They expect Burgundy, Bordeaux or Napa Valley.
If they’re feeling adventurous, they’ll throw in the Mosel, like we are playing some sort of vinous episode of Magnus Magnusson’s Mastermind.

Truth is…I rarely answer straight away.
You see, the answer depends entirely on what I’m looking for.

Today, though, I’m looking for Muscadet and the wonderfully understated Pornic, in the Loire Atlantique.

Pornic isn’t interested in any of the glitzy nonsense.

It has a working harbor with fishing boats.
Oyster beds stretching out the woozah into Bourgneuf Bay.

A medieval château watches over everything like an old East End geezer.

Seafood restaurants have chalkboard menus with today’s specials.
Which is precisely why I keep coming back.

I’ve always thought places that know they’re good rarely feel the need to tell you that.

Wine regions are much the same.

Gulls drifted overhead with the confidence of seasoned pickpockets.
The air smelt of salt, butter and shellfish. That, to me, is western Loire.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Muscadet and I was meeting a couple of local producers that evening. Lovely blokes.

“It’s funny,” I said. “Say off-dry and everyone starts imagining a bloody trifle.”
That got a laugh.

One of the producers shrugged.
“We spend half our lives explaining that dry isn’t the opposite of interesting.”

Exactly.

We found ourselves talking about Muscadet.
“I reckon most people made their minds up after drinking one cheap bottle twenty years ago.”

They nodded. “It happens.”

I took another sip. “Funny thing is...”
I was just about to say something very amusing and intellectual.
Then I stopped.

There it was.

That voice.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t theatrical.

Just...immediately familiar.

Couldn’t quite put my finger on it though.

“...Good evening, ladies and gentlemen...”
I turned slowly towards the restaurant.
“...Listen. May I recommend tonight’s Muscadet...”
A pause.
“...Beautiful with oysters...”
Another pause.
“...Bone.”
“...Dry.”

I frowned. No. Surely not.

The winemakers carried on talking but I couldn’t listen anymore.
“...hold your horses...”

I looked through the restaurant window.
A sommelier stood beside a table, bottle in hand, talking to guests.

Dark-framed spectacles.
Thick black hair.
Dark suit.
The unmistakable profile of Michael Caine.
Not Alfred from Batman. Not the elder statesman from Inception.
Young Michael Caine.
Ipcress File Caine.

One of the producers noticed I’d disappeared into my own thoughts.
“You alright?”

I pointed silently through the glass.
“Um, yeah…well, no. I mean yeah...that’s Michael Caine!”

I left them standing on the harbor while I watched from the doorway.

The sommelier finished presenting a bottle. He poured a tasting measure. Waited. Received a nod. Then served everyone else without spilling so much as a drop. Before moving away, he wiped the neck of the bottle. Twice.
Folded the service cloth. Stepped back. Nothing theatrical. Nothing wasted.

Wallop. One-Two. Classic wine service.

Funny thing was, the longer I watched him, the less I noticed Michael Caine.

What I noticed instead was an exceptionally good sommelier.

He moved through the room with remarkable economy.

One elderly lady quietly exchanged places with her husband.
Before she’d even settled into the chair, he’d swapped the wine glasses around without anybody asking.

A waiter dropped a fork.
He had another in his hand before the first had finished bouncing.

He somehow managed to give each table exactly what it needed without ever appearing hurried.

The resemblance to Michael Caine was rapidly becoming the least interesting thing about him.

A waiter wandered over. “Table for one?”
I nodded towards the dining room. “I’m waiting for Michael Caine.”
The waiter smiled politely. “Doug will be with you shortly.”

Doug?

When every table was happy, Doug walked over carrying two glasses.
He placed them gently on the table.

“Good evening Mr. Botcher...”
The voice. Exactly the same.

“I’m sorry mate...have we met?”

He smiled politely. “I know your work.”

For one glorious second, I wondered whether he’d read Indelible Wine Stain.
Perhaps we’d met at a tasting or he’d seen a seminar.

Doug continued. “You were excellent...in The Transporter.”

I stared at him. “I’m sorry?”

We both laughed.

Then said something that would quietly shape the rest of the evening.

“Before we begin...”

A pause.

“...I’d like you to forget everything you think you know about Muscadet.”

Doug disappeared into the cellar and returned a few moments later carrying five bottles.

He placed them carefully on the table, almost as though he was introducing old friends rather than wines.

Five bottles lined up in a neat row.
A clenched fist of Muscadet if you’d rather.

Doug, mate. “If I walked in here tomorrow,” and I said,
“Show me the Muscadet,” would these here, be the bottles?”

He looked at them for a moment. “I think they would.”

He gently rested his hand on the first.
Domaine de l’Écu.

A fitting place to start.

Guy Bossard and Domaine de l’Écu have become one of the region’s modern reference points, helping prove to the wine world that Muscadet could possess texture, complexity and a remarkable ability to age when treated seriously in both vineyard and cellar.

Doug poured and I took a sip. “Bone dry.”
He sounded like an impersonation of Michael Caine.

Calling great Muscadet bone dry felt a little like describing The Beatles as quite musical.
Technically accurate but hopelessly incomplete.

The second bottle came from Domaine Vinet.

“I’ve always admired this family,” Doug said. “It’s bone dry. Look at the year.”
I’d spent years hearing people insist Muscadet should always be drunk young.
Within seconds that idea had quietly collapsed into my glass. It was 2017.

Bottle number three was Luneau-Papin.
The wine still possessed freshness, but now there were layers of toasted almond, warm bread, dried citrus peel and something almost smoky beneath it all. It felt complete. “It was bone dry - I wasn’t expecting this.”

For decades Muscadet had been judged almost entirely by its cheapest examples. High yields, supermarket shelves and anonymous bottles had somehow become the public face of an extraordinary region.

Meanwhile, growers quietly carried on making wines that hardly anybody outside the Loire ever tasted.

La Pépière came next.

Doug smiled before he even poured it. “If Muscadet has a cult wine...”
“This might be it.” He wasn’t exaggerating. “It’s bone dry. Bone. Dry.”

The final bottle was Jo Landron.
“If somebody asked me to explain modern Muscadet...”
“I’d probably pour this. It’s bone dry Landron.”

The wine was vibrant, energetic and alive without ever becoming loud.
Like everything that evening, seeming entirely comfortable in its own skin.

Each one seemed to reveal another layer of the region.

Five bottles.
Five personalities.
Five different conversations.
Each Bone dry.

I looked across at Doug.

“So... I have to ask. When did Michael Caine become a sommelier?”
He burst into laughter.
“I wondered how long you’d last.”

The photograph I’d seen earlier was real.

In the late 1980s Doug had genuinely won a televised Michael Caine impersonation competition. Regional television.
Anne Robinson from The Weakest Link was a judge.

Saturday evenings. Twelve Michael Caines and three judges.

“It was tremendous fun,” he admitted. “I spent years studying him.
Most impersonators spent their lives trying to sound like Michael Caine.”

Doug smiled. “I wanted to understand why he paused.”

“Why he looked away before a line.”
“Why he lowered his voice instead of raising it.”
“Turns out...those are exactly the same skills you need for a wine program”

He looked around the restaurant. “I was watching the tiny little details.”

Looking back across the dining room, it suddenly became obvious.

Doug wasn’t a brilliant sommelier because he’d spent his youth impersonating Michael Caine. He was brilliant because he’d spent half his life studying an iconic actor with extraordinary care: the pauses, the glances, the hesitations and all the tiny details most people overlook.

Funny thing was, after five bottles and an evening with Doug, bone dry no longer sounded like the end of the description.

It sounded like the beginning.

Bone dry, as Doug would say.

But never just bone dry.

“Jean-Pierre found it difficult to share his deep knowledge of Cassis at the dinner table.”

Every four years, a few rather remarkable things happen.

A leap day quietly appears in the calendar.
The Olympic flame is lit. Presidential campaigns begin.
And billions suddenly develop strong opinions about formations, referees and countries they’ve never previously supported, including countries they supported passionately four years ago and haven’t thought about since.

Cities become quieter whilst Pubs become louder.
Entire nations rearrange their sleep schedules around kick-off times. Otherwise-sensible adults suddenly become experts on the offside rule.

The FIFA World Cup is the largest sporting event on Earth.
Wine, strangely enough, does something remarkably similar.

Both are expressions of place, and both inspire fierce loyalty.
Both produce endless debates that nobody ever truly wins.
Both have an extraordinary ability to bring complete strangers together.

Both reward patience.

So, while everyone else was studying squad selections...
...we started looking at the vineyards.

A Brief History

Football has existed in one form or another for thousands of years.

Ancient China had Cuju, a military training exercise dating back more than 2,000 years in which players attempted to kick a leather ball through a small opening suspended between bamboo poles without using their hands. Unlike American Football, where players use their hands more than their feet. Many historians consider it the earliest documented ancestor of modern football.

Medieval England, meanwhile, preferred a rather less refined approach.
Entire neighbouring towns would take part in enormous annual contests known today as Mob Football. There were no fixed team sizes, very few rules and almost no regard for personal safety.

The “ball” was often an inflated pig’s bladder wrapped in leather, and the objective was simply to drag, kick, throw or somehow propel it to a distant landmark. Sometimes the opposing village church, bridge or market cross. Broken windows and bones were common…many tried to ban the game.

By the nineteenth century, England had finally done what England does best: organized the chaos. In 1863, the newly formed Football Association codified the rules of Association Football and gave the world the game we recognize today. The first FIFA World Cup followed in 1930. The host nation? Uruguay.

Every World Cup Winner Is a Wine Country

During our entirely unnecessary and dubious research, one statistic refused to leave us alone.

Every nation to have won the FIFA World Cup also produces fine wine.

Uruguay. Italy. Germany. Brazil. England. Argentina. France. Spain.

Is it a coincidence? Almost certainly.
Is it evidence that vineyards create better midfielders? No, that’s absurd.

Is it evidence that many of football’s greatest nations also possess deep agricultural traditions, centuries of regional identity and remarkable wine cultures? Yes, absolutely.

If They’re Playing… Here’s What Should Be in Your Glass

Supporting your country is one thing. However, supporting it properly is another.

Argentina: Everyone reaches for Malbec and that is great but try Cabernet Franc from the Uco Valley. We love the Ver Sacrum wines.

France: Bordeaux for victory. Burgundy for defeat. Champagne regardless.

Spain: Open Albariño from Galicia or Xarel·lo from Catalunya for a change. Hold Rioja for a late-night after match dinner.

Portugal: Douro, Barriada, then Vinho Verde.

Germany: Riesling from anywhere and everywhere. Drink Riesling.

Uruguay: It also happens to be a wine-producing nation. Think Tannat.
The other Madiran. Drink Bodega Garzon. Then try it again.

Brazil: Have a Brazilian. then, after the waxing, drink their sparkling wine.

The Transfer Window

Every football supporter knows the transfer window.
The window opens; the rumors appear hourly.
The journalists stand outside training grounds reporting that someone has “arrived for talks.” The supporters refresh their phones every thirty seconds.

Wine, it turns out, has its own transfer market.
Winemakers move between famous estates.

Footballers retire and become wine producers.
Vineyard managers cross continents.

Daniel Estrin, after seven years at Littorai, moved back to Oregon to become Winemaker and Vineyard Manager at Cristom. It felt like a promising academy graduate returning home after developing in Europe’s top league.

Then there are the owners.

In 2017, Arsenal owner Stan Kroenke completed one of the wine world’s biggest acquisitions when he followed his ownership of Screaming Eagle in Napa Valley by purchasing a majority stake in Domaine Bonneau du Martray, one of Burgundy’s most historic estates.

Perhaps football and wine have always shared the same language.

Only the names have changed.

Instead of center-forwards...there are consultants.
Instead of transfer fees...there are undisclosed acquisitions.
Instead of Deadline Day...there’s harvest.

The Final Whistle

Perhaps football and wine were never as different as they first appeared.

Both ask us to care deeply about place and reward patience.
They thrive on stories passed from one generation to the next and they both convince millions of otherwise sensible people that this year will definitely be different. After all, “this vintage is always the best vintage.”

P.S.
If your country was eliminated in the group stage, we’d recommend opening something mature.

If they won the World Cup...
...you probably already have.

COMING SOON...

The Official Indelible Wine Stain World Cup Wine Sticker Album

Collect all 48 wines. Find the Ultra-Rare Foil Legends.
Trade duplicates responsibly.

Includes:

⭐ Individual Sticker Cards

⭐ World Cup Wine XI

⭐ Transfer News

⭐ World Cup Wall Chart

⭐ Match Programs

⭐ Ultra-Rare Grand Cru Foils

“Remember to Swap responsibly.”

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The message was simple and the method was primitive, yet somehow it worked.

Which raises an interesting question: what exactly is language?

Most of us think language means words.

English. American. Spanish. Italian. French. Mandarin. Cantonese.

Yet language is really just a system for moving an idea from one mind to another.

Cave paintings do that, and a road sign.
A map can do that, and a mathematical equation can do it.
A smile can do that and even a wine label can.

And, according to Lia Chenetti of the Indelible Wine Stain team, so can:

🍷😊

At first glance, this may appear to be a ridiculous proposition.

At second glance, it becomes surprisingly difficult to argue with.

Before and since joining the Indelible Wine Stain team, Lia has developed something of a cult following amongst wine lovers, social media users and “vin-fluencer.”

Her reviews are famous for reducing wines that would normally require three paragraphs of tasting notes into a handful of symbols.

A recent review of Poderi e Cantine Oddero Barolo, Vigna Rionda Riserva 2010 consisted entirely of:

🍒🌹🧱⛰️⏳✨

The review received thousands of “likes” from doom-scrollers.

It also triggered a lengthy online debate regarding whether the brick emoji represented tannin, terroir, architecture, masonry or BRIX.

Naturally, we decided to investigate.

Of course, our interview was conducted entirely by text message, despite sharing the same office space at Indelible Wine Stain HQ.

The Long History of Drawing Little Symbols

Thousands of years ago, Egyptian winemakers labelled their wine jars with information remarkably familiar to modern wine drinkers.

Usually including vintage, origin, producer and quality.
Some even included recommendations regarding what foods should accompany the wine.

One recently translated amphora appears remarkably familiar to modern readers.

“Produced under the supervision of Chief Vintner Nebu-Hotep.
Wine of excellent quality. Recommended with roast goose, Nile perch, barley bread, honey cakes and dates. Avoid excessive consumption before chariot racing, tax collection or crocodile wrestling. In fact, the estate accepts no responsibility for crocodile wrestling-related incidents.”

Three thousand years later, one suspects certain modern back labels would feel strangely at home beside it in a museum display.

Long before critics awarded scores, somebody was already trying to answer the question: “Is this wine any good?”

A few centuries later, Pliny the Elder was ranking the wines of Rome, declaring Falernian the greatest wine of his age.

For all practical purposes, Pliny may have been history’s first wine critic.

The medium was different, but the intent was identical.
Someone had tasted a wine and felt compelled to tell everyone else about it.
Two thousand years separate the Egyptian scribe and the Roman scholar.

Yet, both were attempting to solve exactly the same problem:
How do I get what’s inside my head into yours?

The Egyptians used inscriptions whilst the Chinese developed characters.
The Phoenicians developed one of the earliest alphabets.
The Greeks borrowed it and the Romans adapted it.
The Norse carved runes into stone. Medieval monks illuminated manuscripts.

Victorian gentlemen used a quill and ink to write lengthy tasting notes about Claret whilst wearing their very tall black hats.
Then, in 1999, humanity reached its highest form of communication.
The smiling face emoji.

🙂

Somewhere, a cave painter nodded approvingly.

When we suggest this theory to Lia, she responds almost immediately.

“Take the letter A. Most people assume it has always looked like that. It hasn’t. Thousands of years ago it derived from a symbol representing an ox head.”

🐂

“Over centuries it rotated, simplified, evolved and eventually became…”

A

“People think emoji appeared from nowhere,” she writes.

“They’re just the latest branch on a very old family tree.”

When Words Refuse to Sit Still

One of the strange things about language is that it never stays where you leave it. Words just drift and meanings change. Definitions of things evolve.

For example, the word awful once meant something worthy of awe.
Today it means something entirely different. That’s awesome.

The word nice once meant foolish. But today it is a compliment. That’s nice.

Language is full of these little acts of rebellion and wine is no different.

Take terroir.
Today the word often evokes vineyard expression of place. Authenticity perhaps? Yet historically, forms of the phrase goût de terroir could be used critically, suggesting rusticity or earthy characteristics that were not always considered desirable. Like a cow-pat.

Somewhere along the way, the meaning shifted but the wine did not.
The word changed.

When we ask Lia about this, another message appears.

“Language isn’t a museum,” she says knowingly, “It’s a garden.”

🌱

That may be the most sensible thing anyone has ever said using a seedling emoji.

The Problem with the Guardians and Gatekeepers

This is where things become interesting.

Lia is not against wine language. Far from it. She loves wine language.

📚❤️

She loves wine books, wine history, wine education, sensory science, the Aroma Wheels and Tasting Spokes. The problem, she argues, is not knowledge. It is the lack of context.

“Why emoji?” we ask Lia.

“Because most people don’t drink wine using words,” she reveals.
“Words, sounds, a happy dance after tasting, they all come later.”

At first this sounds absurd but then, on reflection, she may have a point.
Most people do experience wine emotionally, sometimes spiritually even, before they experience it intellectually.

A wine can feel:

😊 😌 🤩 🥰

long before anybody reaches for a tasting grid.

“Wine language becomes a problem when it becomes more important than wine communication.”

The Translator

Hospitality, she argues, is translation.

If she is speaking to her grandmother, she uses one language.
If she is speaking to a Master of Wine, she uses another.

Same wine but a different audience.

“The responsibility belongs to me, the communicator and not them. As long as they are listening of course!”

Many industries produce Guardians. The people who preserve language and protect the terminology. Defenders of precision - the Larry Davids of the world. Wine needs those people because without them, much of the history, culture and understanding surrounding wine would disappear.

But wine also needs Translators.
Those people willing to cross the bridge and meet others where they stand.

As Lia sees it, hospitality has less to do with teaching people a language and more to do with helping them understand one.

This is where her distinction between Guardians and Translators emerges.

“What is a Guardian?” we ask. Her reply arrives immediately.

🚪🔒📚😠

“And a Translator?”

🌉😊🤝😊

For readers unfamiliar with her language of emoji, we believe Lia is suggesting that Guardians build gates while Translators build bridges.

She leaves us with something to think about…

“Most tasting notes are really memory notes, nobody smells cherry.
They smell something that reminds them of cherry. There are no violets, the wine reminds us of violets. It enters through the senses, but description enters through memory and leaves through language.

“That is why two people can describe the same wine differently and both can be right. In many ways, wine communication is simply the process of translating memories.”

Which, admittedly, sounds far less impressive when reduced to emoji.

— The Indelible Wine Stain

There are moments in theatre when one finds oneself questioning not only the artistic judgement of a producer, but perhaps the entire trajectory of human civilization.

Such a moment occurred approximately twelve minutes into Robert Parker: The Musical, when a chorus line of dancing Champagne flutes descended from the rafters of the Bowery Theatre while singing in four-part harmony about the secondary market for Bordeaux futures.

By rights, this should not work.

A lavish Broadway musical based upon the life of a Maryland lawyer turned wine critic sounds less like a theatrical proposition and more like the result of a lost bet between several intoxicated sommeliers. Yet against all logic, common sense and the repeated warnings of financial advisers, Robert Parker: The Musical emerges as one of the most entertaining productions of the decade, perhaps the century.

The story follows Robert Parker’s journey from his modest Baltimore dairy town and kitchen table to becoming arguably the most influential wine critic in history. The production wisely avoids presenting Parker as either hero or villain. Instead, he is portrayed as something far more interesting: a man whose opinions became larger than he ever intended.

“The finest wine-based musical since Bottleshock the Musical.”

— Benjamin Boublebaarth

It opens not in Baltimore, but in rural France.

A young Robert Parker arrives armed with little more than curiosity, an affection for dairy products, and a belief that milk represents the pinnacle of fermented civilization. There he meets Patricia, the woman who would become his wife, and through her discovers an entirely new world.

The opening duet, Milk to Wine, is one of the evening’s most unexpectedly charming moments.

Patricia sings of vineyards, villages and family meals. Robert counters with earnest observations about cream content, freshness and the subtle differences between dairy producers. What begins as a romantic comedy gradually transforms into a revelation. As the pair wander through French cafés and wine bars, Parker starts applying the same obsessive curiosity he once reserved for milk to the wines before him.

“If one cow tastes different from another...” he sings,
“Then why not one vineyard tastes different than the next?”

Patricia smiles knowingly.

By the song’s finale, the audience watches two love stories unfold simultaneously: Robert and Patricia fall in love, and Robert falls in love with wine.

The number concludes beneath a canopy of lanterns as the young couple dance through a French village square as a chorus of singing milk and wine bottles persuade Parker to abandon dairy as his primary intellectual pursuit.

It is, against all odds, utterly delightful and against all delights, utterly odd.

Following this, we fast-forward years to the next big musical number.
The Baltimore-Washington Wine Advocate, introduces us to Parker seated at a kitchen table surrounded by bottles, notebooks and unpaid subscription invoices.

The set is beautifully realized. Warm amber light floods the stage. The audience can almost smell the coffee and freshly typed newsletters. It is an intimate beginning that makes the spectacle to come all the more remarkable.

The first major showstopper arrives in the form of Pour. Sip. Taste. Spit.
A glorious mechanized production number depicting Parker’s tasting routine.

The machine-esque rhythm of the chant of “Pour, Sip, Taste, Spit” creates the marching back-bone of the song and paints the picture of Parker’s grueling and arduous daily tasting schedule as he summons points for the judgement.

Dancers dressed as tasting notes march across the stage sitting somewhere between a precision military parade and a Telluride steam locomotive.

“Pour! Sip! Taste! Spit!”
”Pour! Sip! Taste! Spit!”

The number builds in intensity as scores begin flying across giant illuminated scoreboards.

“Ninety-two!”
”Ninety-four!”
”Ninety-six!”

By the finale, Parker appears less like a wine critic and more like a benevolent tasting machine powered entirely by Cabernet Sauvignon.

The production truly finds its footing during Nineteen Eighty-Two, a dramatic retelling of the Bordeaux vintage that transformed Parker’s career.

Here we meet Robert Finigan, portrayed with magnificent theatrical indignation by Charles Wetherby. The celebrated duet The Duel recreates the disagreement between Parker and Finigan regarding the greatness of the vintage.

Performed upon a split stage representing Baltimore and New York, the two critics exchange increasingly elaborate insults disguised as tasting notes.

“My dear Robert...” sings Finigan, “your enthusiasm exceeds your experience.”

To which Parker replies:
"My dear Robert...your experience exceeds your enthusiasm.”

It is theatre of the highest order.

One could argue that this scene alone justifies the ticket price.

The first act closes with The Most Powerful Palate in the World, a dazzling spectacle in which merchants, collectors, importers and producers’ whirl around Parker as if caught in the gravitational pull of an increasingly influential solar system.

A giant illuminated 100-point scale rises from the stage floor.

Wine merchants faint.
Auctioneers weep.
Collectors wave paddles.
Importers clutch allocation sheets.

The audience erupts.

“I laughed, I cried, I cried laughing and laughed crying.”

— Decanting Monthly

Act Two takes a more reflective turn.

Particularly moving is The Flying Winemaker, a tribute to Michel Rolland.

Following Rolland’s passing earlier this year, the production wisely rewrote this part and choose affection over caricature. Rolland is presented not as a symbol of controversy but as a globe-spanning consultant attempting to help vineyards express themselves.

Standing before a giant rotating globe, he sings the evening’s most beautiful lyric:

“I never made the vineyard.

I only helped it speak.”

The moment received spontaneous applause on opening night.

The show’s most intellectually ambitious sequence is Parkerization, which tackles the debate surrounding Parker’s influence on global wine styles. Here the musical introduces Jancis Robinson, portrayed with wit and elegance by Dame Penelope Featherstone.

As vineyards from Bordeaux, Napa, Priorat and Barolo slowly merge into a single theatrical landscape, Robinson poses the central question of the production:

“But what happens...

when everyone listens?”

For several seconds, the theatre falls silent.

One could hear a cork drop.

The production’s most daring sequence arrives midway through Act Two, during a dream-like tableau inspired by Mondovino. The stage transforms into a maze of vineyards, cameras and competing philosophies. Critics, consultants and producers chase Parker through an increasingly surreal landscape while arguing about terroir, globalization and the future of wine.

Vineyard rows slide across the stage.

Barolo becomes Napa.

Napa becomes Bordeaux.

Bordeaux becomes Napa.

The dance choreography involving the use of 36 conveyor belts deserves a Tony at least.

The audience laughs.

Then comes the scene that may already be destined for Broadway legend.

From Baltimore to Bordeaux begins with Parker seated once again in his modest kitchen.

What follows is perhaps the most astonishing set transformation currently operating on any stage in the world.

Bookshelves unfold into châteaux.

Wine racks become government ministries.

Kitchen cabinets transform into French palaces.

Within moments the entire French wine establishment has emerged from Parker’s dining room.

A chorus line of dancing Champagne flutes performs precision tap choreography while singing:

“Who is this American?”

“Why is he scoring our wine?”

“Why give him a medal when we review our own wines all the time?”

The sequence culminates in Parker receiving the Légion d’Honneur beneath a medal approximately the size of a studio apartment.

It is impossible not to see the humor but also feel so proud to be an American.

The emotional heart of the production arrives with The Wines He Found.

One by one, great wines enter the stage as characters.

Beaucastel.

Montrose.

Clos Erasmus.

Quilceda Creek.

Harlan Estate.

Le Pin, portrayed by a performer standing on a wooden crate due to his diminutive stature is scene-stealing here.

Each sings not about scores but about discovery.

The effect is unexpectedly moving.

For all the debate surrounding Parker’s legacy, the production reminds us that thousands of wine lovers discovered remarkable producers because somebody cared enough to write about them.

The finale, 100 Parker Points, brings together every character from the evening.

Parker.

Finigan.

Robinson.

Rolland.

The dancing Champagne flutes.

The French court.

The wine merchants.

The wines themselves.

A giant illuminated “100” glows above the stage.

As the music reaches its climax, Parker steps forward and delivers the final line:

“They’re only numbers, what’s the fuss?”

The wines reply:

“But they brought us to people and people to us.”

The curtain falls as the last song fades gently out.

The audience rises.

One suspects even the most hardened wine professional may find themselves wiping away a tear.

Cast Highlights

Nigel St. John-Smythe as Robert Parker
A remarkable performance balancing ambition, uncertainty and bewilderment. Captures Parker not as a titan but as a man continually surprised by his own influence.

Charles Wetherby as Robert Finigan
Steals every scene he appears in although upstaged by St. John-Smythe.

Dame Penelope Featherstone as Jancis Robinson
Provides the intellectual counterpoint the production desperately needs.

Jean-Luc Delacroix as Michel Rolland
A warm and heartfelt portrayal that earned one of the evening’s loudest ovations.

A Note from the Director

“People have asked why we made a Broadway musical about Robert Parker.

The answer is simple.

We originally intended to produce a musical about the “Grid,” the method of systematic tasting used by many modern wine schools.

Unfortunately, audiences struggled to emotionally connect with Act Three’s Medium-Medium Plus, Medium-Minus song and dance sequence.

Early previews of The Grid: The Musical proved particularly challenging.

Robert Parker, by comparison, was considerably easier to produce.”

Final Verdict

Like a mature bottle of Bordeaux, Robert Parker: The Musical is ambitious, occasionally excessive, occasionally controversial, ultimately unbelievable, and impossible to ignore.

The remarkable achievement of the production is that beneath the scoreboards, the dancing Champagne flutes, the giant medals, the French aristocracy and the Broadway spectacle lie something unexpectedly sincere.

It shows us that before the points, before the controversy and before the influence, there were simply wines and the people who loved them.

And that, perhaps, is worth a standing ovation.

“A 100-point production.”

— Wine Marketer

Rating:

★★★★★

An Indelible Wine Stain

An intoxicating triumph.

Let me start with a confession.

I didn’t always rifle through recycling bins outside of award-winning wine bars or sneak into hotel kitchens to sip half-empty Grand Cru Burgundy.

Once upon a time, I wore silk scarves, held stemware with grace, and spent my weekends judging regional sommelier competitions.

I knew my Clos de Tart from my Clos du Boi.

I could explain the difference between Manzanilla and Fino to complete strangers without them visibly checking their watches.

I had a career.
Then came the sherry bar.

Everyone said it was a good idea.
“They’re all doing it in London,” they said.
“New York is ready,” they said.
“Sherry is the future,” “they” said.

Convinced I was standing on the cutting edge of a revolution; I invested everything I had into an Atlantic City bar called “Amontillado on my Mind.”

In hindsight, there may have been certain flaws in the business plan.

For example, nobody their appeared to be interested in discussing biologically aged Palomino at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning…or at any time actually.

Six months later, I was bankrupt.
A year later, I was writing wine articles.

Today, I am writing wine articles whilst crouched behind a luxury hotel recycling container looking for the Angel’s share, the splish of a Frédéric Mugnier, Chambolle-Musigny, Les Amoureuses that was left-over and needs a good home…and needs an authentic wine review.

I will explain.

Life comes at you fast.
But I still taste. I still write.
And unlike most critics, I can guarantee you one thing:
Nobody pays me to say anything.

Not because I’m particularly noble.
It’s because nobody’s offering and I can’t afford samples.

Of course, this creates a small logistical problem.

Wine critics are generally expected to taste wine.
Ideally before reviewing it.
I would hope that they do, anyway.

Unfortunately, bankruptcy had done little to improve my access to La Conseillante, DRC Romanée-Conti, Spottswoode Cabernet Sauvignon or Rose & Arrow Stonecreek.

So, I adapted.

Some critics receive samples.
Some attend trade tastings.
Some travel the world courtesy of regional promotional boards.

I built a network.

Over the years I have cultivated relationships with waiters, bartenders, sommeliers, banquet captains, dishwashers, valet attendants and at least one maître d’ who still owes me fifty dollars.

Most of them are good people.
All of them have my number.

At any moment my phone may buzz.

Then it’s a race against time.

The city becomes a chessboard.

I have crossed Manhattan for less than an ounce of wine.
One time sharing a tourist bicycle taxi that blared Cher and ruined my hair.

I once drove forty-five minutes through a thunderstorm because a banquet server reported an abandoned bottle of Castillo Ygay Rioja.

By the time I arrived, there were only two glasses left.
It was worth it.

To some, this may sound ridiculous.

To me, it is simply independent wine journalism supported by an exceptionally dedicated field research team.

Why I’m Anti-Pay-To-Play…and why you should be too

Wine criticism has a funny little problem.
Not a conspiracy. Not corruption. Just incentives.

Most wine writers are not getting rich.
They’re not driving Bentleys through Napa Valley.

They’re freelancers, journalists, writers and enthusiasts trying to make a living in an industry that rarely pays enough to cover the parking.
And that’s where things get complicated.

A critic gets invited to a tasting.
Then another tasting.
Then a winemaker dinner.
Then a press trip.
Then a weekend in Tuscany.
Then a few carefully selected sample bottles arrive at the door.

Then another case.
Then another.

Before long they’re spending three days eating truffle pasta with winemakers, watching sunsets over vineyards, staying in luxury charming boutique hotels arranged by regional promotional boards, and returning home to write independent tasting notes on the very wines they were sipping beside the pool at the luxury charming boutique hotels.

Human beings are funny like that.

The wine industry has developed an entire ecosystem of samples, hosted tastings, sponsored events, educational trips, media partnerships, promotional packages and enough complimentary lunches to feed a medium-sized European nation.

In some corners of the wine world, producers can purchase reports, assessments, consulting packages, promotional opportunities and enough adjectives to fill a thesaurus.

Somewhere along the line, it became increasingly difficult to determine where criticism ended and marketing began.

Every few months a region mysteriously becomes impossible to avoid.

Suddenly there are articles.
Podcasts.
Masterclasses.
Podcasts on Masterclasses.
Masterclasses on Podcasts.
Special reports.
Interviews.
Webinars.
Documentaries…
…and commemorative tote bags.
…and baseball caps.

One assumes this is entirely spontaneous.

Meanwhile, genuinely brilliant wines made by producers without marketing budgets often disappear into the background noise.

Now, do I think every critic is corrupt?

Absolutely not.

Do I think every critic is influenced by the environment around them?

Of course.

We’re all human.

Give somebody enough free wine and eventually they’re going to feel bad about describing it as tasting like a mutated sock hiding in a cedar chest.

Me?
Nobody sends me samples.
Nobody invites me on trips.
Nobody offers me consultancy contracts.
The last thing the wine industry gave me was a parking ticket.
But it was a limited edition one printed on very old paper.

Which is why, last Tuesday evening, I found myself wearing a maintenance vest disguise and squatting behind a luxury hotel to drink the remains of a bottle of Alexander Loersch Erdener Prälat GG Riesling.

It wasn’t glamorous.
It certainly wasn’t dignified.

But at least nobody paid me to like it.

Martin De Still has, over time, developed none of these in any particularly identifiable way.

He has attended tastings. He has visited vineyards. He has, by most accounts, spent a considerable portion of his adult life in the presence of wine.

Those who have met him tend to agree on certain details, though rarely the same ones. He is described as thoughtful, or quiet, or occasionally present. There is a general sense that he has seen a great deal, though it is not always clear what he has retained.

His work has appeared in various places, sometimes in full, sometimes not. Readers who return to it often do so with the impression that something was about to be said.

It rarely is.

We were first made aware of Mr. De Still through a short submission, which arrived without introduction and, notably, without invoice. There seemed no particular reason not to publish it.

What follows is his first contribution to Indelible Wine Stain.”

yours indelibly,
Gregory S. Prindle

An Evening That Suggested Something

I was invited recently to the home of a very famous boutique winemaker, though I won’t say who. It is not necessary. The house was set back slightly from the road outside, in a way that made arrival feel deliberate, like an intentional event, though I am not certain it was.

There were already people there when I arrived. Enough to suggest importance, but not so many as to require explanation. Glasses had been poured. That is to say, wine was poured into the glass and not that glass was poured into glass. It was not poured for me, initially, though I found one in my hand soon after.

Someone mentioned, in passing, that one of the bottles open that evening came from one of the greatest vintages of the last century. I suspect that opinion depends on when the phrase was first said. If it was said in the 19th century, it would refer to the 18th. If in the 20th, the 19th. It was said in a way that didn’t require confirmation though. The bottle itself was placed slightly apart from the others, though not in a way that insisted upon it.

We began elsewhere.

The earlier wines were discussed more easily. There were references to acidity, to structure, to things that seemed to settle the conversation rather than move it forward. At one point, someone said something about the wine that felt considered.

I replied with something that, at the time, seemed equally so. There was a pause, and then a general agreement that suggested I had said something of substance. I thought that I had, as my friend Dean had told me to say it.

Someone else followed, building on what I had said in a way that made it seem more complex than I remember intending. There was a moment, shared between us, where we all acknowledged it without quite saying anything further.

It was, I think, a good exchange.

At some stage, the bottle was opened, or perhaps it had been open all along. A glass appeared again. I do not recall being poured, though I must have been.

There was a pause after the first taste. Not a long one, but long enough that it might have been noticed had anyone chosen to remark on it.

Dinner followed, or it may have already begun. A dish was placed in front of me that may have been the best pairing I’ve had in my life, though I remember thinking at the time that I should be more certain.

I considered asking about it.

I did not, as a very interesting question was raised.

At some point, I excused myself from the table to use the lavatory.

The house, I noticed then, was larger than I had first understood. There were corridors that seemed to lead somewhere, though not always back.

Although I suppose if one walked back, then it would be back.

I remember passing a room I did not recognize. Then another.

The lavatory, when I found it, was unexpectedly considered. On the wall hung a large map of Burgundy, detailed enough to suggest a degree of seriousness. I may have been there once, at the Hospices de Beaune, though I could not be sure.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.

It occurred to me that I should return.

I did not immediately do so.

Martin De Still has been present at a number of important wine events.

He continues to attend them.

You, who seek irreverence in the Parish of Reverend Reverence.

This week’s Wine Stain of the Week from the team at Indelible Wine Stain is a gaseous tale of a spray-stainable size.

There are, in the long and perfumed history of wine service, very few tools that have altered behavior quite as profoundly as the Coravin Wine Preservation System, or as we all call it: the CWPS… or “Kwerps,” for short.

Had it been invented, presented and implemented in the dining rooms of 19th-century Paris, the sommelier would have been accused of Majik and possibly chased through cobbled streets by an advancing brigade of dining forks.

Its premise is simple: insert a fine, hollow needle through the cork, introduce a proprietary gas, and pour the wine without removing the closure. The wine in the bottle is spared oxygen, and the guest can taste.

It has allowed us to sip a taste, savor a glass or, if used by a maniac - an entire bottle. As with many things, it has likely been described at some point as declassified ex-military technology, quietly passed to the masses… like the microwave oven.

The Wine

In the world of the Vinous, legend and reality stand toe to toe.

If a supermarket Sauvignon sways like a man in soft shoes at a wedding in Scarborough, then a “Monvigliero 2020.” enters more like a duelist stepping through theatre curtains to perform a John Wick-ian Opera.

Crissante Alessandria, the modest yet increasingly admired La Morra estate led by Alberto Alessandria, has built its name on precision rather than noise; and among the wines now emerging to the wider world, this inaugural Monvigliero arrives like an eagle feather in the cap.
Quiet, assured, and not easily ignored…and now, highly scored.

Monvigliero, a historic cru in Verduno, is known for producing some of the most lifted and aromatic expressions of Nebbiolo in Barolo. These wines, famously exemplified by Comm. G.B. Burlotto, tend to be defined less by weight and power, and more by perfume, finesse, and a fine-boned tannic structure that hovers rather than presses.

The Table of Guests

The gathering itself was no casual refueling stop, but a celebratory dinner for the Crissante Alessandria team, in Alba, after the long handshakes, bright lights and palate-fatigue of La Festa del Barolo in New York.

This is where growers, collectors and sommeliers had spent the final days of January speaking in that sacred international dialect, made up of cru names, descriptors and vintage charts.

And so, a table assembled at Ristorante della Cosa Vecchia, just off the old center, was not merely a dinner party, but a group of close friends.

They were, taken together, the object that became wine stained.

A highly tuned arrangement of woolen jackets, pale shirts, folded napkins, and human beings held upright almost entirely by happiness, pride and the promise of one final great bottle before sleep.

The Accident

What a night!

The meal had already done its work. Courses had come and gone, glasses had been emptied and refilled, and the table had settled into that quiet, satisfied state… the one in which a table feels fulfilled.

It might have ended there.

But at the close, as conversation softened and chairs leaned back, Alberto Alessandria, never one to leave a moment unresolved, asked for just one more thing.

Not a bottle. A glass. Something special.

From the list, he chose one glass of Barolo Monvigliero 2020.

After all, as restaurants support the wineries, so do they in return!
And so, naturally, the Coravin was summoned.

The Sommelier approached with the quiet confidence of a man performing a familiar ritual. The needle was inserted cleanly. The gas introduced. The pour was steady, controlled and precise - like a Samurai cutting with Katana.

But you see, at the end of a Coravin pour, the system must equalize.
A final release of pressure exists…it is a final puff of wine.
A brief, audible and if mishandled, expressive puff.
It is a detail though and the Coravin must tilt down into the glass to spray.

The glass was filled - and no!
The sommelier withdrew too quickly.

And what followed was a mist.
A fine Barolo spray, all over the table and the guests.
The wine stain.

No one moved. The sommelier froze. The table was silent.

He was red-faced.
Placed the Coravin down on the table, like a sword.
He adjusted it slightly, aligning it with the edge of the tablecloth.

Then he bowed. Once. Twice. A third time…deeper.

From his pocket, he removed his wine key. He unfolded the spiral.
He placed the spiral on the table. And then snapped it in half.

“I am no longer worthy of extraction.” he said softly.
No one spoke.

The sommelier briskly walked out of the room and off into the dark of the Alba streets, never to be seen again.

Some say he went to work for Coravin…the ultimate perfectionist.

The Wine Stain

“With a taste of crushed red cherry and wild strawberry, now filtered gently through table linen and shirt sleeve, the lifted rose petal of Monvigliero remains. The tannins, still fine and chalk-threaded, catch lightly on cotton and cuff before finding the lip. Hints of orange peel and bergamot rise alongside a faint mineral note of laundered tablecloth and a suggestion of wristwatch steel…a Barolo experienced not from glass, but from garment, surface, and consequence.”

There was, at first, a pause.
Then, as a few guests instinctively touched their lips…curious, amused, compelled…tasting what had quite literally come to them, Alberto leaned back.

He laughed. Not loudly, not with malice, but with an understanding that wine, however carefully handled, will always find its own way into the world.

“Well,” he said, glancing at the table, “at least everyone has had a proper taste.”

Laughter erupted. They went to find the Sommelier, but he had disappeared.

There may be many explanations for the greatness of wine… or not.

Some people speak of terroir. Some cannot pronounce it.
Others insist it is climate, geology, culture, or the thoughtful patience of winemakers who have learned to listen carefully to their vineyards while pretending not to interfere with them.

None of these explanations are not entirely wrong.

But they may not be un-entirely incomplete either.

Because there may, or may not, exist a player in the theatre of wine whose role in the play, at the theatre, is seldom acknowledged in tasting notes, vineyard reports, points reviews, polite dinner conversations or the theatre.

The bird.

And bird is the word.

Although we have also been told that “grease is the word” and “mum’s the word” as well.

Perhaps the word is “a greasy mum-bird.”

More precisely, we are not entirely talking about the bird.

We are talking about the bird’s digestive system.

It is a matter of ecological record that many plants evolved fruit not as an aesthetic gesture toward humanity but as a strategy for persuading animals to transport their seeds elsewhere.

Biologists refer to this process as endozoochory, which is a word that is difficult to pronounce, difficult to remember, and yet somehow sounds authoritative.

The system is elegantly simple:

• The vine produces fruit containing a seed.

• The fruit ripens and becomes sweet.

• An animal is attracted to the fruit and greedily gobbles it down.

• The seed survives the maze of digestion inside said animal.

• The seed arrives somewhere new… via bird poop.

• The vine spreads and propagates.

So, you see, before there were vineyards, before there were appellations, and before there were sommeliers explaining minerality to confused guests, the grape berry had already perfected a method for expanding its territory.

It merely required a bird.

The Chemistry of Survival

Plants do not make flavor for our gastronomic benefit.

They actually make chemistry for their own survival.

Many aromatic compounds in grapes originate as protective molecules designed to shield the berry from sunlight, microbes, and other environmental inconveniences.

Floral aromas, for instance, often arise from terpenes.

These are compounds such as geraniol and nerol, which help protect plant tissues from ultraviolet radiation.

To the vine these molecules function as chemical sunscreen.

To the wine drinker they smell like rose petals.

Similarly, some of the most intriguing aromas in wine arise from norisoprenoids. These molecules form when carotenoid pigments, which help manage light during photosynthesis, break down during ripening.

These compounds produce elegant notes that might remind us of dried flowers, tea leaf, and certain spices.

Unless, of course, you have never been exposed to dried flowers, tea leaf, or certain spices.

In that case, they will remind you of nothing at all.

The vine itself intended none of this as palate-poetry.

It was merely protecting itself from the sun.

When the Vine Struggles

A peculiarity of viticulture is that vines growing in difficult places often produce the most interesting wines.

Strong sunlight, altitude, wind, and poor soils stimulate vines to produce greater concentrations of protective compounds in their skins.

The vine will do almost anything to protect the seed…like any good parent.

Some of these strategies include:

• Developing phenolics, which strengthen the berry

• Producing tannins, which discourage predators by being bitter

• Creating pigments, which shield tissues from radiation

In practical terms, when the vine works harder to survive, the wine can become more complex.

Rather like a contestant on the television program Survivor.
Or perhaps even more accurately like a contestant on Squid Game.

The plant physiologist might call this adaptive stress chemistry.

The winemaker or wine lover might simply call it terroir.

It is not entirely unclear that the vine does not care what we call it.

Case Studies

Let us look briefly at some wines that illustrate these ideas.

Dirupi - Valtellina Superiore, Lombardy, Italy 2017

Produced from Nebbiolo grown on steep terraces in the Italian Alps.

When tasting, our team noted memories of rose petals, some herbs of some sort (this caused a long argument), and sour cherries.

These aromas originate largely from terpenes and norisoprenoids concentrated in the grape skins, stimulated by high ultraviolet exposure in mountain vineyards.

The vine produces these compounds to protect its tissues from radiation.

The resulting fragrance and taste are admired by sommeliers and wine lovers.

However, we suspect the birds noticed it first.

Hirsch Vineyards - Raschen Ridge, Pinot Noir, Sonoma Coast 2019

High above the Pacific Ocean sits “Raschen Ridge Vineyard,” farmed by Jasmine Hirsch and her excellent team.

Here Pinot Noir vines endure fog, wind, and persistent sunlight.

In response the grapes develop thicker skins rich in phenolic compounds, which help defend the berry against environmental stress.

These molecules later contribute the lifted aromas of cranberries, freshly purchased roses, and supermarket soft spices.

The vine calls this survival.

Wine lovers call it complexity and elegance.

Zuccardi - Alluvial Malbec, Gualtallary, Mendoza, Argentina 2019

At more than 1,400m elevation in the Uco Valley, vineyards sit among ancient alluvial fans beneath the Andes.

Under intense sunlight and cold nights the vine produces thick skins rich in phenolics and aromatic precursors.

These compounds protect the grape from ultraviolet radiation and oxidative damage.

The resulting Malbec shows remarkable structure and clarity.

Winemakers speak beautifully of limestone and geology.

The vine, less philosophically inclined, is responding to sunlight.

Rhys - Alpine Vineyard Pinot Noir, Santa Cruz Mountains 2019

In California’s Santa Cruz Mountains the dramatic Alpine Vineyard produces Pinot Noir of remarkable precision.

The 2019 vintage expresses slow ripening conditions created by fog, altitude, and sunlight.

These conditions encourage the formation of aromatic precursors and phenolic compounds in the grape skins.

In the finished wine these molecules translate into what we call in winespeak:
“Red fruit, herbaliness, and subtle spice.”

The vine was merely protecting the seed.
The wine world calls it complexity.

Ciel du Cheval - Cabernet Franc, Red Mountain, WA 2014

The vineyards of Red Mountain receive some of the most intense sunlight in Washington State.

At the historic Ciel du Cheval Vineyard, Richard Holmes leads the team.

(The Holmes family, naturally good at deductive reasoning, once attempted to trace their ancestry to Sherlock, but this proved inconclusive.)

Cabernet Franc vines grow in sandy soils exposed to heat and wind.

Under these conditions grapes accumulate proanthocyanidins, tannins formed in skins and seeds that deter predators and pathogens.

In the finished wine they create the firm structure collectors admire.

What once discouraged animals now encourages wine sales.

Ayunta - Calderara Sottana Nerello Mascalese, Sicily, Italy 2021

On the northern slopes of Mount Etna lies the celebrated contrada Calderara Sottana, where Ayunta farms old Nerello Mascalese vines.

At elevations around 700–800m, vines grow in porous basaltic soils that drain quickly and encourage moderate water stress.

In response the grapes develop thick skins rich in phenolic compounds and aromatic precursors.

The resulting wine reminds us of sour cherry, another herbal tasting room disagreement, and a subtle mineral austerity.

Humans describe the wine as volcanic.
The vine would probably describe it as practical.

A Brief Word About Bird Decanting

Wine lovers often speak of decanting; allowing oxygen to interact with wine so that aromas may develop more fully.

It would be irresponsible to suggest that the digestive system of a bird performs a similar function.

Is the bird nature’s decanter?

No, it isn’t.

And it would be unethical to try.

Final Thoughts from the Prindle

So, as you can see, when the chemistry of grapes and the ecology of fruiting plants are examined together, one conclusion becomes increasingly difficult not to consider.

Many of the compounds that make great wine fascinating (tannins, aromas, pigments) evolved not for human pleasure but for plant survival.

The vine protects the seed.

The grape attracts animals.

And occasionally those animals carry the seed somewhere new via plop.

This may not entirely diminish the romance of wine, although it may slightly complicate it.

After all, a Grand Cru vineyard may be the result of centuries of careful farming, thoughtful winemaking, and the tireless work of generations of growers.

But it may also be the indirect consequence of a bird with good aim and a functioning digestive system.

Which is not to say that great wine is bird droppings.

But it would be equally incorrect to say that bird droppings have had nothing to do with great wine.

So remember, Winestainers:

do not dismiss the biological foundations of the vine.

And for that reason alone, it must be said, calmly and without prejudice…

“don’t poo-poo the poo-poo.”

Ladies and Gentlemen and “Winestainers of the World” - welcome to the…

Golden Monkey Awards 2025

Golden Monkey Wine of the Year

Philippe Gonet, “Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs,” Champagne 2011
If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if Mesnil-sur-Oger and Oger were an overly touchy friend? Well, here it is. We are touched, in a good way.

This bottling sits comfortably in that “serious Blanc de Blancs” lane.
The one with the toasted and grilled nuts, the moka-smoka accents, the brioche, the creaminess. But then, what’s that? a citrus lift?
There is a minerality that won’t stop making eye contact. It’s awkward at first.
But then… we love it and we know you will too.

Other Wine Magazines’ Wines of the Year

While we toast to our top pick, here’s our usual look at what our rival publications deemed as some of the best of the best in 2025:

La Revue du Vin de France (France):
Jean-Marc Burgaud, Morgon Côte du Py 2023
One of the highly regarded wines of the year is a Gamay from the volcanic slopes of Morgon that marries dizzy-dazzling mineral freshness with concentrated red fruit...but we should note that it is now happy to be known as Mr. & Mrs. Dizzy-Dazzling Mineral Freshness.

Gambero Rosso (Italy):
E. Pira e Figli, Barolo Mosconi 2021
From Piedmont’s steep, calcareous slopes emerge Nebbiolo that sings of tar and roses, iron and licorice like a wine-centric, Italian version of Mary Poppins. Maria Poppini, if you like.

Decanter (UK):
Clos Apalta 2022, Colchagua Valley, Chile
One of Decanter’s standout wines of 2025 is this rich Bordeaux-style blend from Chile, where power meets elegance. It makes us think of plush dark berries growing in an espresso-dust dessert.

The Wine Advocate (International):
Ramey, Hyde Vineyard Chardonnay 2022
In a year of red noise, WA highlighted this Chardonnay as outstanding instead. It’s a wine with a Dr. Jekyll soul and a Mr. Hyde streak. All lime-oil brightness and saline snap on the surface but with a sudden turn into toasted almond richness that might stalk the foggy London nights.

Vinous (Europe):
Clos Apalta 2022, Colchagua Valley, Chile
Vinous’s 2025 panel couldn’t ignore this Andean heavyweight. A velvet-gloved bruiser of a blend, layering black plums and cassisiness over Polished tannins.

Wine Spectator (USA):
Château Giscours, Margaux, Bordeaux 2022
Top honors went to this classic West-Bank Bordeaux. Faintly dangerous, intense fruit character with impeccably tailored tannins. A Peaky-Blinder.

Wine Enthusiast (USA):
Catena Zapata Adrianna Vineyard White Bones Chardonnay 2023, Argentina
Stony minerality, mineral stonality, citrus brightness and bright citrus-ness make you forget everything you thought you knew about Argentine whites.

Jeb Dunnuck (USA):
Clos Apalta 2022, Colchagua Valley, Chile
Jeb’s palate lined up with Vinous this year. He lauded Clos Apalta as one of the most compelling wines of 2025, a bold yet refined expression of Cabernet-styled synergy from South America.

James Suckling (International):
Château d’Issan, Margaux, Bordeaux 2022
Suckling’s fancy also came from Margaux. Silky as a silk merchant on the silk road. It takes a lot of effort to seem effortless.

It looks like a great year for South America and Margaux!

Golden Monkey Winery of the Year

Llopart of Penedès
Llopart is the kind of estate where continuity becomes substance rather than slogan. The family’s documented involvement in viticulture goes back 600 years, over 25 generations.

The estate at “Can Llopart de Subirats” occupies an important place within Penedès and like a few others, aligns itself with the demanding standards of Corpinnat.

We’re awarding the “Golden Monkey Winery of the Year” not for volume of product or visibility at wine events, but for their consistency and pure intent.

Llopart’s work is built on patient viticulture, long ageing, and a clear refusal to treat sparkling wine as something casual or disposable. Their Corpinnat cuvées lean into the indigenous grapes, Xarel·lo, Macabeu and Parellada, with extended lees ageing that gradually reshapes fruit into deep layers and structure, where texture and mineral detail matter as much as aroma.

These are serious sparkling and still wines.
Grounded in place and shaped by the keepers of time.

Golden Monkey Vineyard of the Year

The Finca Piedra Infinita of Paraje Altamira, Uco Valley by Zuccardi
This vineyard sits on an alluvial fan, jam-packed with stones and calcium-rich rocks. In fact, in 2009, Zuccardi had to move thousands of truckloads of them just to plant and develop it. Those very same rocks were used in the winery!

The name translates to “Infinite Stones,” as a reminder to what it truly is.

It sits at 1100m above sea level, on the upper reaches of the Tunuyán River’s alluvial fan. Altamira itself gained “GI” status in 2013, and this site has become one of the clearest demonstrations of why that recognition matters: the identity here is driven by soil and altitude rather than by brand or style.

Zuccardi spent years studying the vineyard row by row, eventually dividing it into 12 soil-type variations to guide both viticulture and harvest decisions.

The flagship “Finca Piedra Infinita Malbec” is drawn from the shallower, stoniest plots, where the limiting conditions tend to produce a more tensile, mineral profile.

In the cellar, the choices are deliberately restrained. With native-yeast fermentations, a heavy use of concrete vessels and an approach designed to keep the vineyard’s character centrally focused rather than overlaying the grape and ferment character it with an oak or extraction over-coat.

Golden Monkey Winemaker of the Year

Greg La Follette
We are honored to award this great vigneron, the Golden Monkey for 2025.

He is one of those rare winemakers whose résumé reads like Al Pacino.

He’s been credited with designing-slash-redesigning 14 wineries and has been a consultant for UC Davis’ teaching winery.

He has played foundational roles with California “who’s who,” including helping to start La Crema, Hartford Court at Kendall-Jackson and launching Flowers into cult status.

He may well have been the last person to be mentored by none other than legend, André Tchelistcheff.

He can be credited for outstanding indigenous yeast research as well as his work creating a benchmark in the “gravity-flow-slash-green” winery.

We urge you to look him up… he has a long and incredibly interesting history.

Greg is an original.
An Indelible Wine Stain.

The Golden Monkey Wordstain of the Year

Other publications chose their words carefully:

Dictionary.com: “67”
Perfect for describing a wine with balance.

Merriam-Webster: “Slop”
Easily applied to those, bulk-produced, chemically enhanced (arguably) wines.

Oxford: Rage-bait (A.K.A. gaslighting)

Here at the Indelible Wine Stain Golden Monkey Awards, after a robust debate, mild chaos and a baguette-sword fight between Jake Botcher and Timotay Rollakin, our Wordstain of the year is:

Meaty

Not “Gamey.” Not “Umami.” Not “Porky.”
No, it’s Meaty.

A word for wines that don’t just have fruit, they have mass.
Texture like a’licking a chicken and aromas that suggest a winter broth.
We think that Pinot Noir can be meaty. Syrah lives in Meat Town.
Mature Rioja is the Mister Monopoly of Meat-Town.

Golden Monkey Food & Wine Pairing of the Year

Nicolas-Jay Estate, “Bishop Creek,” Pinot Noir, Willamette Valley 2021
paired with
Dry-Aged Duck Crown, Cherry–Duck Jus with Smoked Beet
Prepared for the Spring menu at our favorite - Le Poulet de Caoutchouc in Paris.

Bishop Creek Pinot 2021 reads like a gothic parade of black cherries, anise, roasted plum and forest-floor freshness.

You know that smell when you first split a granite block with a good mallet? That cool, dusty, mineral lift sits right on the mid-palate here, before the wine opens into something closer to blackberry crumble and dark spice.

The dish was built as a matching argument rather than a garnish. A dry-aged duck crown for depth and tension, with a farce slipped under the skin-duck leg confit, porcini, black truffle peelings, and toasted rye crumbs for texture and woodland resonance.

Smoked beet brings an earthy sweetness that behaves like Pinot fruit without turning the plate into dessert. A cherry-duck jus, mounted with just a touch of browned butter, ties acid, fat and dark fruit together…the whole thing is finished with a sneeze of fennel pollen and cracked black pepper.

Why this wins Pairing of the Year is simple and slightly brutal.
The Pinot and the dish don’t flatter each other.
They interlock like a Chinese finger trap.
Each tightens the other’s grip, and neither will let go first.

Cheers to all of you magnificent winners of the Golden Monkey Awards!

In memory of our beloved friend, Majid the Monkey RIP.

The statement is accepted immediately, like a man announcing he is a lighthouse keeper, despite there being no visible sea, house or light to keep.

No one questions them, nobody asks what it actually means.
Which is fortunate, because the longer one thinks about the phrase, the harder it becomes to locate the wine industry at all.

It has no headquarters.
No website, Insta-tube or TikTok dance associated with it.
No reception desk.
No laminated pass.
There is no moment where one remembers joining.

Yet there are those who are in it.

The obvious answer is that the wine industry consists of people who make wine and then there are others that sell it.

So, it seems, in that sense, to be a similar industry to Cocaine.
In some ways, yes.
But in many other ways, no - not at all the same…not at all.

So, let’s start with the Winemakers, then.
This seems correct in the way it seems correct to assume the orchestra is run by the violinists or the triangle player, at the back.
“Pling.”

Winemakers are of course very important. After all, wine doesn’t make itself!
That would be crazy.
Although, according to Dr. Winestain, possible by the year 2047.

Around the Vignerons move vineyard workers, cellar hands, consultants, interns, seasonal crews who arrive like migrating birds.

Wine passes through dozens of hands, acquiring more fingerprints than the metaphorical orchestra that was previously used in this article, a few paragraphs back from here. You remember…

But there are more in the wine industry to have a good thank about.

There are those who manufacture the objects wine requires in order for it not to escape and run for the nearest drain, the escape plan being to head for the ocean. Blend in and disappear. A classic escape plan.

These people do not say they work in wine, they say they work in glass, forests or machinery. They are masters and mistresses of the bottles, cork and capsules, of the barrels, tanks and pipes.

Perhaps the industry begins once the wine leaves the winery.
The importers, distributors, logistics workers, customs officials, compliance specialists.

Wine travels the world with suspicious, suspiciousness.
Requiring stamps, signatures, inspections and occasional prayers.

A delayed wine is described as ‘resting,’ in the same way a hostage is described as ‘comfortable.’ When the terms have been met, the wine will be released. Arriving to you traumatized and ready to negotiate a book deal about the experience.

Next come the translators.
The sommeliers, wine directors, retail buyers and wine merchants.
The portfolio managers and brand representatives.

They stand between vineyard, winery and drinker…like interpreters who speak fluent wine.
They explain not what the wine is or what we think of it as but what it would like to be thought of as when we think of it.

They do not sell the wine. It passes through their hands as the bottle competes with others for the coveted chance to be supped by you.

Instead, they present it, in the right light, in the right frame.
So that it can be bought.

Around them gathers the language trade of the wine industry.

The Writers.
And among them the Critics, the Journalists, the Influencers.
The marketing agencies; operating behind the scenes like make-up artists.

Here, we often add personality to the character of the wine.

A vineyard becomes “historic,” as though older means better.
A vintage becomes “difficult,” as though it didn’t want to cooperate.
A wine becomes “serious,” which usually means it isn’t allowed to laugh.

Nothing here alters the liquid that is alive inside the bottle.
Everything here alters how you feel when you open it up.

Like a magic image, the more we stare at the wine industry, the more that the boundaries fall apart completely. This is the point at which it stops being something one can make a logo sticker of and stick onto somebody’s chest and starts behaving more like a smell.

Because the wine industry also includes those who don’t drink wine.

The people who say, “I don’t drink,” as if extinguishing a small fire before it spreads to the net curtains.

Some say it apologetically and some say it proudly. Some as though they are announcing an allergy.

It includes those who have stopped.
Those who were harmed.
Those who once said, “just one glass,” and meant it sincerely at the time.

Those who are there to help us by creating laws, restrictions and advice on healthy living.
Even though sugar is just as much an addictive danger to our bodies as wine.

Hospitals. Governments. Public health authorities.
Committees who measure pleasure in units and publish charts.

“I had some units last night of a beautiful Assyrtiko. Louros. Santorini. From Hadzidakis.”

“Let’s go out tonight for a few units.”

They’re not invited to tastings, but are nevertheless present, like a smoke alarm in the corner of the room that gets set off when the net curtains are on fire, from the earlier metaphor a few paragraphs back. You remember…

The non-drinkers, also an important part of the wine industry, also includes those who are not yet allowed.

The too young.
The future drinkers.
The pre wine industry.
The potential.
The faces on the pie charts.

They don’t drink wine, which is precisely why they matter.

Participation, it seems, may be unavoidable.
Because even refusal generates data and abstinence leaves a sober footprint.

Even walking past a wine shop without entering registers somewhere as interest postponed.

There it is.
The wine industry.

It involves drinkers and non-drinkers.
The too young and the not anymore.
Those who believe deeply, and those who insist this has nothing to do with them at all.

It is inclusive.

It has no headquarters. No receptionist.
No laminated pass. No signup sheet.
No moment where one remembers joining.

At some point, somebody, somewhere, will say: “I work in the wine industry.”
The statement will be accepted immediately.

Like a lighthouse keeper lacking sea, nobody will ask what they mean.

Partly out of politeness.
And partly because, by then, it would feel strange to pretend otherwise.

Because after all this staring, after watching the boundaries dissolve, the metaphors overheat and the net curtains quietly smolder, the answer has begun to smell familiar.

The Wine Industry.
It either exists or it doesn’t.
But if it does, we are all in it.

In the shadow-draped back alleys of Napa Valley, where vineyards stretch like the tentacles of farming tycoons, Nick McGinty lives.

Sommelier by day and detective by night. But it really depends on operating hours, sometimes he is on the floor at night and then has time to be detective during the day. However, he gets scheduled for appearances sometimes at weddings too and then there is staff training, monthly auditing and purchase meetings. I guess it’s kind of up in the air.

It was a dark and thoughtful night, and he poured himself a glass of something dark and thoughtful. A perfect pairing he thought.

His kind of drink was the kind of drink that knew more secrets than it let on, and he was on to the secrets that the drink wasn’t letting on to.

“That’s blind tasting I guess.” he thought he thought.

He wasn’t quite sure what he thought he thought anymore. At least, not after the last time he thought a thought, he thought.

It was a cool breezy evening when trouble sauntered through his door. She was cool and breezy and wearing a red evening dress that looked like trouble sauntering with an expression that spelled “help.” Although this lady said “help” as well, which helped Nick know that she needed help.

She stepped fully into the room. The air smelled faintly of violets and Brettanomyces…but the good kind, the horsey-kind. The kind of Brett that sommeliers like in their red Rhônes.

“Mr. McGinty, I assume?”

“You know what they say about assumption miss? said Nick, gruffly.
Before she could answer, he answered, “It makes an ass out of u and m’ption.”

There was a moment.

“I believe someone is tampering with our barrels,” she whispered, her voice smooth like a well-aged Smith-Madrone Cabernet.

She was Lila Van Bozer, heiress to the Bozer Vineyards Vineyard fortune and she suspected foul play at her family vineyard estate.

McGinty took a sip of his Neal Vermentino. He let the wine's narrative unfold on his palate. He chewed it and let the flavor develop inside of his mouth decanter (patent pending). “It’s a peach,” he thought he thought.

“Tell me everything,” he said, setting down his glass.

They talked for around 3 standard 750ml bottles.

Lila shared her story and McGinty listened on.

The case smelled of deceit, and he wasn't just talking about the case of wine. He was referring to the case at hand. As we know, wine can’t smell of deceit, but it can bring back memories and those can be riddled with deceit like an untrustworthy Champagne producer.

“Please take the case!” she cried.

“I won’t…yet.” said McGinty. “But I’ll check out your story and see what’s what.”

“What?” asked Lila.

“Exactly,” muttered McGinty.

Outside, the night pressed up against the window like a Napa tourist looking for a free tasting at a winery. The wine in his glass had stopped telling him secrets and was now just quietly judging him, which wines often do.

Lila gathered her things and slipped out of the office in the same way that she came in. Not that we mean that she walked backwards.

McGinty watched the doorway long after she’d gone, as if the next clue might wander back in wearing work boots and French oak.

After all, this case wasn’t going to solve itself.

Neither were his staffing issues at the restaurant.

But one thing was clear: something was rotten at Bozer Vineyards Vineyard, and it wasn’t just a Botrytis issue.

Tune in next time for another thrilling pour of
Nick McGinty: Wine Detective…

In the Case of the Barrel of Betrayal

And remember…

If you have a winery or vineyard-related mystery…
If barrels are being tampered with, vines sabotaged, corks suspiciously swapped…

And if he isn’t scheduled for floor service, a wedding, staff training, or inventory…

You can hire
Nick McGinty: Wine Detective.

Finding truth, one glass at a time.
Assuming he isn’t on break.

Fewer still, while accompanied by Gnawa Krakebs and a capuchin monkey.

Kasbah Rouge is such a place. A Moroccan fine-dining establishment tucked between a taxidermist and Pilates studio in Notting Hill, London.

From the outside, as evening approaches, so do the diners. They follow the bouquet of spices and the famous monkey silhouette in the window as if being guided by the lighthouse lamp.

It is a beautiful sight to behold. The restaurant glow is a mosaic of warm lanterned array and maroon drapery that spills from its arched facade.

The tiles whisper of Fès, whilst wisps of incense and Ras el Hanout float in the air, like a cartoon dog being carried away by the smell of a pie.

It seems that Chef Ayoub Lemrabet has done for Moroccan cuisine what Berber poets did for the art of the love letter.

Whether it be a Tagine, all gingery and saffroned stew, steadily sprinkled cinnamony richness or a single defiant Zaalouk.

From the Pigeon Pastilla allied with almonds to the Couscous 7 ways.

The Mint tea service is taken to great heights.

The dishes are splendid but where Kasbar Rouge excels is in the wine program, painstakingly curated by long time Sommelier and the constantly surprising, Omar Goush.

This is where things become curious.

A carved cedar podium stands near the kitchen, adorned with a brass bell.

Upon our finishing the amuse-bouche, the head sommelier claps twice, solemnly. A moment passes. Then, with a pitter patter…Majid appears.

Majid is a 7-year-old capuchin monkey that often wears a miniature tuxedo and crimson fez and has been trained to deliver the wine list.

He bows. He can present a QR code on a golden tray. He is, as Omar Goush whispers, “still learning the job of a Cellar Assistant.”

Omar has trained Majid from a very young age, and they seem to make a great partnership. On a busy night, Majid can go to the cellar, select a bottle and bring it to Omar in record time. We watched him swing the rafters in awe.

We ordered a bottle of Kreydenweiss Gewürztraminer for the table and Majid scampered off toward the cellar with the gravitas of a Ballet dancing Monkey and returned 3 minutes later with a Cantina del Pino, Langhe Nebbiolo in paw.

Was it the wrong wine?
Yes, it was.

But was it? It paired divinely with our Lamb Mechoui. Rub a dub-dubbed with cumin, paprika and argan oil.

Perhaps Majid the Monkey is a Sommelier Savant?

Omar Goush has selected wines for the list that naturally dance with the spicy and herbal undertones of Moroccan cuisine.

Then there is the Alsace Gewürztraminer from Rolly Gassmann, offering the aromaticness of lycheeness, rosiness and sometimes subtle touches of a ginger, like Ed Sheeran.

The complexiness of Château Musar, whether the red one or the white one, compliment the Moroccaniness of the gastronomy as well.

From the Douro, in Portugal, comes the Louis Seabra Xisto Branco 2021. Or try the Sotabosc Garnacha Branca from Vinyes Domenech.

Then, from Stateside but with European influence, we spotted the Côte du Ciel, Albariño from Richard Holmes in Red Mountain, Washington State.

Also, Neal Family, Assyrtiko from Rutherford in Napa Valley.

Whites with a citrus lift often offer other refreshing contrasts for more unusual, olive‑oil‑heavy dishes or other-worldy, herby chermoula fishes.

Hence at Kasbah Rouge, the sommelier and his trained monkey exercise care.
In fact, Majid was a fan favorite with all guests, from adults to kids!

That was, until that terrible night…

“We were there for a birthday party. We ordered the wine and when the monkey returned, he was erratic, upset… he threw the 1996 Bouscassé Prestige Madiran against the wall like a fruity Molotov.
I am still not sure why?”
Mari B

“I have never seen anything like it before! Faces were scratched; Feces were thrown; Hairs were pulled... a woman in Pashmina was mistaken for a rival Primate. The sommelier’s trousers were flung into a Tagine. We believe the monkey may have not been trained to handle criticism well.”
Phillip McRackberg

Kasbah Rouge tried to rectify the situation. There were dozens of One star Trip Advisor reviews as guests recounted their horrific memories of that fateful night.

Kasbah Rouge ended up having to send Majid the Monkey into an anger management program each week, which led to “Monkey-Free Mondays.”

Unfortunately, it was too late. Word had spread around town concerning the “Night of the Red Fez.” By the time the issues had gotten to court and at the time of writing, Majid was terminated.

So, go to visit the Kasbah Rouge. Unfortunately, now Monkey-less.

But it still sits there in Notting Hill, as it always did, in between a Taxidermist and a Pilates Studio.

With Omar Goush still there, half the man he was.
Sometimes, late at night, when he claps his hands, he still half expects a small tuxedoed figure to scamper in with the wine list. But no one comes.

Because Majid is sat there for eternity, in the window, like a Bagpuss.

Pomp-essence if you will.

Let’s meet the “P.I.N.S.” …the Pretentious, Insecure, Narcissistic, Sommelier.

We’ve all seen them. Proud as a precocious peacock. Freshly finished with their wine education course and newly awarded their badge of merit.

Once they were knowledgeless of wine, then they memorized some things and stuff and became experts and all that. Now, we are the recipients of these facts, things and stuff, whether we want to hear it or not.

But what truly makes a P.I.N. a P.I.N. and separates them from the normal person that has studied intensely to achieve a pin?

Here we explore the telltale signs, as we hear the stomp and click of their boots on the floor and the clink of the P.I.N.S as they march upon us all.

Pee is for Pretentious
The P.I.N.S. exude an air of superiority. Their noses are often found deep in their glasses or up in the air. They revel in obscure wine-speak and relish correcting anyone who dares to mispronounce “Gewürztraminer” or confuse a Bordeaux with a Burgundy. The cure is humility and not to be the humblest in the room but to realize that there is no such thing as mastery.

Eye is for Insecure
The P.I.N.S. are constantly in need of affirmation, usually from other P.I.N.S. Their greatest fear? Being wrong in front of someone less credentialed.

This insecurity, rooted in fear, manifests itself in a desperate need to showcase knowledge that anyone can memorize, often at the expense of other people’s enjoyment.

Enn is for Narcissistic
The P.I.N.S. aren’t interested in your story, unless you are more of a P.I.N. than them. If you are, it becomes a competition of a do, of a who can out-do who.

It’s not enough to know wine, others must know that they know must.

Armed with an arsenal of facts and figures, they thrive on being the center of attention. Monopolizing conversation, interrupting to drop tidbits about tannins or unsolicited soliloquies on titratable acidity.

They don’t just love wine, they own it. They wield it as a tool of superiority and validity… a case of vino-identity warfare.

Ess is for Sommelier
Before the blind tastings and flash cards, the sommelier was a humble figure. Often seen as the humblest of all the humble.

“Sommelier” originates from the Old French word, “Somier”, meaning “pack animal driver.” These early Sommeliers, like the Sherpa, were responsible for transporting goods - including barrels of wine - for the noble households. Over time, their role shifted from a mere transporter to custodians of the cellars and eventually the true masters and mistresses of service.

So, what’s with the term “Somm?”

It’s surely a great mystery, such as the Bermuda triangle or cheese rind.

The answer is that no one knows when “Somm” started being used, however we do know that the fad emerged in the U.S.A. - known as the epicenter of Apocoping or Apocing. Here are some other terms that have come from the word Sommelier:

Somm-Oilier
Possibly a slippery wine salesman that may sell Olive Oil as well.

Sommelette
A female Sommelier - lighter, fluffier and occasionally served with herbs. Traditionally paired with Champagne and an accompanying pay-gap.

Somm Alley-Way
Sounds like a back-alley riddled with shifty market traders slinging wines that fell off of the back of a truck (or a lorry for those in the UK).

Somm Hay-lay-hey
An ancient Viking toast to the Masters and Mistresses of wine?
Or a chant used by Greek slave-rowers?
A Battle cry before taking the wine list over to the A-list celebrities?
Or just a tasting note for the rarest of Meads, from the Halifax Queen Bee?

Somalian
Someone from Somalia.
Although there are rumors of a Somalian Sommelier Society.

Whatever the reason, “Somm” persists. One syllable. Easy to print on a T-shirt. Is it though, an acronym in itself? What could it be?
We imagine that the “S” stands for Sommelier.

Traditionally there were just male Sommelier, selected from a young age based on their long reach, clean top lips and ability to move around tables elegantly, like a table dancer. Later, women were selected too but only from the early 1990s.

Fairly soon, there will be more female Sommelier than male. As the males tend to leave the floor of a restaurant to go into distribution or consultancy - thereby no longer being a Sommelier at all.

Now, let’s set the record straight:

Singular (masculine): Sommelier
Singular (feminine): Sommelière
Plural (masculine/mixed): Sommeliers - although they are sometimes referred to as a cushion of P.I.N.S.
Plural (feminine only): Sommelières

So, maybe we just stick to Somm.

How to Spot the P.I.N.S.

The main tell is that they wear their pin…all of the time.

Some have even taken to wearing it permanently on their chest by way of a tattoo.

This, of course, led to the development of the Velcro Chest Reveal Patch™. Ideal for P.I.N.S. on the move, or a Mason of course.

It allows for dramatic mid-service reveals, which has been proven Sommtistically to increase sales.

Another trait is competitiveness: who can be of service the best?
We often hear, “I am the best at serving others wine.”

There is also a tendency to dominate conversations with unsolicited opinions, and a knack for making others feel inferior about their wine choices. Studies have shown that the subjective nature of wine tasting often undermines the supposed expertise of these individuals, revealing that their connoisseurship is more about perception than actual knowledge.

They turn every tasting into a competition.

Another sign of the P.I.N.S. is that they carry a wine saber and are able to saber anything with anything.

Still not enough? The most committed of the P.I.N.S. have tattooed their status directly onto their foreheads.

But what of the good ones?

We’ve spilled enough wine on the P.I.N.S. and so let’s raise a glass to those who truly serve.

The main schools to learn about wines are the WSET, CWE, MW and Court of Master Sommelier. Thousands of passionate, generous and engaging wine professionals have grown through these programs and continue to light the way for others.

Each one can be a good path for you. As you learn more, just remember to keep the hospitality alive inside of you. When you pass your test and earn your Pin - don’t be one of the P.I.N.S.

A mantra for all of the P.I.N.S. of the world

“I will put down my pins.
I will let my actions carry me.
I will let my service speak before my certification.
Let my humility be my highlight.
Let my passion be louder than my pin.
The guest will feel it.
And the table will remember - because tables remember everything.”

I have to say that I have been following you for some time and finally I’ve got the courage to ask a question. I would have knocked on your door at 42 Coronation Road, Apartment 3, in Hastings but I feel that writing a letter into the Indelible Wine Stain is more fitting.

So, I am proudly and passionately a wine lover. Not just a casual sipper, mind but a fully-fledged, cork-sniffer. I find wine to be among the greatest cultural achievements of humanity, like language, the wheel and double-ply, wine education themed toilet roll. Every bottle is a story, every soil a poem. Although not a rhyming poem, instead one of those ones that don’t rhyme on each line, all the time.

But here is the rub…I also love prunes, beans and really anything fibrous.
I eat healthfully and abundantly. My digestion, shall we say…expresses itself.

I am, to put it bluntly, a “Man of Wind”.

Not the metaphorical kind that billows sails and animates the trees but the very real, tangible, audible, smellable kind. The kind that that will recoil a refuse collector and push loved ones to evacuate the plane without parachute.

Yet as I sat the other day, alone, politely distancing myself from friends and sipping a glass of the fantastic Terre Rouge, “Ascent,” Syrah 2009, I had a revelation. A connection, if you will.

As I pondered my own “jetstream,” I remembered reading about the Mistral wind in the Rhône Valley. They wrote of a blustery northern gale that shapes the spirit of Grenache and Syrah. And suddenly I wondered:

“Am I, in my windiness, somehow connected to the vine?
Do grapes, too, know the curse of wind? Do these wines understand me?
Do they suffer wind as I do, and emerge stronger for it?

Sorry for gassing on,
Tommy Cribbleston III

Dr Winestain: I’m not sure whether to answer the question or get a stalking protection order put in place but never-the-less, what a great query!

The long and short of it is that yes, wind is absolutely one of the unsung heroes of great viticulture. Also, remember nothing is gassier than a fermentation. Let’s break wind together. I mean, break down wind together.

Wind. Natures natural air drier. It cools, it dries, it punishes, it purifies.
It helps to regulate vine temperature, prevent the mildew, reduce the rot and it thickens the grape skin and let’s face it, we all need thick skins in this modern world. Which is why I always wear a Puffer Jacket, even in bed.

Why Thicker Skins Matter for Wine
Thick-skinned grapes offer a higher concentration of phenolic compounds. That is to say, tannins, anthocyanins (color pigments) and aromatic precursors. This results in deeper color, firmer structure and greater aging potential in the resulting wine. It’s why many of the world’s boldest, most characterful reds come from windy, stressful environments…from Domaine Duclaux in the Rhône to Luis Pato Baga in Bairrada.

Let’s clear the air here, Cribbleston.

Have you ever looked at a grape and thought to yourself, “Blimey O’Riley, this smells like nothing…but I’ve heard it can turn into an amazing befuddling perfume in the bottle?”

Well, that dear Sir, is the magic of aromatic precursors.

What on earth is an aromatic precursor?
Imagine a grape as one of those scented hand lotions your Aunt Betsy buys in bulk. The overwhelming smells of lavender, jasmine, grapefruit and, occasionally, “Forest Pine.” But the cap is on. Tight as can be. You can’t open it as you damaged your hand playing darts. It’s your darts arm.

We lay frustrated, as all those aromas are in there, but they are sealed up tighter than a Seal in a leotard. Unless it opens, it is aroma-less.

Then along comes fermentation, the yeasts arrive, and those dormant aromas have a chance to escape. So, the thicker the skins, the more potential aromas.

Just as grapes have hidden aromatic potential, so too, unfortunately, do your bowels. Farts are after all a form of fermentation. Yes, your guts are essentially low-budget wineries, where rogue bacteria munch on undigested carbs and unleash volatile aromatic compounds such as:

• Hydrogen sulfide (rotten eggs)

• Methanethiol (burnt cabbages)

• Indole & skatole (barnyard, and I don’t mean the terroir kind, actual barnyard)

• Ammonia (that smell that clears a room and ends relationships)

These weren’t aromatic inside you. But when released…evacuate immediately!

It’s fermentation. It’s volatile. It’s natural. It’s horrifying.
You and the grape, my friend, are not so different.

And now for the moment you have all been waiting for…

Dr. Winestain’s Top Ten Wine Winds of the World

Coming in strong at #10 - La Bise
Origin: Switzerland, blowing in from the Northeast.
Meaning: From old French/Germanic roots meaning “to blow.”
Character: Cold and crisp.
Wine Regions Influenced: Geneva, Vaud, Jura, Savoie and the edges of Northern Rhône.
Impact: Dries out mildew and thickens skins. Also preserves acidity, keeping the wines crisp and crunchy!

Down two places from last year to #9 - the Zonda from Argentina
Origin: A foehn wind cascading down the Andes into Mendoza.
Meaning: A Quechua (indigenous) word for “blow” or “bluster.”
Character: Warm, dry and dramatic.
Wine Regions Influenced: Mendoza, San Juan and La Rioja.
Impact: Evaporates mildew and thickens grape skins.

Note: A Foehn wind is a warm, dry wind that rushes down mountains, drying out vineyards and boosting grape ripeness like nature’s bathroom hand dryer.

A new chart entry at #8 - Levante in Spain & Western Mediterranean
Origin: Humid easterly wind from the Mediterranean that crashes into Iberia.
Meaning: Translates to: “the place where the sun rises.”
Character: Moist and moody (like my mood in August).
Wine Regions Influenced: Andalusia (Jerez), Valencia and Roussillon.
Impact: Vital for the nurturing of Flor yeast in Sherry.

Is it an image of Flor developing or something more sinister?
That’s right kids, don’t forget to brush your teeth.

Back on the list at #7 - Poineient/Tramontana of Catalonia
Origin: Northern gusts that rush down from the Pyrenees.
Meaning: From the Latin” “Transmontanus,” beyond the mountains…
Character: Sharp and clean like a fresh pencil.
Wine Regions Influenced: Empordà, Penedès and Roussillon.
Impact: Cools and dries the vineyards, reducing risk of humidity.

At #6 is the amazingly named Willy-Willy of Australia
Origin: Small but powerful Whirlwinds in more arid regions.
Meaning: Indigenous Aboriginal term for “Dust Devil.”
Character: Chaotic and unpredictable mini-cyclones.
Wine Regions Influenced: Western Australia and inland Southern Australia.
Impact: Usually short-lived but stirs up airflow and great for ventilation.

On call at #5 is the Cape Doctor of South Africa
Origin: Southeasterly from off the Indian Ocean
Meaning: Locals would say that the Doctor “cures” the Cape of all ills.
Character: Strong and relentless
Wine Regions Influenced: Stellenbosch, Constantia, Cape Town & Walker Bay
Impact: Blows off disease, cools grapes and thickens skins

At #4 - a summer banger since 500 BC - Etesian/Meltemi in Greece
Origin: A northern wind from the Balkans that falls over the Aegean Sea.
Meaning: Translates to, “Annual Winds” in Greek.
Character: Dry, cooling and sometimes aggressive like an Angry fan.
Wine Regions Influenced: Cyclades (Santorini), Crete and mainland Greece.
Impact: Has led to the development of the grape, Assyrtiko to have Kouloura-trained vines (the famous basket weaved style of trellising).

Staying solid at #3 is the Van Duzer Corridor wind of Oregon
Origin: Cool Pacific Ocean air funneled through a coastal gap.
Meaning: Named after Henry B. Van Duzer, a prominent local Lumberman.
Character: Brisk, cooling, powerful and punctual.
Wine Regions Influenced: Eola-Amity Hills and Willamette Valley in general.
Impact: Great for Pinot Noir, slowing down ripening and developing flavor.

Brand new at #2 - the Templeton Gap Wind of Paso Robles, California
Origin: Another Pacific Ocean coastal range gap.
Meaning: Named after the town of Templeton, just as Faceman in the A-Team.
Character: As hot inland air rises, the cool marine air is sucked eastward through the Gap - temperatures drop dramatically in the evening.
Wine Regions Influenced: Paso Robles AVA (Willow Creek & Adelaida districts)
Impact: The evening drop in temperature allows the grapes to fully ripen whilst retaining freshness - extending what is called a diurnal shift.

And now, at Number One - the Rebel of the Rhône,
the Powerhouse of Provence,
the Gale that Never Fails,
the Whirlwind Winner of the Wine World Wind Award...

…It’s the one and only
Mistral!

#1 - the Mistral
Origin: Coming from the Alps and heading at speed to the Mediterranean Sea.
Meaning: In Occitan, it means “masterly.”
Character: Cold, fast and legendary at upwards of 100km per hour.
Wine Regions Influenced: Southern Rhône, Provence and the Languedoc.
Impact: It shapes the region’s identity.

Trellising has been adapted to meet the mighty wind with many vines trained to be low to the ground or even without a trellis (called a “gobelet.”)

Then there is the “Échalas.” A wooden stake is driven deep into the ground next to the vine so that it can be bound in a spiral or figure 8 weave, so that the vine can flex and bend to the battering Mistral rather than be snapped in two like a KitKat or really any chocolate bar that has a biscuit base.

The wind is a challenge for sure but at the same time the winegrower wants it to pass through, as it prevents fungal diseases. It is like having a helicopter hovering over the vines.

They protect themselves by developing thicker skins…giving more oomph!
Also, the acidity is preserved leading to a chance to make age-worthy wines that have balance and finesse.

I once had all of my hair stripped off my head whilst touring Côte-Rôtie.
Eyebrows and all.

So, there you have it…a long, rambling answer that you may not have needed.

Tommy…you and many of the world’s greatest vineyards do share a windy affliction. You are, in your own chaotic way, a terroir-driven expression of internal weather patterns.

Until next time, get tasting and be curious
And don’t forget to let it rip!

Have more wine queries that need uncorking?
Send them in and let Dr. Winestain ramble on about something else entirely.

send email to Dr. Wine Stain by emailing to the email address indeliblewinestain@gmail.com from your email address.

Peter “Peter” Prindle, founder of The Indelible Wine Stain

This quote was from a series of letters betrothed unto me by my grandfather, Peter “Peter” Prindle, the man who founded The Indelible Wine Stain and was possibly the first living human to assign an Indelible Wine Stain score to the feel of a wine taste.

I, for one, find no greater joy than reading the opinions of others on aromas they cannot possibly agree upon, structured through the fragile scaffolding of point systems designed to objectify the ineffable.

Every morning when I rise, I look in the mirror and rate myself.
Today, for example, I am a pronounced wine stain, or as most of the world sees - 94 points.

And so, in the spirit of glorious subjectivity dressed in the formalwear of objectivity, I humbly launch our newest feature:

Wine Review Review

Where we review the reviews of the reviewers that review.

Here we launch the first of a review of a wine review. Yes! let us turn the tables on the wine critics and review their wine reviews.

For this first edition, we are reviewing the 2022 Château de Beaucastel, Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The red one to be exact…the white one is also good.

What is Château de Beaucastel?

Not to be too philosophic but we could ask, what is anything?

In this case, it is a wine. Some may or may not say it is a standard bearer of the Southern Rhône. Others may or may not say that.

“Beaucastel” is what might happen when all thirteen permitted varietals are allowed to live together in a large neutral barrel. Like the television s-hit, “Big Brother,” but with grapes and fermentation instead of betrayal, pseudo-celebrities and hot tubs.

Meet the Critics and Featured Journals

note: image taken from cancelled Hanna-Barbera cartoon “The Wine-O’s”

James Suckling
An “Old Skool” critic - like the Dr. Dre of wine reviewers. He was formerly the Senior Editor and European Bureau Chief at Wine Spectator. James has, since 2010, been at the helm of his own metaphorical Ship. The independent platform, www.jamessuckling.com.

He focuses primarily on Bordeaux, Tuscany, and Rioja, and has become one of the most visible faces in wine criticism today.

Jeb Dunnuck
Once an aerospace engineer, Jeb Dunnuck fell so deeply for the wines of the Rhône Valley that he launched “The Rhône Report” in 2008. His passion and palate soon led him to The Wine Advocate, where he covered Rhône and California wines before going on to establish his own outlet.

Wine Advocate
Founded by the legendary Robert Parker in 1978, The Wine Advocado became the gold-leaf standard of wine scoring, ushering in the 100-point scale that already existed in wine schools and going on to influence world markets with the flick of a pen. Today, it continues under new leadership of the Michelin Guide, who bought it in 2019.

Decanter
A major spinal column of British wine journalism skeleton since 1975, offering a broad and well-respected perspective with a distinct editorial character. Known for engaging Masters (and Mistresses) of Wine, regional experts and international judges - the publication relies on a 20-point system except for the USA, where they have adopted the 100-pointer.

Note: Wine Spectator & Wine Enthusiast weren’t included due to lack of a published review for this vintage at the time of writing but certainly not exempt to the Wine Review-Review.
In fact, no-one is safe!

The Reviews – What They Done Said

James Suckling – 97 Points
“A textured, layered, precise red, showcasing aromas of cherries, raspberries, warm herbs, bay leaves and baking spices. It’s medium to full-bodied with silty, beautifully melted tannins. So integrated. Lively and focused, with plenty of energy and verve complementing the ripe red fruit and dried herbs. Intense stream of spices in the long, flavorful finish. From organically grown grapes. Try after 2027.”

Indelible Wine Stain Wine Review-Review
“We are offered a symphonic swirl of “textured, layered, precise.” We are fans of the 3-word tasting note and this is a good example. Up next though, what is a “warm herb”? Some Sage in a sweater? Or Basil in a Balaclava?
“Silty, beautifully melted tannins,” wait…is this a Châteauneuf or a chocolate lava cake? We can see here that Suckling’s signature is emotion over anatomy: wine as lifestyle poetry, not a lab report. There’s “verve” and the obligatory red fruit parade - raspberries & cherries - left unnamed until appearing posthumously in the tasting note. The finish is “intense” and “flavorful,” and while nothing is technically wrong, he could have said more - home James.”
Score for the Review: 85/100.

Jeb Dunnuck – 95 Points
“The 2022 Châteauneuf Du Pape is some serious Provençal goodness, with just about overflowing aromas and flavors of sweet raspberries, blackberries, peppery garrigue and Provençal spices. It has the sunny, expressive, complex style of the vintage, medium to full-bodied richness, ripe tannins and a great finish. It reminds me slightly of the 2009 and will have two decades of longevity.”

Indelible Wine Stain Wine Review-Review
“Jeb’s review is like a love letter from Provence from my giddy aunt. We’re told the wine has “some serious Provençal goodness,” a phrase that sounds like something you’d spread on toast. His note flows with affection and confidence though: raspberries, blackberries, peppery garrigue - it’s a farmer’s market in a glass! Yet phrases like “just about overflowing” and “slightly reminds me of 2009” leave one floating in sensory limbo. Does he mean the vintage, the financial crash or that time the Large Hadron Collider was disabled by an airborne baguette? Either way, the wine’s sense of gravitational dislocation and stony friction certainly tracks. Still, Dunnuck’s emotional generosity is real. But why say two decades instead of 20 years?”
Score for the Review: 88/100.

Wine Advocate – 94 Points
“Matured 100% in foudres... evokes aromas of dark wild berries, dark cherries, spices and licorice mingled with a touch of chocolate. Medium to full-bodied, deep and dense, it’s perfectly balanced with a structured, textured and seamless mid-palate... peppery, delicate and long finish. Blend: 30% Mourvèdre, 20% Grenache, 10% Counoise, 5% Cinsault, 5% Terret Noir, 5% Muscardin, 5% Vaccarèse, and 20% white grapes.”

Wine Review-Review
“Written by a verbal brick layer: methodic, clean and with sharp corners. This review is a dense catalog of varietals and phenolics - Mourvèdre, Grenache, Vaccarèse - all accounted for like tax receipts. He references “100% foudres” without even mentioning what a collection of Foudre is called! Outrageous. Aromas are noted, body is touched and there’s a finish described as both “peppery” and “delicate,” which is like calling someone both arresting and apologetic. There is no fluff, no metaphor, no nonsense, no imagery. It’s all there… and yet somehow not alive.”
Score for the Review: 86/100. And it’s a resonance of Foudres.

Decanter – 96 Points
“Dark and inky in colour this year. It’s fresh in its berry fruits, really quite powerful, with muscular tannins and driving acid.”

Wine Review-Review
“Decanter’s review is as tight and British as a Savile Row tailor. At under 30 words, it tells you everything - and nothing. It is the Buddha of wine reviews. “Dark and inky” sets the tone, a nod to Mourvèdre’s brooding gaze from the other side of the pub, you know, near the dartboard. It is followed by “fresh in its berry fruits,” which sounds like the berries themselves underwent a skin transplant. “Really quite powerful” is a linguistic contradiction best resolved over sherry. Finally, salvation arrives in “muscular tannins and driving acid.” Two phrases that - though clichéd - actually convey something. The whole tasting note reads like a telegram from the Royal Air Force wine officer.”
Score for the Review: 86/100.

The Indelible Wine Stain Review

2022 Château de Beaucastel Châteauneuf-du-Pape
“The wine opens, not so much with a bouquet as with a soliloquy, as though each grape variety were clearing its throat backstage. What emerges first is Mourvèdre, smelling of rusted sabers soaked in cherry juice, dried in a drawer of old Provençal linens, then folded into the memory of a father you never quite understood.

The fruit is red, yes - this is the red one from Beaucastel - so, raspberry, but not the kind sold in punnets; the kind stolen by foxes, half-fermented on the vine, sun-warmed and still wet. There’s blackberry too, but cloaked in camphor and clove, like a Victorian highwayman hiding in a hedgerow.

Garrigue? Yes. But not just “peppery garrigue.” This is the garrigue of the subconscious. Ethereal garrigue - by Jean-Paul Gaultier.

Structurally, the wine is medium-to-full-bodied, in the way a French peasant’s dream of a banquet is both comforting and faintly menacing. The acidity drives, yes - but it drives like a 1930’s Bugatti with faulty brakes: thrilling, elegant and absolutely unwilling to stop before the tannins arrive.

And what tannins they are - not melted, not silty, not muscular. They are wiry and unresolved, like a disagreement between a fencing instructor and a philosopher. They bind the wine not in embrace, but in a complex mutual understanding of long-term custody. Kramer versus Kramer in a glass.

The oak - foudre-aged, no doubt - is not a flavor, but a mood. The finish is long. Not in seconds, but in emotional duration.

The wine includes 20% white grapes; this gives it a lift, a brightness. The Counoise brings levity. The Vaccarèse, as always, brings little but is happy to be included and once did bring a quiche.

This is not a wine you drink, it is a wine that drinks you.”

A Pronounced Wine Stain (Equivalent to 90-94 points)
Difficult to remove and may require professional cleaning
“This wine settles in the mind and leaves a pronounced stain. It is, no doubt, a high-quality wine with excellent attributes that you’ll remember for a time. Its complexity and depth ensure that it stands out, much like a well-told fable with a lesson, that stays with you and is worth sharing with others.

Wine criticism often sits delicately between poetry and performance.

Should you read the reviews?
Yes. But only if you’ve already finished the bottle.

Are you a sommelier? A wine merchant? A cellar hand? A bartender?

Do you have wrists of steel and a thousand paper cuts?
Do you have what it takes? Do you know what it takes?
I don’t, if you could tell me, I would be ever so grateful.

We here, at the Indelible Wine Stain, are so very proud to announce the Speed Wine Box Breakdown Championship…the only professional contest that recognizes the true backbone of the wine industry.

The breaking down of endless mountains of sog-warped, tape-wrapped, and awkwardly glued cardboard boxes at lightning speed.

Why Enter?
Exactly.
Wine service isn’t just about swirling glasses by your ears, memorizing soil types or dropping the latest word from the winery into casual conversation.
The true working professional knows the bitter truth. Like a Steel Beater’s blisters that mark the hand of a daily work-beast that lives to grind.

We all know that wine competitions celebrate blind tasting, food pairing or obscure trivia about vineyards. But for the first time, the wine world is confronting its greatest hidden skill:
breaking down shipping boxes for recycling.

However, before we venture into this amazing competition - what is cardboard?
Where is it from?
Was it invented? Or is it grown on the cardboard tree?
and by whom and for what purpose?

The Cardboard Story

Just as Pinot Noir shall express nuance across soils, so too does packaging-design whisper secrets of logistics, engineering and cost constraints.
All you need do is listen to the package…

In 1817, in Olde England (or Ang-Land as it should be pronounced, after all it is the land of the Anglo-Saxons and definitely not a Gland) could be found the firm of M. Treverton & Son. They created the first Paper Board box - now known as the ancestor of the modern folding carton. These were not corrugated however, as the world would have to wait a little longer for that.

In the 1840s in France, Silk Producers in Valréas took to using perforated paperboard boxes to transport “Bombyx mori eggs,” and for more than a century the manufacture of cardboard boxes was a major industry there. It was known by some as France’s “Cardboard Capital.”

Tall Hats
In 1856, in England again, Healy & Allen patented corrugated paper as a liner for tall hats but not for shipping… after all the taller the hat, the finer the man.

By 1871, this caught on and Albert L. Jones, from New York, New York patented single-face corrugated paper wrapping for fragile items, such as bottles, small lamps, a decorative Christmas Imp or a Giant’s thimble.

This was the first step towards what we know as the cardboard box.

Brooklyn printer, Robert Gair in a mind-melting move, discovered he could cut and crease paperboard in one press pass, enabling pre-cut folding cartons. This was a breakthrough for mass-made boxes and later for branded retail packaging!

Then, in 1895, Henry Norris and Robert Thompson produced the first corrugated boxes. They were sold to Wells Fargo for shipping as they were lighter and cheaper than wood, though early couriers distrusted them.

By the early 20th century, corrugated shipping cartons began displacing wooden crates. Corrugated cases enabled produce to travel long distances with less bruising, opening new retail and export channels.

The advent of lightweight flaked cereals increased the use of cardboard boxes. The first to use cardboard boxes as cereal cartons was the Kellogg Company.

What are the different types?

When you order wine, it doesn’t just teleport to your door…yet.

These days, it travels in carefully engineered packaging.
Here’s a peek at the unsung heroes that protect your bottles along the way and of course, these are the challenges facing our contestants!

The Classics

The 12-Bottle Case (RSC/FEFCO 0201)
The Workhorse. The Donkey.
Four flaps meet in the middle, usually with pulp or foam trays inside.
Cheap, efficient and everywhere.
The Downsides? Inserts that stick like cling film and the occasional papercut.

6-Bottle Reinforced Case (A.K.A the Double-Wall)
The Premium Napa of shipping boxes.
Sturdy, thick and tape-heavy - like a 1980s radio DJ.
Built for smaller shipments that still need muscle.
More expensive and heavier, but far less likely to crumple.

The Inserts

Molded Pulp
Recycled paper molded into snug bottle cradles.
Eco-friendly, nestable and widely recyclable. Doesn’t love rain or humidity.

EPS Foam
Foam coffins for bottles.
Excellent protection and insulation.
Shipping carriers love them but terrible for storage space and landfill optics.

Die-Cut Corrugated Pop-Ups
All-cardboard dividers that fold into place.
Ship flat, recycle easily, look neat.
Less cushioning but quick to assemble.

Honeycomb Sleeves (A.K.A. Flexi-Hex)
Each bottle gets a paper honeycomb jacket inside a carton.
Plastic-free and gift-ready but don’t expect a lot of insulation.

Inflatable Air Sleeves
Individual bubble cocoons you pump full of air.
Space-saving and protective until one leaks.

Wooden Crates

Reserved for collectable bottles.
Heavy, expensive, splinter-prone but undeniably classy.

Now that you are a Cardboard Connoisseur, let’s go back to the Speed Wine Box Breakdown Champions Championship!

What is the Format?

We are happy to release this information for those daring entrants that wish to design a 3-month training montage…

Well, Ladies and Gentlemens, watch in awe as Contestants face a grueling gauntlet of real-world, mind-boggling, Box-Breakdown scenarios.

Round 1: The Burgundy Gauntlet
Twelve-staple boxes designed by medieval sadists.
Points deducted for bleeding on the floor.

Round 2: The Case Purchase Direct from Winery Tape-Off
Five rolls of industrial-strength tape entwine around the cardboard like an Anaconda to a neck. Judges award flair points for use of knee leverage.

Round 3: The Six-bottle Styro-Shipper!
Can you break them down without your mind wandering to the landfills?

Round 4: The Grand Finale
A forklift drops a tower of mixed imports crates.
It’s a chaotic mess of multi-box madness as our champion rises to the top!

The Prizes

The champion will receive the utmost respect from wine workers worldwide and a Golden Box Cutter Trophy!

and also…
a lifetime supply of sticky band-aids.

The Fine Print
Safety goggles mandatory. Disqualifications for illegal moves such as the “Inverness Stomp” and the “Lodi Bottom Bomb.” Competitors found sneaking in a Twin or a lookalike to attempt the “Old Switcheroo” will face immediate banishment from the wine industry in general.

If you would like to enter the contest or if you know somebody that might well be the fastest wine box break-downer that you have seen, don’t hesitate to contact us for an application form.

“The new style of Winemaker Dinner has arrived.”

“Paul Hobbs is paired brilliantly with his Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir.”

1945 Château Mouton Rothschild on a Rare Persian Carpet

The Wine: 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild

The star of our tragic spill is none other than a bottle of 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild, a vintage that whispers tales of history, exclusivity and the art of winemaking at its peak. This particular year marks not just the end of World War II but also the beginning of a legend, as the vineyard's yield produced a wine so sublime, it's been heralded as the “victory vintage.” With only a few bottles left in the world, each sip is like drinking a liquid legend, valued at an eye-watering $20,000 per bottle. Reginald’s father had bought it on release, so of course it was only 6 bob.

The Carpet: The Persian Masterpiece

Underneath this liquid treasure lay another: a rare Persian carpet from the Qajar dynasty. Woven with threads of gold and the finest silk, it depicted the epic tales of Persian heroes and heroines, interlaced with motifs of paradise gardens…a masterpiece valued at over $100,000. It was not merely a rug; it was a narrative fabric of ancient lore and luxury.

The Spill

On a fateful evening in early October, as Reginald decided to uncork the monumental 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild to celebrate his 78th birthday, disaster struck.

As he carefully stepped from his kitchen to living room, unbeknownst to him, a handful of decanter ball bearings, tiny spheres designed to aid in the cleaning of his wine decanters, had escaped their container and found their way onto the wooden floor.

The bottle slipped from his grasp, time slowed as the precious liquid arced through the air, landing not in the eager glasses of his guests but upon the historic fibers of the Persian rug.

The Wine Stain

“An aromatic symphony with top notes of freshly picked blackberries and plum. Complex layers, revealing themselves in waves. Velvet mouthfeel, hints of tobacco reminding us of Churchill’s Yalta Cigar. Smooth tannins worthy of a jazz solo, Coltraning on the mid-palate. Some rug fluff on the tongue as licks of the wine reveal sensation that only time can show.”

Reginald's tale is not just a story of a spill; it's a toast to the fragility of perfection, the beauty in imperfection, and the indelible marks our passions leave on the tapestry of our lives.

I remember…and I may be one of the only ones left who does, the seductive sound of a crusty cork being pulled by candlelight in the cellars of Chambolle during the blackout of 1947.

It was a kind of “hush-pop,” a “sha-clom,” like the liquid made a sigh that had been waiting forty years to exhale. No screech, no gasp, no fizz - just release.

I remember that it was a dignified affair back then and even if the floor was damp, the sommelier had a good stance, opened the bottle by putting it between his boot heels and pulled upwards, even if he had only one good thumb to grip with. Remember, thumbs separate us from rest of the animals.

These days, everyone’s in a hurry. Hurry to go where?
Don’t let us hurry to Heaven, there’s plenty to be done here.

These modern heathen “Somms” - they twist, they hiss, they grunt by the table like a caveman and sneer as they saber bottles with salad tongs.

I once saw a young man open a Cremant de Bordeaux with an umbrella.

So yes, I am writing now for the “Indelible Wine Stain” and it is time. Time for a proper guide. Not just how to open wine, but who, where and with what?

A guide to corkscrews, to tongs and tricks, to spoons and shoes and things that shouldn’t work but sometimes do. A guide for hands but also the heart.

Let us begin, if you don’t mind a little waffle from me Albert Waffling, the oldest Sommelier in the world…

Long before there were “Somms” - shortened from the word Sommelier, because it’s easy to pronounce - there were men and women with tools.

Some sharp, some entirely unnecessary but splendidly ceremonial.

You know, the “Corkscrew” emerged from the “musket worm,” an old military implement used to remove bullets from gun barrels. In 1795, Reverend Samuel Henshall patented the first modern corkscrew. I once owned a Henshall original. It unscrewed the truth from a bottle of Madeira with such grace.

Then came the “Waiter’s Friend,” patented in 1882 by Karl Wienke. It had a worm and a lever, quite the fancy-pants back then. If you had one of these in your apron, you had dignity. I named mine Claudette after a lady that I courted, called Claudette.

The “Ah-So” (or Butler’s Friend) arrived for those moments when the cork was too old to be pierced. Two blades, slipped beside the cork, and rocked back and forth, coaxing the cork upward with the delicacy of lifting a sleeping cat. Spies used them to sneak sips. Lovers used them to impress. Claudette became so jealous, I caught her with my best friend… it was my loss.

Some opened bottles with Port Tongs - iron clamps heated in flame, then wrapped around the bottle neck, followed by a splish of cold water. The neck snaps clean off you know, and the wine breathes for the first time since I was sober. I think that they were developed from a medieval torture device.

And of course, there is the art of Sabrage. That is to say, opening of a bottle of Champagne with a saber. Theatrical, dangerous and delightful. I’ve seen it done with ski poles, with spoons, with high heels and the base of a flute. Once, Musty Osmosis did it with his nose. We never speak of that evening.

There were other contraptions: the crank-lift, the windmill worm, the cork claw, the spring-loaded waiter-killer, the Whisper Key (said to open bottles through voice resonance), the Scring-Luniktef, Randolph’s Scissors and of course, who could forget the infamous Saint-Vincent Flame Spout, which required a candle, a chant and a priest with knowledge of the Secret Bacchusian Cults. Those were the days… so many options.

Now we live in an age of tools that open wine with such ease.

There is the “Durand,” named for my dear friend Yves Durand. He, a Master Sommelier (a Sommelier that is the Master of all other Sommelier), a television host (for those that remember tele-vision) and spiritual steward of aged corks. Invented by Mark Taylor, the Durand combines a worm with the blades of an Ah-So, allowing one to extract ancient corks without a single crumble. It is, I must admit, the finest modern opener.

Yves taught many. Aldo Sohm, Pascaline Lepeltier, even Larry Stone passed through his orbit. He once told me, “A cork remembers how you treat it.”
I told him the same was true of wild cats, like my friend Chairman Meow.

Then, there is the “Coravin,” which lets one pour wine without removing the cork, using a secret gas and a thin needle. It’s brilliant. The cork never knows.

And the screwcap?
Twist and go. No ceremony. Functional, but like taking communion from a Church vending machine.

We also now open wine with shoes. Yes. A bottle in the heel of a loafer, banged rhythmically against a wall until the cork budges. It works, sometimes. Though your wall may not forgive you and I avoid doing this table-side.

Always remember to take off your shoe first…a mistake I have learned from.

Talk of the future? Ah yes. The future.

Will we open wine with our minds? With thought-controlled devices? Will a neural implant deliver the memory of wine without the mess of drinking it?

Or maybe bottles will no longer exist. You’ll inject the serum into your arm and the memory will shimmer into your mind like a beautiful medicine.

All I ask is this dear stainers: please let the sound of a popping cork remain. Even if it’s simulated.

In every cork lies a story. In every opener, a philosophy. From tongs and swords to gas needles and telepathic hums, we have tried to tame the bottle.

But wine must always be freed. Carefully. Elegantly. Preferably with human hands rather than a robot from the future.

Choose your tools wisely. Honor your teachers. And if your cork breaks, don’t panic. Just ask yourself: what would good old Albert Waffling do?