Summary: Dan Berger explores what “great wine” means and suggests it can’t be reduced to popularity or high scores. He argues that greatness depends on balance, complexity and typicity — a wine tasting like what it claims to be and reflecting its place — and that quick, score-driven tasting often misses how wine changes over time, especially with oxygen. He criticizes modern California cabernet for chasing ripeness, oak and alcohol at the expense of regional character and aging ability. He points to Cathy Corison’s 2022 Napa Valley cabernet as a rare example of a restrained, traditionally balanced style that recalls Napa’s earlier benchmarks.
NAPA VALLEY, Calif. — U.S. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, asked to define pornography, said he could not but added, “I know it when I see it.”
That may have been because Stewart knew that simple nudity could well represent art and that some of it is disrespectful or defines prurient sexuality and might not represent any redeeming social usefulness.
People who have little knowledge of fine wine other than it being a grape-derived liquid really don’t have any business declaring what a great example of it is because the various standards for defining greatness in wine are part of the definition. In my view, a great-smelling and -tasting red wine could also fail the test of greatness if it does not display what the label says it should. An example of a not-great wine would be one that smells and tastes just like a terrific example of a cool-climate sauvignon blanc but that has a label that says “chardonnay.”
My Russian-born grandfather once cautioned me against using superlatives too readily lest they become commonplace and lose their meaning. So I have always been inhibited in declaring greatness where a more considered approach truly applies. To use just one example, I have tasted Napa Valley cabernets that have nice aromas and tastes but then have absolutely nothing to do aromatically or gustatorily with cabernet, at least what I define as great.
Although such a wine might fail my definition for greatness (such as having insufficient acidity), there is no question that some people will swoon over the wine’s drinkability or ostentation or lavishness in terms of a multitude of different flavors, such as oak. That makes it widely appreciated, and yet it has nothing to do with a great cabernet.
Just because something is extremely popular (McDonald’s, Coca-Cola, Bud Light) is no reason to declare it to be great.
Many broadly tasty wines pass themselves off as great because they have achieved extremely high scores from those who claim to know a lot about cabernet. Perhaps they do, perhaps not. I believe some wine critics know more about what they like than they do about cabernet — at least not the cabernets that I was weaned on 50 years ago, some of which five decades later have continued to prove remarkable.
In defining the concept of what is a great wine, I wrote an article here a few years ago in which I defined the phrase “authentic wine” as it applies to various varietal wines. It was satisfactory, but it didn’t go far enough. I’m back with a further analysis. Mere popularity has nothing to do with greatness.
Twenty years ago a newspaper’s classical music critic panned a concert by Van Cliburn. She said it was obvious that the pianist had not practiced as much as he should have. She also noted that the audience cheered every piece he played with wild applause, even though the concert was, in her view, a disaster. Perhaps they were applauding Cliburn’s career, she implied.
Reviewing wine entails several requirements beyond just loving something. Declaring wine greatness should include the genre. That also applies to other disciplines and requires deep knowledge of the genre, as well as the flexibility to envision how large or narrow the target is for all readers.
To try to define fine wine with as much objectivity as I possibly could, I asked ChatGPT: “Define the phrase ‘great wine.’”
“Smelling and tasting a wine for three minutes and making a score assessment simply is equivalent to determining the quality of the “Mona Lisa” by examining a black-and-white photo taken 50 feet away with a Brownie camera.”
What it regurgitated was a complex set of components that the internet search system accumulated, which it kindly summarized for me at the end: “In short, a great wine is one that is balanced, complex, expressive and memorable — and importantly, one that you personally enjoy.” (Put in a vacuum, that last requirement might be unnecessary.)
Taking the computer’s points one by one, let’s look at balance. Which immediately calls into question most of the highest-scoring California wines in history. (For reference, I have never scored any wine with a numerical assessment and never will.)
Peruse the literature and look for wines that were awarded 100 points. Then look at how they are described. Just about nowhere will you find the word “balance.” By its almost universal exclusion from wine descriptions, it seems obvious that most reviewers shy away from it — even though balance is an essential in ChatGPT’s definition of great wine.
ChatGPT says balance entails an equilibrium between a wine’s aromatics, extraction (including tannins), mouthfeel and fruit-versus-non-fruit flavor components, as well as ripeness and under-ripeness. This generally takes about 15 minutes or even longer for anyone with any skill to understand. No instant 12-second sniff-sip-spit “analysis.”
Today’s word puzzle:
Challenge your vocabulary with this week’s mystery word. Submit your answer in the poll, and check the bottom of the page for the correct answer.
Wine is a living product. It changes from the moment that fruit first appears on the vine until the cork is finally pulled years later. Only then does oxygen enter the equation. This puts the wine under a sword of Damocles, eventually to fall prey to such decline that it is not drinkable. As wine evolves, knowledgeable people need time to understand where the wine is, what it is doing, how it is reacting to being out of a sealed space and how it has handled the ravages of oxygen.
Grape-growers have told me dozens of times that the best thing they can do is listen to the vines. And winemakers frequently say that they can only decide when to put the cork into the bottle after they have listened to the wine. I honestly believe that neither the grower nor the winemaker is being poetic. A conversation is taking place. You must pay attention to understand what is being said.
Smelling and tasting a wine for three minutes and making a score assessment simply is equivalent to determining the quality of the “Mona Lisa” by examining a black-and-white photo taken 50 feet away with a Brownie camera.
Those who analyze wine must think about fruit. A very good taster may assess the aroma of a red wine that might be called by others “fruity.” I have judged wine in seven countries and have shared notes with judges from more than a dozen nations, and I’ve heard many of them referring to “fruit.” On several occasions, my notes showed that the wines were picked too late for the wine’s “fruit” to be long-lasting. It is faintly overripe. Vineyard oxidation had already deteriorated one aspect of the wine, disqualifying it from the highest score.
Yet some judges adore the instant recognition of fruit. Did I believe that these judges were wrong? No, I simply believe that there wasn’t enough time at the evaluation to do a more thorough (and proper) analysis. Additional time might have revealed that some of the wines’ aroma and/or structure had been altered by aeration.
I have been guilty of this myself. In one competition, I was asked to judge 63 cabernets from Washington. We had less than an hour to do the flight of wines — a minute per wine. One wine that was universally adored got the highest medal in the category. Two weeks later a fresh bottle was mailed to me. I pulled the cork. The wine was good, but a day later it was already oxidized and tired. I realized that I had not given the wine enough time to find its Achilles’ heel.
The next criterion I got from the internet about requirements for a great wine was the simple word, “complexity,” followed by “… multiple layers of aromas and flavors that evolve as you smell and taste it — fruits, spices, earthiness, floral notes, etc.”
I agree with this definition, but one problem exists here. Complexity should not, in my view, be elements that were generated through artificial means. Every winemaker who makes wine in this world knows what I am talking about. And one of the most egregious examples is with cabernet sauvignon.
One hundred years ago, almost everywhere that wine was made it was aged not for flavoring but for maturity. Aging wine gave it grace and allowed some flavors to knit. Heaven knows, cabernet needs something like grace. Of all the grapes that make popular table wine in this world, CS has probably more tannin and potential for ludicrously painful astringency than just about any other popular variety.
Early on in this industry, cabernet and other reds were aged in giant upright wooden vats. Later some winemakers decided to use smaller oak barrels because they appeared to mature the product a little more efficiently. Besides, newer barrels rarely had the strange “funky” aromas that are difficult to remove from old redwood vats.
One consequence of using smaller barrels was that the wine coming out of them occasionally could take on aroma characteristics that smelled a bit like roasted nuts, roast coffee, vanilla bean, cocoa and several other compounds that had absolutely nothing to do with cabernet. Several wine critics began to like these man-made smells.
“Wine is a living product. It changes from the moment that fruit first appears on the vine until the cork is finally pulled years later.”
When some of these wines were blessed with scores from 95 to 100 points, most people began to believe that these scents were required if a wine was to be considered by an expert to be great. So wine buyers were carefully taught to appreciate non-cabernet aromatics. One resulting buzz was that “great” cabernet began to be described in terms that had nothing to do with the grape.
Today the word “complexity” seems to be required in all great cabernets, but only if that complexity relates to the charred interiors of French oak barrels. The complexity I am looking for is regionally relevant cabernet. This means that a potentially excellent wine will have traces of the grape’s genetic heritage — which, believe it or not, often are disparaged by those who give out scores. So when the word “complexity” is used by ChatGPT, it is not properly defined in the terms I would use.
The third element of greatness in wine that the internet proposes is “typicity (sense of place).” Most wine-lovers know what this refers to when they think about overseas place names. They immediately conjure up images when they hear of Chablis, Hermitage, Barolo, Saar, Clare Valley, Champagne, Sherry and Rioja.
These are all places in which grapes are grown and produced that carry as their main identifier the place names I just mentioned. If the name of the grape is identified, the above wines refer to wine that corresponds with other wines of the same type and style because they embody the character of the soil.
Sometimes a wine speaks of its place eloquently when linked to a variety, such as cabernets from Coonawarra or Margaret River, Willamette Valley pinot noir, gewürztraminers from Alsace and Anderson Valley, Grand Cru Burgundy, Chianti Gran Selezione and syrahs from Martinborough or Hawke’s Bay.
About 50 years ago, Napa, too, displayed subregional characteristics for its cabernet. Knowledgeable people who paid strict attention to style knew there was a difference between the cabs of the Stags Leap District, Howell Mountain, Mount Veeder, Santa Cruz Mountains and Sonoma Mountain.
Today the most typicity-driven wines in California are the great chardonnays and pinot noirs that are coming from western Sonoma County. And there is no secret to why prices for these wines are rising. They are prototypical. They are exciting. They are reliable, and they deliver personality that really defines typicity.
(One subtle debate/discussion that has arisen with different groups of people with whom I am connected is which region produces the most interesting pinot noirs, the older and more established Russian River Valley or the newer, evolving Petaluma Gap? Or the west Sonoma coast, Anderson Valley or unique pockets in Oregon?)
But in our quest to define a great wine, typicity seems to have been obliterated in the world of California cabernet sauvignon because of the almost maniacal demand for high scores, oak, alcohol and thus for higher prices. Most wineries would be hard-pressed to defend this point of view. But in the last 30 years I have never seen anyone give a high-scoring cabernet additional points for being representative of where it was grown.
In fact, no one has really investigated this concept since I did in the early 1990s, even though powerful forces in the valley tried to get me to abandon my interest in this subject. And things have changed appreciably since that time. Terroir here may exist, but no one cares about that at all.
I did fail to give the internet credit for its extra definition of typicity. Here it is: “Great wines reflect where they come from — this is often called terroir. For example:
“A Bordeaux wine might show structure and dark fruit.
“A Napa Valley wine might be richer and more fruit-forward.”
Uh, that’s it? Doesn’t anybody remember how silky and graceful wines from Stags Leap were? How minerally and age-worthy Mount Veeder cabs were? Or the sage-y cabs of Rutherford? It is utterly simplistic and completely avoids the European notion that Chinon is not just cabernet franc, it is a Loire Valley cabernet franc. Or that a Chiroubles isn’t just a gamay noir, it is a Cru Beaujolais.
And because of these definitions, defining a great example of them is made a little easier for the evaluator. That’s because oak-laden cabernet francs probably will never be defined as great wines because in the Loire they are not aged in small barrels. Oak flavors destroy their métier.
At this point a good friend who lives in Napa might excoriate me for getting geeky and “putting too fine a point on it.” But when your definition of “great wine” (which is equivalent to giving a wine 100 points) fails to explain any of the parameters that were taken into account when blessing a wine, not only are consumers short-changed, but they are also cheated in that the number cannot possibly discuss style.
Oh, sure, even the internet would suggest that “a Napa Valley wine might be richer and more fruit-forward,” but that leaves behind more than a century’s worth of local history. If we look back, Napa Valley once produced wines as magnificent — and truly balanced — as the 1968, 1969 and 1970 BV Private Reserve Cabernets. All remain astounding examples of the great work of André Tchelistcheff.
Literally many dozens of examples still exist to prove that these wines not only lived until they were 45 and 55 years old but they were intended to be aged. Many did. So many examples could be given that an enormous book could not do justice to the names, which includes some of the smallest, most underfunded family-owned operations in the history of the state.
Many of the highest-priced cabernets today are extolled primarily because they were given a high score by someone. In almost every case the wine simply does not represent Napa, not the way the truly great wines of the past once did, when regional character counted and gave everyone a bonus.
Think of all the history that has been plowed under in the quest for bigger, richer, more concentrated wines that, as a group, have demolished regional identity in the name of mammon. Think of all the time that has been squandered that might have been used to identify the uniqueness in various estates or singly owned vineyards.
Most people who follow the industry closely know of Martha’s Vineyard and vineyards by the name of Backus, Stelling, Dollarhide, Diamond Creek’s unique trio and Bosché. And what do we know of estate properties like those at Mayacamas, Chateau Montelena, Spring Mountain, Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars, Robert Keenan, Silverado, Bonnie’s Vineyard, Trefethen, Smith-Madrone … The list would be almost endless and would merely remind me how sad it is that history has been ignored.
And connected with these cab vineyards are key people who almost never get mentioned, most of whom respected the soil and established a house style for cabernet that lasted until later arrivals compromised it.
Some of the winemakers remain with us. Among them are Ric Forman, Chuck Ortman, Ed Sbragia, Randle Johnson, Doug Fletcher, Craig Williams, Lee Stewart, Bob Mondavi, Cathy Corison, Zelma Long, Tom Rinaldi, John Williams, Ken Deis, Jerry Luper, Bill Sorenson, Brad Webb, Bernard Portet, André Tchelistcheff — and the list could continue.
In concluding its reply to the “great wine” query, the internet added two more requirements. One was aging potential, and the other was emotional impact.
As for aging potential, I could name maybe a dozen Napa Valley producers whose cabernets age well and can be consumed by the purchaser to be drinkable before his or her demise. Most of today’s wines, however, will die an ugly death far short of any aging regimen that the purchaser chooses to use.
It is extremely difficult to make a great wine that tastes great when it is young and then also ages fantastically. Unless, of course, you can train someone with a European palate to appreciate astringency because of the charms that a young wine will deliver and the patience to do scientific homework using all of the statistics that all wineries already know but refuse to tell anyone.
The final edict of emotional impact is from ChatGPT: “This is the intangible part: A great wine creates a memorable experience — whether it’s tied to a meal, a place or a moment.” For people who want soft, sweet cabernet, for people who want a red wine that has nothing to do with the grape variety on the label and for people who do not care about regional personality, there’s zero emotional impact. Drink it with a (paper) straw if you like.
But I think it is sad that people who buy cases of wines from the birth year of a scion and carefully age them until that person reaches the legal age, at which he or she may consume it. They will probably end up being disappointed that there is a little transcendence remaining in the wine. No varietal personality — there never had been any. It was cooked out of the wine by too-late a harvest.
It probably was made from fruit that was excessive to the point of pruniness. It likely had slatherings of oak either from new barrels, toasted chips, charred staves or some other artificial interloper. It may have been too astringent, and it may have had enough alcohol to decontaminate a 1927 Ford running board.
I adore Napa cabernets when they are made properly. I’m just disappointed that so much fabulous fruit has been squandered, diverted away from greatness and toward perdition. Fortunately, some sanity remains.
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Dan Berger has been writing about wine since 1975.
Wine Discovery:
2022 Corison Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley ($140): The first sniff distinctly identifies an absolutely classic Napa Valley aroma, one that would be recognizable to anyone who recalls the wines of the past. Fruit is a classic combination of muted blackberry with delicate hints of sage, summer savory, thyme and dried berries. The taste is precise and as delicate as were some of the old 1960s and 1970s Beaulieu Rutherford wines for which André Tchelistcheff and Richard Peterson were famed. One reason is that this wine has previously never existed. From winemaker Cathy Corison: “In 2023, winter and spring rains broke a three-year drought in the Napa Valley and were followed by one of the longest growing seasons in over a decade, with consistent mild weather throughout the season. Ideal weather at flowering yielded bumper crops that enjoyed the luxury of extended hang time, producing one of the most celebrated vintages ever. The 2023 Rutherford cabernet boasts classic ‘Rutherford dust’ and dark, savory complexity. Juicy plum, dark berry and cassis fruit combined with cacao notes are synergistically lifted by a lovely violet perfume.”
Today’s Polls:
Recent Wine Poll Results:
In Dan Berger’s article “Wine Chronicles: Natural Wine’s Promise, and Its Limits, for Napa Cabernet,” he explores why Napa Valley cabernet remains a benchmark grape while examining the ongoing debate around natural wine. Berger highlights how “natural” winemaking is still loosely defined and often polarizing, with minimal intervention offering intrigue but also risking technical flaws and inconsistency. The reader polls show limited willingness to pay more for natural wine, skepticism toward prioritizing natural methods over technical perfection, and a mix of motivations for interest led by curiosity and health and wellness.
Question: What does the word “mycoderma” mean?
Summary: Definition of mycoderma. Most respondents (64%) identified it correctly as a film-forming spoilage yeast while 32% selected grape skins dried before crush. Only 4% chose mineral haze in bottled wine, and no one selects the remaining options. Total responses: 28.
Question: How much extra would you pay for natural wine?
Summary: Willingness to pay a premium for natural wine. Nearly three-quarters of respondents (73%) would pay no premium. Smaller shares would pay up to 5% more (15%) or 6%-10% more (12%) and no one would pay above 10%. Total responses: 26.
Question: Natural winemaking matters more than technical perfection.
Summary: Natural winemaking versus technical perfection. A majority disagree overall, led by 38% strongly disagreeing and 25% disagreeing. Another 25% are neutral or unsure while 13% agreed and no one strongly agreed. Total responses: 24.
Question: What most drives your interest in natural wine?
Summary: Drivers of interest in natural wine. Curiosity about taste led (29%), followed by health and wellness (24%). Farming and sustainability and less intervention in cellar are tied (18% each) while 12% cite other reasons. Total responses: 17.
This Week's Word Challenge Reveal:
The correct answer is C: “A slight wish or inclination.”
“Velleity” means a weak or passing desire — the faintest degree of wanting something, often not strong enough to lead to action. It is used today to describe an impulse, preference or intention that never quite hardens into commitment. That nuance matters in writing about taste, judgment and choice, especially in fields such as wine, where people often confuse a fleeting liking with a settled conviction.
The word comes from medieval Latin “velleitas,” from the Latin verb “velle,” meaning “to wish” or “to will.” It entered English in the early 17th century and has long been used in philosophy, theology and literary prose to describe incomplete volition — wanting without quite willing. Its staying power comes from its precision: It names the space between curiosity and decision.
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The views, opinions and data presented in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy, position or perspective of Napa Valley Features or its editorial team. Any content provided by our authors is their own and is not intended to malign any group, organization, company or individual.
I think this particular writing by Dan Berger could easily be repeated at least twice annually, if not more often. It covers the basics for wine appreciation, with Dan’s personal thoughts on the subject, based on his years of experience. Fine column.
I’m learning. Thank you.