The Myth of the Perfect Wine

There’s a certain kind of wine you open and think, Wow. That’s flawless.
It’s balanced. Seamless. It checks every technical box.
And then I realize, I’m bored out of my mind.

Perfect Doesn’t Mean Moving

I’ve tasted wines that were textbook examples of quality—long finish, integrated oak, varietal typicity, yada yada yada. And I’ve also tasted wines that didn’t quite make sense, but stayed with me for days. Wines that tugged at something I couldn’t explain. Wines that felt like they had something to say.

The difference? One was polished. The other was alive.

Who Decides What Perfect Means Anyway?

For years, I studied the benchmarks. I chased scores. I memorized what a “classic” wine from a given region should taste like. But eventually, that framework started to feel like a ceiling.

When we idolize perfect wines, we leave no room for surprise.
No space for wines that break their own rules and still taste like home.

The Wines I Remember Most Aren’t Perfect

They’re volatile. Uneven. Understated. Weird.
Sometimes they fall apart by the second glass.
But they were honest in that first moment—and that’s what mattered.

I don’t want wines that impress me. I want wines that stop me.
Wines that feel like they weren’t made to win, but to connect.

Why This Matters to Me Now

As I go back through my WSET Diploma notes, I’m struck by how much of our language is based on ideal outcomes: balance, concentration, typicity, structure.

But here’s what I’m remembering—some of the most meaningful wines I’ve ever had would’ve failed those tests. And I wouldn’t change a thing.