When I read too many wine reviews, I feel like I’m getting smarter and dumber at the same time. On the one hand, I’m learning to talk about wine like the pros do! On the other hand, I’m ingesting a florid word salad that leaves me even more confused about what’s in the bottle.
In honor of “brain rot,” the Oxford Word of the Year for 2024, I’ve compiled a list of wine adjectives that rot my brain when I hear them. From the pretentious and annoying to the merely sloppy and vague, these seven wine words are totally corked.
1. Smooth
Sometimes “smooth” is accurate as a descriptor, but it’s always, always imprecise. You and I might agree that a wine tastes smooth–but until we agree on the source of the smoothness, we may or may not actually be talking about the same thing.
Often, wine writers talk about smoothness in relation to tannins. Soft tannins that glide across your palate without leaving skid marks. Rebellious tannins that have been sent to time-out in a barrel until they learn to mind their manners.
But “smooth” also commonly refers to certain secondary aromas, like vanilla, coconut, and butter. Some tasters use the word to refer to a middle-of-the road wine, one lacking in alcohol “bite,” strong acidity/tannins, or unexpected flavors. A “smooth” wine can simply be a wine that goes down easy like a cool drink of water, a chilled shot of vodka, or a Dallas Blonde (circa 2013, heh).
So is smoothness a sensation, an olfactory quality, or a characteristic of simple, accessible wine? Is smoothness an asset or a fault? It is a mark of maturity and subtlety, or is the smooth wine under-extracted–a chugger, not a sipper? Or does the word just mean the wine tastes expensive, which is often what people really mean when they describe a “smooth” whiskey or “smooth” cigar?
Sure, sure–tell me your wine is smooth. But then tell me more.
2. Flabby
What a strange, gendered, anthropomorphic word for a wine that is lacking in acidity. “Flabby” came up as a correct answer on a wine trivia game I was playing with some lady friends, and every woman at the table simultaneously cringed and rolled her eyes. I mean, is it so hard to say, “Hmm, I believe this wine would benefit from higher acidity, relative to its sugar and alcohol content?” Nope, we’ve settled on “flabby.”
Look, I’m not trying to be the wine-review woke police. Part of the fun of wine writing is the application of random corners of the English lexicon to bottles of grape juice. It’s a creative exercise, and I’m generally here for it, okay?
But the purpose of wine writing–the highest purpose, anyway–is to help the reader decide if they will like what’s in the bottle or not. And the wine critics who habitually use feminine-coded words to describe their impressions (see: voluptuous, demure, flirtatious, naive, racy, tight) are saying more about their gender and sex attitudes than they are saying about the actual wine.
If you don’t believe me that “flabby” is gendered, try this little experiment. Ask a woman friend to name all the synonyms for a “flabby” body part that she can think of off the top of her head. I’ll go first: Bat wings, muffin tops, love handles, spare tires, bread basket, cankles, turkey neck, saddlebags, thunder thighs.
Now ask a man. Anything?
As an elder millennial, I came of age in the thinness-obsessed era of MTV and supermodels. I have dear friends and family who were truly, dangerously affected by toxic body culture. And yes, it’s mainly women who get served endless diet and fitness content every time we open a phone or browser. (Just typing this paragraph means I’ll probably see gross pop-ups for liposuction and injectables along with the endless Wall Street Journal Wine Club ads for about a month.) And now that I know about “flabby,” I feel like I can’t even ask for a Chardonnay recommendation without possibly being served up a side of body consciousness.
3. Fat
According to the venerable Wine Folly’s lexicon, “fat” is on a continuum with “flabby,” but even less desirable. It’s defined as “a wine with fruit but no acidity or tannin.”
What? This came as a surprise to me. I’ve always understood “fat” to be an approving way to describe a full-flavored high-alcohol wine. A wine that is powerful, robust, and satisfying–if a little unsubtle. As in, “Yay, it’s my birthday–I’m going to have a ribeye with a big fat Napa Cab.”
So “fat” is bad? Or it’s good (if that’s what you’re into)? Maybe it’s time we say what we mean, and stop body-shaming the wine.
4. Jammy
I actually like “jammy,” but I’ve had to stop using it so I don’t offend wine reps and hosts. This is one of those cases where what you mean by a word and what people hear when you say it is not the same thing at all.
A jammy wine is fruit-forward and concentrated. It’s typically a young wine, with cooked black and/or red fruit, mouth-filling body, and tannins that don’t overwhelm the prominent flavors of berries and plums. Sometimes there’s a bit of tart-raspberry acidity or earthy bramble that complements its slight sweetness. There are many very delicious wines that fall into this category, including quality Grenache, Syrah, and Zinfandel.
Moreover, when I say “jammy,” I mean the good kind of jam–the kind you get at a farmers’ market, or that comes in little glass jars with French writing on it. The kind that’s thickened with pectin and not high fructose corn syrup. The kind that’s so good on your toast, it makes you want to eat the whole crust.
Jammy wines–provided they have the right acidity–can be divine in combination with rich, nutty, or salty foods. (Just like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!) Jam-makers intend to concentrate and preserve the flavors of their fresh fruit harvest–which, come to think of it, is something that winemakers do as well. Jammy wines can be–and should be–more pucker than Smucker’s.
However, as I’ve met more wine people, I’ve noticed they tend to take “jammy” as a backhanded compliment or worse. No matter how I try to qualify the adjective, what they hear is: “This person thinks my wine tastes like pie filling.” At least Robert Parker’s glossary comes to the defense of the j-word, using it to describe concentrated red wines from exceptional vintages.
5. Oaky
Oaky is another word that can mean a lot of things. Some wines literally taste like oak–like wood chips, sawdust, or shavings. There is new oak and old oak, toasted and charred, American and French. There are even some woodchucks in the wine world who argue over the respective tastiness of oak sourced from specific plots of land.
What is “oaky”? For starters, vanilla aromas are often described as “oaky,” perhaps because it’s easier to say and spell than vanilla-y. Oak can be subtle or prominent. It can add finesse to a wine or ruin one. Oak influence often manifests itself in a red wine as the diverse aromas of cedar, smoke, or spice–or in white wines as coconut or toasted almond. It can add a hint of tannin that doesn’t exactly taste like wood, but rather feels like it on the palate. The tertiary aromas of acorns, bark, or wet fallen leaves could also be described as “oaky”–though this usage isn’t common, I’d venture that it’s technically correct.
Because of the gigantic cluster of techniques, flavors, and aromas associated with oak aging, it’s not a very useful descriptor. I still use it in tasting notes and reviews–but mainly for bourbon or other spirits where new oak is present and the beverage actually tastes like lumber. Otherwise, I prefer the reviewer to pinpoint the oak-derived attributes and describe them.
6. Austere
These are two definitions that Merriam-Webster gives for austere: “Morally strict; ascetic” and “giving little or no scope for pleasure.” And yet wine people, in their infinite craziness, sometimes use “austere” as a compliment indicating a wine’s structure and age-worthiness.
Or alternatively, according to wine columnist Dr. Vinny, it can mean the wine is “simply inexpressive and unpleasant.” It’s really anyone’s guess!
Look, the main ingredients of wine are alcohol (an intoxicant), sugar (delicious), and money. The sparsest of wines is still an indulgence. If you open the bottle and find austerity inside, you’re doing it wrong.
7. Precise
Wine writers love “precise.” So what precisely does it mean? I’ve been told that “precise” is a good thing, describing a wine that expresses the true attributes of its variety, style, and terroir without going off on a lot of different tangents. Synonyms or near-synonyms include “focused,” “characteristic,” “well-defined,” et cetera.
In other words, this piece of wine jargon means that a Merlot tastes like a Merlot, that a Sauvignon Blanc from Loire Valley tastes like a Sauvignon Blanc from Loire Valley. At its laziest, “precise” is a shortcut, a way to get out of describing the wine’s traits in a way that beginning to intermediate readers will understand. “Precise” has a smugness and circularity about it: I know exactly what a Clare Valley Riesling tastes like–and wow, wouldn’t ya know it, this tastes exactly like a Clare Valley Riesling.
“Precise” is subjective because it’s based on the taster’s expectations: This wine has all the qualities that I expect it to have, and none that I don’t expect. (Okay, cool–but some of us don’t know enough yet to approach the wine with all those expectations.) “Precise” is also subjective because complexity in wine is generally considered to be a good thing…except when instead it’s restraint and conciseness that are being admired.
What distinguishes a wine that is “precise” from one that is “simple,” “unadventurous,” or “generic”? It’s hard not to get the sneaking suspicion that the word choice has a lot to do with whether the taster likes the wine or not.
I’m sure I could go on, but you’ll just have to wait till I get my next batch of wine magazines and suss out more fuzzy, fussy, and vaguely sexist wine words. Which wine descriptors do you sip and savor, and which should be dumped out like week-old sangria? Let me know in the comments!
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