Hope You Read the Shelf Talker

I read a lot of wine reviews.
Sometimes because I’m curious.
Sometimes because I’m researching.
And sometimes—let’s be honest—because I want something, anything, to tell me what’s actually in the bottle.

But so many reviews don’t say anything at all.

You’ve seen them too:
“Black fruit. Medium tannin. Good structure.”
That could describe a $9 bottle or a $90 bottle. From anywhere. In any style. For any occasion.
And I definitely don’t know if it’s worth drinking.

There’s a quiet, unspoken intimidation that creeps into wine writing—this idea that if you don’t understand the review, you must be missing something.
Even when the language is wrong, the structure is off, and the words are tossed together with a little jargon—trying to sound highbrow, or confident, or just confusing enough that no one wants to admit they don’t get it.

But maybe the truth is simpler:
The review is just… bad.
Maybe the language is vague because the writer wouldn’t risk saying something real.

A good review should leave you with a sense of what’s in the glass.
A great review should leave you with a sense of when and where the bottle belongs.

It should make you feel:

This is right for the rainy night when the power goes out.
This is for when your husband gets the promotion or your friend moves away.
This is the one you open alone—not because you’re lonely, but because you’re finally at peace with the quiet.

That’s what tasting really is.
It’s not just about acid and tannin and fruit.
It’s about place and feeling.

And if we can’t find humanity in the writing, how do we expect to find it in the glass?

Let’s write reviews that make space for honesty, clarity, and truth.

Let’s describe wines the way we remember people—not just by how they looked, but by how they made us feel.
Where we were. What we needed. What they gave us.

Because no one has ever truly loved a wine with “medium-plus acidity.”

They loved it because it met them in a moment—
and stayed with them long after it was gone.