Sticker Schlock

Back in my dating days I had a favorite bottle of wine that was as intrinsic to my courting ritual as an obnoxious splash of Xeryus cologne and my glove-tight, pleated black Z. Cavaricci pants (don’t ask). It was called Fleur de Carneros, a soft, fruity eight-buck pinot noir that was the second label of California’s renowned Carneros Creek Vineyards. Though the wine was a delicious prelude to a kiss, it was the label that always got ’em: a blowzy, heaving bouquet of just-cut bright red roses practically popping off a vanilla background. Sure, I could have brought my dates real roses, but instead I offered them romance encapsulated—a token of chivalry, a vision of beauty, a bottle of sophistication—and it got them tipsy. Worked every time.

Think they were suckers? Come on, admit it: Even you fancy-schmancy sophisticates who endlessly argue the finer points of Alsatian versus Austrian rieslings sometimes buy wine based on how pretty the label is. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. We all like villas on Tuscan hillsides, cuddly koalas, frogs sporting chapeaux, and cute names like Sin Zin and Marilyn Merlot. And yes, we like big beautiful bouquets of flowers.

That’s because buying wine is just like dating. Before we consider getting to know what’s inside, we assess the package. Pretty labels do decorate some good wines: I love the childish feel of the Magnificent Wine Co. House Red Wine design and the modern look of the nonbuttery California Solex chardonnay. But the reverse is equally true. For instance, Newbury Street’s Bauer Wine & Spirits stocks six pinot noirs from Oregon. Co-owner Howie Rubin says the Benton Lane, with its clever label designed like an oversize antique stamp, complete with a scalloped edge and showing the vintage in place of the price, outsells the arguably better but ugly-labeled St. Innocent Shea and Antica Terra by two to one.

And therein lies the problem: A label tells you nothing about whether the wine is good, and yet that’s how most of us choose what to drink. I’ve had plenty of mediocre wines bearing great labels, like Francis Ford Coppola’s Sofia Blanc de Blanc, and just as many great wines with ugly labels, like Andrew Quady’s Essensia dessert wine, whose busy psychedelic designs don’t begin to foretell the golden nectar inside, nor the legendary winemaker behind it.

So what’s a poor grape-lover to do? I asked everyone from award-winning logo designers to Boston’s top sommeliers and wine buyers for advice on how to judge a wine by its label. And they all said the same thing: Are you f***ing kidding me? There is absolutely no way to tell. Thanks. That’s really helpful.

It wasn’t always so confusing. As recently as the ’80s—when it was mostly snobs who knew the difference between Minervois (a region) and Mondavi (a winemaker) doing the buying—simple labels with region, grape, and vintage information sold great bottles of French Burgundy and Bordeaux and Italian Barolo and Brunello. Today, in contrast, it takes bright colors and critters to unload a bottle of wine, especially for selections priced between $8 and $15, what the trade calls the “premium” level. (Funnily, wine, like gasoline, is categorized as premium, super-premium, and ultra-premium.) Take Australia’s Yellow Tail, with its bounding-kangaroo label: It sold 90 million bottles in the United States last year.

The hits just keep on coming. According to market watcher ACNielsen, about 1,000 brands of wine debuted between 2003 and 2005, of which only about 400 rang up at least $20,000 in sales. Among those top 400, the dominant forces were the so-called critter wines—led by the Aussies, who just can’t help putting animals on their bottles; they outsold the competition by more than two to one. Likewise, wines with catchy names like Fat Bastard and Arrogant Frog are on the rise; I imagine this is because they register high on the irreverence scale. New-generation wine lovers just don’t seem to be drawn by all the premier cru this and grande riserva that on those refined classic labels.

The locals, of course, have caught on. Boston-based importer Jorge Ordonez, who brings in 150 wines from more than 40 wineries in Spain, took two years to get the label right for his hugely popular Luzon, a juicy and ridiculously affordable red wine from the Jumilla region. “It was originally Finca Luzon, and the label had an old man holding a boy’s hand,” says Ordonez. “People don’t like the word ‘finca,’ which means ‘farm,’” and the picture was weird. So he and his Needham-based design firm, GoBig, went minimalist, choosing a black label dominated by overlapping translucent letters spelling out “Luzon.” You have to stare awhile to figure it out, which is surely the point. Within four months, the wine became one of his top sellers, alongside his newest hit from Jumilla, Juan Gil, a $16 wine that Ordonez says looks as though it costs $25 because of the label’s metallic matte finish. The tricks work, and in this case the wines are delicious.

But so are the many bottles without the benefit of gorgeous packaging. And wouldn’t it be a shame to miss out on them? So here’s a challenge to kick off the fall fashion season: Buy an ugly duckling bottle and see if it becomes a gorgeous swan in the glass. Choose the least eye-pleasing one in your price range. Or take the easy route and try one of my favorites, all of which are available in the Boston area: the rooster-rampant Rex Goliath Cabernet ($8.99), the dreary, palm-frondy Sanford (of Santa Rita Hills Pinot Noir fame, $32), or the tacky, two-tiered Rosenblum Zinfandel Vintners Cuvée ($11.99). Because when it comes to wine, beauty is not in the eye, but on the palate, of the beholder.