I’m not going to link to it or name the writer since I’m not into calling people out for minor transgressions. But I recently read an article from a wine writer entitled “Why Tasty is the Only Tasting Note that Matters?” Anything else is gatekeeping and will make people feel bad.
Are we writing for children?
Of course wine should be tasty. That’s the point of fermentation. But once you get beyond the rock-bottom shelf, almost everything is at least pleasant enough to swallow with a smile. Winemaking has gotten quite consistent. I can count on one hand the number of wines I’ve had this year that weren’t tasty, and I taste widely. So telling me a wine is “tasty” is like telling me a chair is “sit-able.” Good to know in a medieval dungeon, useless in a furniture store.
The article I read—well intentioned and hospitable—argues that “tasty” is an invitation, a way to remove barriers, to keep wine friendly. I agree with the spirit. No one needs a priesthood to pour Pinot. But friendliness is not the same as information, and wine writing owes readers the latter. Telling me you like a wine is all well and good. Bully for you. But that doesn’t tell me whether I will like it. If the vast majority of wines are tasty, then “tasty” carries almost no signal. It doesn’t tell me whether the citrus is candied or pithy, whether the oak whispers pastry cream or shouts lumberyard, whether the tannins are silk gauze or chalk dust, whether a green, pyrazinic edge will light up my roasted peppers or clash with them. “Do you want another sip?” depends on these differences.
This is not gatekeeping; it’s guidance. When a writer says “tennis ball, petrol, cat pee, crushed river stones, blueberry compote,” they’re not auditioning for poet laureate; they’re doing consumer advocacy. They’re mapping the thing so you, with your own preferences and memories, can decide. If you adore the whiff of struck match, or loathe it, that note matters before you spend money. Calling that “going overboard” mistakes specificity for snobbery.
There’s also a deeper aesthetic point that shouldn’t be surrendered to the fear of sounding clever: pleasure has texture, tempo, and personality. A wine’s loveliness is not a static fact (“tasty”) but a trajectory—how the nose opens, where the mid-palate swells, what the finish does to your attention. Does acidity carry the melody or does the bass-line hold down the structure? Does bitterness chisel the fruit or flatten it? Is there a moment thirty seconds in when savory notes overtake the sweetness and you feel the wine turn? These micro-dramas are why we talk about wine at all. They’re the source of wonder and the grounds on which preference becomes articulate.
Dumbing down the language will not rescue the wine industry. It will make wine more interchangeable at precisely the moment when producers need differentiation and drinkers need reasons to care. People fall in love with wine when they discover that a simple word like “lemon” can mean curd, zest, blossom, pith, or preserved—each pointing to different regions, varieties, and styles. Language multiplies pathways into pleasure; it doesn’t block the door.
By all means, keep the welcome mat out. Start with “tasty” if you must. Then do the actual work of description—aromas to be sure but more importantly, textures, structure, evolution, and context. Tell me how this wine differs from the other three I might buy, where it will sing at the table, and who will adore it or flee from it. That’s not elitism. That’s respect—for the reader, for the grower, and for the complicated, shimmering thing in the glass.
Exploring the Philosophy of Food and Wine 