Staining ruby with a ridiculously abrupt edge. Oxidized, warm-ooze nauseous nose of pitchy compost and the smoking embers of wasted dreams and smoldering vinyl seats. Flat and dull as a raisin shit on and left by the 395 to be eviscerated by Goodyear and the sweltering sun, a flabby concoction of rotten fruit exposes itself to passing motorists like a hung-over stripper well past her prime.
Literally the same in the mouth. Flatulent dull nothingness spikes pruney fruit against a burning car-crash of bitter dearth and flame. Flat and acrid and fiery with absolutely no fruit–HOW THE FUCK OLD IS THIS THING? Hold on I gotta go check the label. 2017. You gotta be fucking kidding me. Holy wow what a train-wreck of a wine. Basically home-wine. I’ve actually had home-wine better than this. Chemically and rancid to GEOGRAPHICAL proportions, this thing seriously needs to go to Parker so it could pass up Autry for the new official LOWEST SCORE EVER on the Central Coast. Way to go Paso.
Gasoline and rotten fruit and broken glass and death, you literally can’t get this stuff out of your glass fast enough.
2017 JEFF BRANCO CELLARS ‘Bell Tower Red’ Paso Robles 14.2