties. One could even argue that so is red Burgundy, given Pinot Noir’s proclivity to spontaneously mutate to different clones. The Federal government’s requirement of 75% for a variety is patently arbitrary: Why not 60%, or 90%? The only reason, in my opinion, why so many vintners choose to label their wines varietally is because the consumer believes that varietally-labeled wines are superior to wines with other names.
When David says “It is all about the enjoyment of a wine as a beverage without artifice or social stigma of making the ‘wrong wine choice,’” he’s onto something. It’s the job of us educators to teach the public that varietal labeling in and of itself is meaningless. The problem, of course, is that this is an uphill battle, and will take time.
Where I digress from David’s point of view is when he says that the success of blending as a consumer category will result in “less need for consumers…to be handcuffed by the latest 100 point score.” I can understand why he (or anyone else) would object to the 100 point system, but I don’t see what varietal labeling has to do with it. I gave 100 points to La Muse 2007, which has no varietal labeling, just as I gave 100 points to the Shafer 2004 Hillside Select Cabernet Sauvignon, which obviously does.
In the end, it’s a sign of a culture’s wine maturity when the populace understands that the ultimate duty of a wine is to provide pleasure, not to adhere to some government rule. If it can best do so by the winemaker crafting the most perfect blend he or she is capable of, then why should anyone care that the wine doesn’t have a varietal name? This may sound like Jesuitical, angels-dancing-on-pinheads rhetoric, but it actually strikes the point that American consumers, still rather infantile about wine, have stereotypes and preconceptions that must pass, before we can truly become a wine-appreciating country.
You know those “Where are they now?” articles that appear this time of year? I thought it would be fun to write a version of that for wine, so I went into Wine Enthusiast’s database and did a search of the top wines I reviewed in the early 2000s, to see how many of them are still around and, if they are, are they still performing well or have they stumbled.
The biggest change between then and now is that my reviewing portfolio has changed. Back then, I did quite a few Australian wines: Penfolds, Jim Barry, St. Hallett and Benjamin among others. Nowadays I no longer review the wines of Australia. Back then I also showed some high scores for some Mendocino wines, including a fabulous 1999 Fife “Old Yokayo Ranch” Syrah (95 points). I don’t do Mendocino anymore (I miss Anderson Valley!)–that’s my lovely colleague, Virginie Boone–nor do I do Temecula, which was the source of another 95 point wine then, Stuart’s 1998 Zinfandel. Virginie reviews that part of California, too, as she does the Sierra Foothills. I particularly miss doing the wines of Domaine de la Terre Rouge, for which I always had a fondness. But California is just too big for me to do alone, and Virginie is such a fine reviewer and reporter.
I also miss reviewing Champagne [the real French bubbly], but I’m happy to leave that pleasant task to Roger Voss, who does Champagne for the magazine.
In my coastal regions of California, most of the wineries I gave high scores to back then are still getting them: Robert Young, Shafer, Stag’s Leap, Robert Mondavi, Gainey, Lail, Silverado, Beringer, Pride Mountain, Vine Cliff, Mount Eden, Clos Pegase, Frank Family, Venge, Merry Edwards, Rochioli, Testarossa, Hanzell, PlumpJack, Sequoia Grove, Freemark Abbey, Dutton Goldfield, Deerfield Ranch, Novy, Corison, Hendry, Peju, Clos du Val, Ridge, De Loach and Acacia. All these wines, among others, scored 93 points or more; their names have become the Classified Growths of California, and isn’t that good.
Notable on my list of high-scoring wines from the early 2000s are a few wineries I’ve lost track of, for one reason or another. I gave a very high score, 96 points, to the Carlisle 2000 “Two Acres,” which if I recall correctly I tasted at the old Hospice du Rhône, poured for me by none other than Mike Officer himself; that wine blew my mind. I also wrote about Mike at some length in my book, A Wine Journey along the Russian River.
But for some reason, Mike stopped reaching out to me years ago, and I regret it. I also used to give good scores to IO, which made Rhône-style wines from Santa Barbara County. The brand was part of the Robert Mondavi portfolio, but I haven’t seen any bottles of it for a long time, and I’m unsure of its status.
It’s awfully hard keeping track of all the wineries in California, especially over a multi-year period. One can only do so much. Beyond what I can accomplish myself in keeping open the lines of communication, I depend on the wineries to keep me in the loop. There are reasons why they don’t. Some wineries are addicted to only 1 or 2 publications, which is their right, of course; they may feel that as long as those magazines are giving them high scores, why throw the dice and risk a low score from someone else. This is however a dangerous gamble: That publication may destroy you if the critic bends that way. In other cases, changes in employees result in sample mailings falling into the cracks, as databases are not kept up. In general, I don’t like asking wineries to send me wine, because it seems importunate, which is not my style, nor do I need the bottles as I’m already maxed out most of the time. But that’s my job, reviewing coastal California, so I sometimes have to to remind people that I haven’t heard from them in a while. In 100% of the cases, they understand, and apologize. I, too, apologize, if I have to ask you to send me stuff.
“I know never to take a wine for granted. Drawing a cork is like attendance at a concert or at a play that one knows well, when there is all the uncertainty of no two performances ever being quite the same. That is why the French say, There are no good wines, only good bottles.”
This quote, from Gerald Asher, is pretty alarming, if you think about it: it means that you can take a bottle of whatever you think is the greatest wine in the world–I don’t care what it is, Romanée-Conti or Petrus or whatever–and be completely underwhelmed by it. How could this be?
The explanation is that wine is among the most psychologically complicated of all the world’s consumer products. By which I mean, subjectivity enters into your perception of it more than with anything else, with the possible exception of modern art. (The most subjective perception of things is, of course, a parent’s view of her child, but then, children are not consumer products.)
I’ve always been fascinated by the psychology of the enjoyment of high-end wine. I’ve tasted enough of the world’s most famous ones to assure you that there’s not that much of a difference between a fabulous, high-scoring wine and one that’s “merely” very good. The producers of fabulously expensive wines–in Napa Valley, Bordeaux or wherever–don’t want you to know this. They go to great lengths to prevent you from knowing it, and they go to equally great lengths to persuade the wealthy people who buy their wines that there really are quantum qualitative differences that justify their prices. And in this dual quest, they are aided and abetted by certain critics, in what we might call the producer-critic complex, in which both sides stand to gain by the perpetuation of the existing system. (I adapted this term from Pres. Eisenhower’s “military-industrial complex” remark in his Farewell Address.)
But really, most of the heavy lifting in this persuading is done by the buyers themselves. When they put so much money on the line, they have a psychological investment in finding the wine incredible. And, most of the time, they do. Notice I didn’t say the wine is incredible; I said they find it incredible. Big difference. In fact, what the wine is, is impossible to discern or define. The “thing in itself,” as Kant observed, is unknowable, because, even if it has a real nature, that nature is obscured in a welter of human expectations, thoughts, emotions, motives and conflicts.
This is precisely why alleged crooks like Rudi Kurniawan are able–for a time, at least, until they get caught–to get away with their counterfeit bottles. Even though the stuff being passed off as Romanée-Conti and de Vogüé obviously wasn’t, the suckers who bought it thought it was, because after all, (a) the labels said so and (b) they paid so much money for the bottles that their pride could not admit they’d been bamboozled. The kind of men (high-end “collectors” usually are male) who buy these rarified wines tend to have out-sized egos; they don’t suffer fools gladly, but neither do they suffer many intrusions into their inflated view of their own discernment. So Rudi was able to prey on them with their willing cooperation.
Thus we return to Gerald Asher’s wise dictum to “never take a wine for granted.” Each bottle in and of itself is a complete, indivisible reality. But, like all fragments of reality that we experience, it is nearly impossible to separate out what we, the perceiver, bring to the phenomenon, as opposed to what it is “in and of itself.” When I explain to wine novices how best to appreciate wine, the first thing I do is dissuade them from the stereotypes they’ve heard all their lives concerning “great wines.” There are no great wines, only great bottles. So lesson no. 1: Never take a wine for granted. Not a $700 one and not even a $7 one.
Am I part of the producer-critic complex? I have been. In this job, you can’t help but be part of something larger than yourself, unless you go entirely off the grid–in which case, my friends at UPS and FedEx couldn’t find me to deliver those samples. So, yes, I’m culpable. But I recognize it–I see the perniciousness that can result when critics who have given ultra-high scores to certain wines year in and year out feel that their reputations are on the line unless they continue doing so. What makes me different, I think, is that I give high scores to wines that aren’t on the A-list of cultdom, and so-so scores to wines that are. And the reason I do so is because in every case, they deserve them. Like Gerald Asher said, never take a wine for granted.