People who write wine reviews, I guess, are probably supposed to know what they’re actually talking about. I don’t.
I’m a 22-year-old who can’t digest beer (a terrible tragedy), and my wallet thinks that even a vodka cran at Chipper’s is more of a special occasion kind of thing, so I’m doing what any guy who just really likes cheap drinks would do: offering an unsolicited review. Yes, the wine I’m here to speak to you about is probably the nastiest, foulest, least appealing cheap wine, unimaginable to anyone who’s bought themselves something fancier with their own money — but I haven’t. Despite the sips of “nicer” wine I’ve sampled at one event or another, I think this particular vino is so good that I’ve never even wondered whether my $20 could do better than the 4-liter glass jug of Carlo Rossi sangria I’ve been hauling off the liquor store’s bottom shelf since the month I turned 21. (The same cannot be said about the $8 handle of vodka I purchased around the same time. We all have limits.)
When I reach the bottom of this drink, I do not catch the feelings of despair, regret or embarrassment that tend to characterize country songs written about that moment. Instead, I feel like I’ve tasted financial responsibility. A standard five-ounce serving of this stuff costs 74 cents if you buy it in the 4-liter bulk size, which makes it cheaper than actual water in Pine Market. In this economy, not even Jesus could deliver a miracle like that.
The good folks over at Carlo Rossi, meanwhile, are turning water into wine for a price that sounds like it belongs in 1950, and I honestly don’t know how they do it. Winemakers aren’t legally required to disclose additives, but when the fruity, orangey citrus background notes hit my palate on a Friday night, I believe that it’s telling me the truth when it whispers that those flavors really did come from a real orange grown in the heart of Florida.
Not even Carlo Rossi seems to know exactly what grapes are in this thing. Maybe this should be more alarming to me, since grapes have been the prerequisite ingredient for wine for literally 8,000 years. Over that amount of time, people have bred special types of grapes and developed real rules for how the fruit’s supposed to be gently, lovingly macerated, and Carlo Rossi’s industrial manufacturing process is probably breaking all of them. Wines are, allegedly, supposed to have varietals like “Pinot Noir” and “Zinfandel.” Uh, someone forgot to add that to the label at the factory. This is just… fermented grapes.
The drink itself is sweet but in a bright, juicy way, and actually, the grapes that went into it would probably roll in their graves if they knew how many other fruit flavors ended up in the final product. But it’s sangria, so no one cares. If you hate it, throw fruit at it. Better yet, if you love it, throw fruit in it too.
When I told my roommate (who’s also 21!) that I was writing about our favorite treat, they said, “I would be willing to give a quote because that wine is ****ing awesome.” Here’s their official stance: “Honestly, first time having it I would have thought it cost more because of how good it was.”
It’s worth noting that four liters is an outrageous volume of liquid. It is larger than a gallon and smaller than a shipping barge, but only barely. It would definitely get stuck if it tried to turn around in the Suez Canal. Its depths seem so endless that I sometimes wonder whether it’s secretly refilling itself during the day when no one’s looking. When I’m carrying the rare restock up the stairs of my dorm hall, I think about what would happen if my grip strength gave out and the jar shattered — I picture a tidal wave of purple liquid splashing down around me in terrifying force, the cobblestone streets filling knee-deep with alcoholic floodwaters.
Before you go around thinking I’ve got some kind of shrine set up in my North Village apartment for this beverage, let me set the record straight: This wine lives in the cupboard under my sink. It’s humble like that, like a fetid hairy bridge troll that only lumbers out from the darkness when he’s been invited to party. It needs no special care, no vacuum stopper, no cozy place to rest in some attractive wood wine rack. A quiet place next to our stash of crumpled plastic bags and Clorox wipes is good enough for Carlo.
