Blind Tasting: Can You Identify a Wine Without Seeing the Label?
Part 3
Until now, we’ve been hiding the label. Let’s try looking at it from the other side.
Blind tasting is based on a simple assumption: if the taster doesn’t know the wine’s name, producer, vintage, or price, all that remains is to judge what’s actually in the glass.
But there’s also the reverse situation. The label is visible. The name of a famous producer is known. The vintage is clearly stated. The bottle’s history has been told in every detail. Can the wine in the glass now confirm that the story is true?
In the world of great collectible wines, this question has long since ceased to be theoretical. Sometimes tasters have been presented with wines whose histories seemed almost unbelievable. Sometimes a famous label concealed something quite different from what the bottle promised. And sometimes someone who knew a wine intimately, having tasted it dozens of times, still failed to recognize it without the label.
In this part, we’ll examine blind tasting from the opposite direction: not only what a label can tell us about a wine, but also what the wine itself can—or cannot—tell us about its label.
► Hardy Rodenstock — When the Label Is Known but the Bottle’s Origins Remain Hidden
👉 Hardy Rodenstock (1941–2018) was a German collector and dealer in rare wines who became one of the most prominent figures in the world of old and exceptional wines during the 1980s and 1990s. His real name was Meinhard Görke. He used the name Hardy Rodenstock professionally. He was initially involved in the music business, but it was an entirely different passion—the search for extraordinarily rare old wines—that brought him international fame.
Rodenstock had an astonishing ability to find bottles that other collectors could only dream of seeing in old auction catalogs. His tastings featured great nineteenth-century Bordeaux wines, historic vintages of Château d’Yquem, and other wines that were sometimes well over a century old. He organized famous tasting sessions lasting many hours, sometimes several days, inviting collectors, wine merchants, and leading wine critics.
Rodenstock was also at the center of one of the most famous mysteries in the history of collectible wine. In the mid-1980s, he announced that he had discovered a collection of eighteenth-century bottles in Paris, engraved with the initials Th.J. Rodenstock claimed that they had belonged to Thomas Jefferson, then the American minister to France, a future U.S. president, and a passionate wine enthusiast. One of these bottles—a 1787 Château Lafite—was sold by Christie’s in 1985 to publisher Malcolm Forbes for what was then a record price. The story of the so-called Jefferson bottles made Rodenstock famous far beyond the relatively small circle of collectors of old wines.
In 1998, he organized an extraordinary vertical tasting of Château d’Yquem in Munich, featuring 125 vintages, including wines from the eighteenth century. Participants in his events included Michael Broadbent, Jancis Robinson, and Robert Parker.
At these tastings, participants often knew perfectly well what was being poured into their glasses. Robinson described, for example, how the famous Jefferson bottles were brought into the room during one of Rodenstock’s tastings. Guests gathered around to examine them, and Rodenstock even displayed the corks that had been removed.
This was almost the complete opposite of blind tasting: the story behind the bottle became part of the experience of tasting the wine.
However, the origins of these bottles later came under serious scrutiny. Researchers were unable to verify the story of their discovery. Specialists at Monticello—Thomas Jefferson’s Virginia estate, where his extensive archives are preserved—found no documentary evidence linking the disputed bottles to Jefferson’s collection.
American collector Bill Koch, who had purchased several bottles believed to have belonged to Jefferson, subsequently initiated legal proceedings, claiming that they were counterfeits. Rodenstock denied the accusations, and the mystery surrounding the bottles remained unresolved at the time of his death.
Some highly respected wine experts tasted Rodenstock’s wines and gave them exceptionally high ratings. Parker described certain wines from one of his tastings as extraordinary, while Broadbent left numerous tasting notes on bottles supplied by Rodenstock.
But the wonderful taste of the wine in the glass could not, by itself, establish the bottle’s historical authenticity.
You can hide a bottle’s label. But sometimes it’s far more important to uncover its history
The result was almost a blind tasting turned upside down:
In a conventional blind tasting, the wine’s identity is concealed so that the taster can evaluate its contents without prejudice
In Rodenstock’s case, the contents could be tasted—but the bottle’s true history remained hidden
► Rudy Kurniawan — The Man Who Recreated Old Wines
👉 Rudy Kurniawan, also known as Zhen Wang Huang, was an Indonesian collector, dealer, and connoisseur of rare wines who became a prominent figure in the American market for expensive collectible wines during the 2000s.
He entered the circles of wealthy wine collectors as a man with an extraordinary passion for great Burgundy and Bordeaux wines. His name became particularly closely associated with rare Burgundies. His ability to identify wines and his love for Domaine de la Romanée-Conti earned him the nickname Dr. Conti.
He attended lavish wine dinners, socialized with collectors and auctioneers, and personally sold enormous quantities of rare wine. According to U.S. investigators, wines worth approximately $35 million were sold through him in 2006 alone.
Rudy genuinely had a reputation as an exceptionally skilled taster. Accounts from people who tasted wines alongside him include some remarkable episodes. Auctioneer John Kapon recalled an occasion when Kurniawan correctly identified approximately 10 out of 12 Burgundies in a blind tasting. Sommelier and winemaker Rajat Parr also said he had witnessed Kurniawan successfully identify most of the wines presented to him blind.
This makes him a particularly unusual character: someone could be both a brilliant wine taster and an outright fraudster.
And more importantly, one talent helped the other.
During Kurniawan’s trial, wine expert Michael Egan explained the connection. To counterfeit wines successfully over an extended period, simply printing a convincing label isn’t enough. A counterfeiter needs considerable knowledge and a highly developed palate to blend wines into a plausible imitation of the original.
Rudy Kurniawan exposed an uncomfortable limitation of wine expertise: a highly trained palate can do more than detect a counterfeit—it can also help create one.
Kurniawan knew what label the taster would see, and he created a wine whose flavor was intended to convince that person the label was genuine.
In effect, he was solving the blind-tasting puzzle in reverse.
The sheer number of extraordinarily rare bottles passing through Kurniawan’s hands gradually began to raise questions.
A particularly important episode occurred in 2008, when Kurniawan offered wines from Domaine Ponsot at auction. Among them were bottles that simply could not have existed—for example, vintages of Clos Saint-Denis from years when Domaine Ponsot had not yet begun producing wine from that vineyard.
Domaine Ponsot’s owner, Laurent Ponsot, intervened, and the suspicious bottles were withdrawn from the auction.
This was no longer a subtle question of tasting analysis. No extraordinary sense of smell was needed to identify the problem: you cannot produce an authentic wine in a year when its producer wasn’t yet making it.
But the real turning point came in 2012. When FBI agents searched Kurniawan’s home in Arcadia, California, they discovered what amounted to a workshop for producing counterfeit collectible wines: old bottles, corks, wax, forged labels, recorking equipment, and dozens of open bottles of less expensive wine.
Rudy Kurniawan’s home after the FBI search in 2012. Old bottles, corks, wax, labels and cheaper wines had turned an ordinary house into a workshop for creating “great vintages” that had never existed
According to investigators and court records, Kurniawan blended younger, cheaper wines in an attempt to reproduce the taste and character of much more expensive, older wines. He poured these blends into genuine old bottles, fitted them with labels and corks he had prepared, and sold them as rare collectible wines.
He wasn’t simply forging a label. He needed to create a wine that would, at least to some extent, match the expectations of someone familiar with what a great old Burgundy should taste like.
It wasn’t just the bottle that was being counterfeited, but the very experience the wine inside was expected to deliver.
In December 2013, a federal jury in New York found Kurniawan guilty of fraud. In August 2014, he was sentenced to 10 years in federal prison. The court also ordered the forfeiture of $20 million and restitution of more than $28 million to his victims.
For Rodenstock, the central question was:
Where did this bottle come from, and can its history be verified?
For Kurniawan:
Can someone manufacture a wine convincing enough to make a false history seem believable?
Both cases bring us to the same limitation of blind tasting:
A taster can evaluate what’s in the glass. But taste alone is not a certificate of a bottle’s provenance.
You can enjoy a brilliantly constructed blend. You can detect characteristics of an old Burgundy. You might even give it an exceptionally high score.
But no aroma can prove that a bottle genuinely deserves to bear the name Romanée-Conti 1945.
Rodenstock forced the wine world to question whether a bottle’s history could be trusted
Kurniawan demonstrated an even more disturbing possibility: sometimes the contents of a counterfeit bottle can be convincing, too
Hardy Rodenstock and Rudy Kurniawan. Two very different stories of wine fraud: in one case, the bottle’s provenance was shrouded in mystery and doubt; in the other, the production of counterfeit rare wines was proven in court. Different methods—the same vulnerability of the wine world: faith in a great name on the label
🍷 The Neighbors
Two great Bordeaux estates—Mouton Rothschild and Lafite Rothschild—are located not far from each other. By Médoc standards, they’re practically next-door neighbors.
The vineyards of Lafite and Mouton lie on the same broad gravelly plateau, lying much closer together than the two branches of the Rothschild family might sometimes care to acknowledge. For many years, their history was marked by family rivalry, differing ideas of prestige, the 1855 Classification, and Mouton’s long struggle to be recognized as Lafite’s equal.
Against this background, an old anecdote recounted by the English wine writer Ned Halley about a stay of several days at Château Lafite Rothschild becomes particularly amusing.
One day, saddle of lamb—a traditional Pauillac dish—was served for lunch. The host’s wife, who followed a vegetarian diet, confined herself to a green salad.
— Not even a little lamb? — Halley asked.
— Mouton? Never! — came the reply.
In French, mouton means both “sheep” and “mutton”—and, of course, it is also the name of Lafite’s famous rival.
mouton means “sheep” or “mutton.” So technically, the conversation was entirely about meat. But the emphatic declaration “Mouton? Never!” at the table of Lafite Rothschild carried a second meaning that was almost impossible to miss.
According to the anecdote, the storyteller never quite decided whether this was simply a vegetarian expressing her dietary preferences or a subtle jab at the famous neighbors from Château Mouton Rothschild.
Officially, Mouton finally achieved equal status with Lafite in 1973, when it was promoted to First Growth in the 1855 Bordeaux Classification.
Two great wines are produced practically next door to each other, which naturally raises an intriguing question: how do you tell them apart when the labels disappear? Would the two estates recognize each other’s wines in the glass?
Of course, what follows takes place entirely in our imagination.
The following scene is fictional. But the professional situation on which it is based is entirely real.
…Pauillac. Château Lafite Rothschild. Present day.
There has always been a special kind of relationship between great neighbors in the wine world.
They have lived alongside each other for too long, know each other too well, and appear too frequently together on wine lists, in collectors’ cellars, and in conversations about the great wines of Bordeaux to pretend indifference.
Their rivalry was once quite fierce. Today, it is more like the relationship between two distinguished neighbors, each perfectly aware of the other’s worth.
That evening, several representatives of Château Mouton Rothschild arrived to visit their neighbors at Château Lafite Rothschild.
No journalists. No scores that might appear in wine publications the following morning. No buyers.
Ten concealed bottles. Five vintages of Château Lafite Rothschild and five of Château Mouton Rothschild. People who know both estates’ wines intimately must first separate “their own” from “the neighbours’,” and then identify the vintages. The labels are silent. Now the wine, experience and memory must speak
Just dinner, preceded by a small tasting—a friendly and educational game.
— It’s very simple, — says the host from Lafite. — We have only our wines and yours, from different vintages. Five Lafites. Five Moutons.
— That’s a relief, — remarks one of the guests. — At least we won’t have to worry about someone slipping in a Latour or a Margaux.
On a long table stood ten bottles, each concealed in an identical opaque sleeve. Beside them were ten glasses.
At first, the opening challenge seemed simple enough:
Separate your own wines from your neighbors’
The guests even laughed when they heard the assignment. Who, if not these people, should know the two great estates of Pauillac? Their vineyards, soils, typical grape proportions, stylistic characteristics, successful vintages, and difficult years.
Many of those seated around the table had tasted these wines dozens of times. Some had even participated in making them.
► The First Glass
Wine was poured from the first bottle.
One of the Mouton guests raised his glass to his nose. A brief pause. Then a sip.
— Your Lafite.
— That quickly?
— I know Lafite wines.
From the opposite side of the table came a voice:
— We know yours, too.
— Then why aren’t you saying anything?
— Because we know them well enough not to rush.
Someone laughed. The Lafite representative continued:
— Mouton.
— Are you sure?
— Absolutely.
— Why?
He smelled the wine again.
— Power. Ripeness. A more open character.
One of the Mouton representatives smiled.
— Are you describing this particular wine, or your general idea of what Mouton should be like?
Laughter went around the table again.
— All right. What do you think?
The Mouton representative picked up his glass and tasted.
— Without a doubt, Lafite.
— Why?
— More restrained.
— And how is your reasoning any different from that of the Lafite representative?
That was difficult to answer. But the response was recorded.
— At the Master Sommelier exam, they’d be reminding you about the time limit by now.
— Fortunately, I came here to enjoy dinner in good company, not to take an exam.
Everyone laughed again.
The very first glass had already divided the table.
► The Second Glass
This time, agreement came almost immediately.
— Lafite.
— Definitely Lafite.
— Finally, something we agree on.
► The third glass also seemed relatively straightforward.
► The fourth sparked another argument, and several participants decided to revisit the first.
► After the fifth, someone asked for another pour of the third.
► By the eighth, it became clear that one guest was no longer analyzing the wine so much as trying to unravel the hosts’ supposedly devious plan.
— You must have placed two similar vintages next to each other.
— Why?
— To confuse us.
By now, everyone was laughing.
Gradually, however, two columns appeared on the participants’ tasting sheets: Lafite and Mouton, with five bottle numbers in each. The host began collecting their answers.
The Second Challenge: Identifying the Vintage
Each participant was given a card listing five different vintages.
Now things became easier. And, at the same time, much more difficult. Because to the people sitting around that table, those years were more than just numbers on a calendar.
They remembered them.
One year had been exceptionally hot. Another had brought an almost perfect September. In a third, everyone had been nervous as harvest approached. In a fourth, the Cabernet had needed more time than usual to ripen. And one of the older participants remembered the fifth vintage as a young wine he had first tasted straight from the barrel.
They returned to the first glass.
— 2003.
— Why?
— I remember how hot that year was.
— We don’t doubt that you remember the heat. But why is this particular wine a 2003?
The man paused. A good question. He tasted again. This time, he had to search for clues in the wine itself rather than in his memories of that summer.
The next glass.
— 2005.
— I think it’s 2010.
— No, I insist it’s 2005.
— Why?
The conversation turned to structure, tannin maturity, and the evolution of aromas. But the longer the tasting continued, the harder it became to distinguish where the analysis of the wine ended and memory began.
They recalled the weather. The harvest. Their first tastings. Old bottles. Conversations from twenty years earlier.
Here and now, they seemed to be tasting wine—but at the same time, they were tasting their own life stories and memories
The Answers
Finally, it was time to remove the sleeves. The first bottle was revealed. Several people nodded with satisfaction. It was Lafite.
The vintage? Almost everyone had guessed wrong.
The second bottle was Mouton.
The third brought laughter.
The fourth produced several seconds of silence.
And then they reached the seventh.
One of the Lafite representatives then offered his own verdict: He had identified it as Mouton, named the vintage, and explained his reasoning.
The sleeve came off. It was Château Lafite Rothschild.
He looked at the bottle. Then at his glass. He knew that vintage extremely well. In fact, he had worked at the estate when the wine was made.
— That can’t be.
— But the label says otherwise.
— Let me try it again.
Someone poured him another taste. He smelled it. Took a sip. Now, with the bottle standing uncovered in front of him, everything suddenly seemed much clearer.
— Yes. Of course.
Someone across the table smiled.
— What do you mean, “of course”?
— I can taste it now.
— Taste what, exactly?
He looked at the label. He couldn’t answer immediately.
— But I remember this wine perfectly.
And then one of the older participants said quietly:
— You remember what it was like back then. What you have in front of you is what it has become today.
The table fell silent.
— What exactly do we remember?
This was no longer a game of Lafite versus Mouton.
Each wine had followed its own path over the years. They had evolved in the bottle. Primary aromas had faded, and new ones had emerged. Tannins had softened. The balance had changed.
But the person tasting the wine had changed, too.
Over those years, he had tasted hundreds of other wines. Gained new experience. Learned to notice things he had once overlooked. Forgotten some details. And remembered others more vividly than they had actually been.
— So experience gets in the way? — someone asked.
— But if we’d invited ten people who had never tasted Bordeaux in their lives, they certainly wouldn’t have guessed anything correctly.
— Exactly.
— Then what’s getting in the way?
The older participant looked at the ten uncovered bottles.
— Perhaps what sometimes gets in our way is the belief that our memory preserves the taste of wine as faithfully as a cellar does. But those are two very different ways of storing things.
A person may remember what a wine tasted like then, while the wine in the glass is what it has become now.
And it isn’t only the wine that changes. The taster changes, too.
Dinner
The tasting was over. Food was brought to the table. The sleeves had been removed. Who had won no longer mattered.
The ten bottles of Lafite and Mouton now stood completely uncovered, displaying all their famous names, vintages, and histories. Nobody was trying to guess their identities anymore.
One of the Mouton guests poured himself a little Lafite.
The host noticed.
— At least now you know what you’re drinking.
— And now it doesn’t really matter.
— Why not?
The guest raised his glass.
— Because the blind-tasting exam is over.
And the great neighbors finally turned their attention to what these wines had been made for in the first place.
They began to drink them
The blind tasting is over. The covers are off, the labels are visible again, and the tasting notes have been set aside. Lafite and Mouton no longer need to be identified. The great neighbours can finally do what these wines were made for: drink them
🍷 Instead of a Conclusion
Each participant was given a card listing five different vintages.
Now things became easier. And, at the same time, much more difficult.
Because to the people sitting around that table, those years were more than just numbers on a calendar.
They remembered them.
One year had been hot. Another had brought an almost perfect September. In a third, everyone had been nervous as harvest approached. In a fourth, the Cabernet had needed more time than usual to ripen. And one of the older participants remembered the fifth vintage as a young wine he had first tasted straight from the barrel.
They returned to the first glass.
— 2003.
— Why?
— I remember how hot that year was.
— We don’t doubt that you remember the heat. But why is this particular wine a 2003?
The man paused. A good question.
He tasted again. This time, he had to search for clues in the wine itself rather than in his memories of that summer.
The next glass.
— 2005.
— I think it’s 2010.
— No, I insist it’s 2005.
— Why?
The conversation turned to structure, tannin maturity, and the evolution of aromas. But the longer the tasting continued, the harder it became to distinguish where the analysis of the wine ended and memory began.
They recalled the weather. The harvest. Their first tastings. Old bottles. Conversations from twenty years earlier.
Here and now, they seemed to be tasting wine—but at the same time, they were tasting their own life stories and memories.
The Answers
Finally, it was time to remove the sleeves.
The first bottle was revealed. Several people nodded with satisfaction. It was Lafite.
The vintage? Almost everyone had guessed wrong.
The second bottle was Mouton.
The third brought laughter.
The fourth produced several seconds of silence.
And then they reached the seventh.
One of the Lafite representatives had been particularly confident about this glass. He had identified it as Mouton, named the vintage, and explained his reasoning.
The sleeve came off.
It was Château Lafite Rothschild.
He looked at the bottle. Then at his glass.
He knew that vintage extremely well. In fact, he had worked at the estate when the wine was made.
— That can’t be.
— But the label says otherwise.
— Let me try it again.
Someone poured him another taste.
He smelled it. Took a sip.
Now, with the bottle standing uncovered in front of him, everything suddenly seemed much clearer.
— Yes. Of course.
Someone across the table smiled.
— What do you mean, “of course”?
— I can taste it now.
— Taste what, exactly?
He looked at the label. He couldn’t answer immediately.
— But I remember this wine perfectly.
And then one of the older participants said quietly:
— You remember what it was like back then. What you have in front of you is what it has become today.
The table fell silent.
— What exactly do we remember?
This was no longer a game of Lafite versus Mouton.
Both wines had lived lives of their own over the years. They had evolved in the bottle. Primary aromas had faded, and new ones had emerged. Tannins had softened. The balance had changed.
But the person tasting the wine had changed, too.
Over those years, he had tasted hundreds of other wines. Gained new experience. Learned to notice things he had once overlooked. Forgotten some details. And remembered others more vividly than they had actually been.
— So experience gets in the way? — someone asked.
— But if we’d invited ten people who had never tasted Bordeaux in their lives, they certainly wouldn’t have guessed anything correctly.
— Exactly.
— Then what’s getting in the way?
The older participant looked at the ten uncovered bottles.
Perhaps what sometimes gets in our way is the belief that our memory preserves the taste of wine as reliably as a cellar preserves the wine itself. But those are two very different ways of storing things.
A person may remember what a wine tasted like then, while the wine in the glass is what it has become now.
And it isn’t only the wine that changes.
The taster changes, too.
Dinner
The tasting was over. Food was brought to the table. The sleeves had been removed. Who had won no longer mattered.
The ten bottles of Lafite and Mouton now stood completely uncovered, displaying all their famous names, vintages, and histories. Nobody was trying to guess their identities anymore.
One of the Mouton guests poured himself a little Lafite.
The host noticed.
— At least now you know what you’re drinking.
— And now it doesn’t really matter.
— Why not?
The guest raised his glass.
— Because the blind-tasting exam is over.
And the great neighbors finally turned their attention to what these wines had been made for in the first place.
They began to drink them
🍷 Instead of a Conclusion
“Blind Tasting” primarily addresses one question: why are professionals expected to identify wines without seeing their labels, and where does a useful professional skill end and a ritual reserved for the initiated begin?
A good taster should be able to understand a great deal about a wine without looking at its label. But must that person also guess what the producer has already written on the bottle, completely free of charge?
► Hiding the label so that someone doesn’t know which wine they’re tasting makes perfect sense. It helps remove preconceived notions from the evaluation, allowing the wine itself—and the taster’s own impressions—to be examined. The famous name, the château’s history, the price, the vintage’s reputation, and the critics’ opinions all disappear.
► Hiding the label and then demanding that someone reconstruct everything written on it is an entirely different task.
► Concealing a bottle beneath an opaque sleeve is relatively easy. Much harder is concealing everything on the other side of that sleeve: experience, expectations, memory, fashion, the taster’s own professional reputation, and the desire to be right.
Blind tasting can remove the label. But it cannot remove the human being
🧠 The taster’s brain takes a seat at the table, too
It is easy to hide the label. It is much harder to shield the taster’s mind from price, reputation, memory and expectations
And that is precisely where the problem begins: when we start demanding more from a useful tool than it can actually deliver.
This doesn’t mean that blind tasting is pointless. Over the centuries, it has genuinely demonstrated its value. It helps us compare wines while reducing the influence of outside factors. It allows competition organizers to give wines a more level playing field. It has become an educational tool, capable of testing a professional’s sensory memory and knowledge. And finally, it can simply be an entertaining intellectual game.
The stories of Rodenstock and Kurniawan revealed another limitation of the method: the contents of a glass can be evaluated, but even the most experienced taster cannot reconstruct a bottle’s documented history through taste alone.
Where does the wine itself end, and our perception of it begin?
That boundary is probably much harder to establish than it is to cover a bottle with a black sleeve.
🕵️ Identifying a Wine and Evaluating It Are Not the Same Thing
Modern blind-tasting culture has produced an impressive character—our “Wine Sherlock Holmes.”
He gathers clues: acidity, tannins, alcohol, aromas, color, structure, and degree of development. From these, he attempts to reconstruct the grape variety, climate, country, region, appellation, and specific vintage.
This requires enormous knowledge and training.
But it’s important not to confuse two very different questions:
“What wine is in the glass?”
and
“Is this a good wine?”
Someone may misidentify the region yet understand the wine’s quality perfectly well.
Conversely, someone may correctly identify its origin without necessarily arriving at the only possible judgment of its quality—because there isn’t always just one.
The ability to solve the mystery of what’s inside a bottle and the ability to evaluate the wine itself are overlapping, but not identical, skills.
🏷️ The Label Is More Than Just a Source of Bias
We can regard the label as an obstacle. But it also contains useful information. The producer. The region. The vintage. Sometimes the vineyard. All of this helps us understand the wine’s history, anticipate how it might develop, choose the appropriate serving temperature, and decide whether to open the bottle now or leave it in the cellar for a few more years.
A label doesn’t merely suggest an answer. It provides context. And context is not the same thing as prejudice.
So the label itself is not the enemy of objectivity.
The danger arises when we begin tasting a wine’s reputation instead of the wine itself.
👉 Getting It Wrong Doesn’t Make an Expert Ignorant
It’s very easy to point to a famous taster who made a mistake in a blind tasting and triumphantly declare:
“See? They don’t know anything!”
But such a mistake merely reminds us that human sensory impressions remain human judgments, even when the person making them has tremendous experience.
Professional expertise really does matter. A trained taster can recognize far more characteristics, organize those observations, and draw much better-supported conclusions.
But a well-reasoned conclusion is not the same as an infallible answer.
You can understand wine extremely well and still get the vintage wrong. You can identify the grape variety but miss the region. You can give an unfamiliar wine a high rating and then be surprised by your own choice when the label is revealed.
In fact, the possibility of making mistakes is precisely what makes blind tasting interesting. If a professional could identify every bottle correctly, every single time, it would no longer be an exercise in analysis. It would be the equivalent of scanning a bottle’s barcode with your nose and tongue.
⚖️ So Is Blind Tasting Objective?
In this case, the question itself is framed incorrectly.
Blind tasting is not a perfect machine for producing objective truth. It is a method for controlling certain variables.
That is why, before organizing a blind tasting, we should ask ourselves:
“What exactly are we trying to learn from it?”
► If we want to compare wines without being influenced by famous names, hiding the labels is enormously helpful.
► If we want to test a taster’s knowledge, we can turn the glass into an examination.
► If we want to play the Options Game, we can enjoy a wonderful evening of intellectual entertainment.
► If we simply want to know whether someone will enjoy a particular wine with dinner, perhaps we don’t need to hide anything at all.
Every purpose calls for its own degree of “blindness.”
Most serious wine critics don’t claim that blind tasting is the highest and only legitimate form of wine evaluation. They use it as a tool, while continuing to debate the limits of its usefulness.
A hidden label can remove a source of bias. But it does not automatically make the taster more objective
Sooner or later, however, the sleeve must come off the bottle. Because wine was never meant to spend its entire existence as an examination sample.
It was made so that one day, someone would open the bottle, pour the wine into glasses, and drink it.
Blind tasting can sometimes help us understand wine better. The important thing is not to confuse the means with the end
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