Medium ruby, amber-edged and non-staining. Flat obese baked bread mind-numbingly dull flatulence of “fruit” exudes exuberantly in a pond-water prunish dilemma directly connected to something vaguely “Zinfandel” but so awkwardly awry. Tahini-tinged alcohol and Honey BooBoo armpit make a clip-art bouquet worse than the horrid label. Rotting vegetables in the crisper and rain-freshed dog-park make for something I can not justify tasting.
How does this winery have such a following? You couldn’t caricature a more deliberately terrible glass of wine. I am sad for the public and wine-drinker in general as I smell this and anticipate putting it in my mouth. Where did Paso Robles and Zinfandel go awry? While I have long railed against the sins committed against Zinfandel starting about 1995 and in full-effect by 2000, THIS takes the game to a whole new level. It is easy to see where fans of this label graduate to Herman Story and Orin Swift in a search for more ridiculously fat wines, higher alcohols, less acid and ‘fruit’ of the fig-bar persuasion rather than what the varietal focus SHOULD be.
In the mouth, madeirized, oxidized blithering bullshit screaming of alcohol and death. NOTHING in this wine can be compared to a quality bottle. What does this shit cost? Do the people who line up at the club-tasting know they can buy actual wine for this same price? Electrical fire and gasoline bring a syrupy experience immediately casting alcohol burn on the whole palate and off-flavors become what I can only guess the winery calls “tannins’ in the tasting notes. The worst part about tasting it is you are forced to SMELL it with every sip. This is dead wine for dead people, and sums up the Paso Robles tourist-trade in one fell swoop. Someone up there is laughing all the way to the bank.
2013 TOBIN JAMES Zinfandel ‘Ballistic’ Paso Robles 15.2