Perfect ruby. Flatulent nose so infused with fatty *whatever* fruit I can’t even begin to describe it. Sweet decadent nectar of low-hanging fruit rotting near the vodka-soaked ground with no real wine characteristics. I’ve had Mountain Dew from the fountain at Burger King more varietally correct than this. I’ve had Herman Story’s with more acid and Justin cabs with more interesting nuance. Wet carpet pee-stain–obfuscatingly glycerine–so middle-age-perfume-tasting-room-doused and moist sawdust nothingness-infused with a fabricated vanilla plum fairy smelling about as natural as clean Pampers.
In the mouth, is this Zinfandel? Really? By whose standards? Diesel-exhaust fart-stain rolling over the tongue with the bitter finale the lowest-common-denominator big-hat maxi-dress demographic have learned equates to red wine: “So big. So Beautiful. So WONDERFUL.” No fruit WHAT. SO. EVER. None. That is not fruit. That is pancake syrup so high on nothing–so falling hollow on nothing.
Who drinks this stuff? Is there even enough Zinfandel fruit in Paso Robles to produce this in sufficient quantities to satisfy the overweight washed-up can-I-speak-to-the-manager frosted-wedge haircuts and mid-life-crisis piercings responsible for making this a blockbuster label? So many questions to go along with a soda-pop label so sexy, so popular, so laughing all the way to the bank.
2016 OPOLO ‘Mountain’ Zinfandel Paso Robles California 15.5