The ancient Romans said it well: in vino veritas. "In wine, there is truth." If you’re drunk, you’re not going to be telling any lies; as they say, drunken words are sober thoughts. Today, I’ll be telling the truth about wine, specifically about wine blends.
Just like the origin of all evil things, wine blends showed up kind of insidiously in the past few years and steadily gained popularity. Trader Joe’s even gives samples of them.
You might be wondering why I am writing about the evils of wine blends instead of the evils of boxed wine. The answer ought to be clear: Boxed wine registers into our collective unconscious as an inherent evil akin to a Mussolini or a Stalin. It's evil unless you’re at a music festival or buying boxed wine ironically. Blended wine is like Reagan: He’s flagrantly evil, but people still manage to love him.
Anyhow, I’m going to enumerate some reasons as to why wine blends are such a threat to gastronomy, if not all of Western civilization.
First, every type of wine represents entire traditions of innovation and exploitation (in the non-Marxist definition) of a particular variety of grapes. For as much as these traditions are obviously interrelated, mixing them together is a prime example of bastardization.
Second, related to the previous reason, every grape variety is destined to be one kind of wine. A blend is not a kind of wine. It’s a farce.
Third, if someone sees you in the checkout line buying a blended wine, it should be embarrassing for you. That blended wine might as well be a Slim Jim and some cheese coming out of a can, because what else do you drink blended wine with? Pierogis? "Hey, why don’t you come over tonight? We’re having Chef Boyardee and Texas Toast with a side of jalapeno Cheetos and Fudge Rounds for dessert. Plus, every course is paired with wine blends."
I'll use an example for the fourth reason: You’re having a nice dinner party and get out a wine blend to serve your guests. Uh-oh, the dinner party is as good as dead. Your social status is not only in jeopardy, but in tatters.
Five, what does a wine blend even taste like? Are you going to talk to your colleagues at work and say, "Oh my gosh, we were at dinner, and we had this excellent bottle of — what was it — oh yeah, it was a blend."
Number six is an aesthetic reason: How do you even describe a wine blend? Does the label pick up on the hints of arsenic, burnt rubber and gasoline with that subtle metallic finish? Wine blends are not real, which leads us to reason seven: Everybody was a little kid once and went to Taco Bell to "enjoy" the infinity of possibilities that was the soda machine. This gave rise to the aptly named "suicide," which was a mix of Coke, Mountain Dew, lemonade, maybe fruit punch, etc., that was always a kind of yellowish-brown radioactive color. When you were 7, it tasted good, and it was the best thing ever, but now you’re an adult. Do you really think a "suicide" should be bottled (or boxed) and preserved for eternity?
Eight: Imagine you’re in an OK sort of restaurant and you ask for the house wine, knowing that it’s crappy and a baby-step from undrinkable, but it’s cheap. Blended wine is eight steps below that.
Nine, let’s think in terms of ergonomics: When you buy a bottle of mixed wine, you pass up on two bottles of real wine. Does that make you feel efficient?
The tenth and final reason: As college students, we cannot forget the Bacchanalian underpinnings of our experience, which is to say, per the old adage: wine, women and song. Chances are, the women and the song (or men and country ballad) are going to be a letdown, so you ought to at least make sure the wine is good.
In case you didn’t get the message, wine blends are bad. The future of the world hinges upon what you put in your mouth tonight. Or after class. Or before class. Santé.
Jordan MacKenzie is a second-year UF linguistics master’s student. His column appears on Wednesdays.
