© Herbert Lehmann/Cephas

Sine Qua Non wines sport distinctive bottles and labels

A recent broadside against the cult California winery has Mike Steinberger cheering from the bleachers.

The Russian novelist Tolstoy wrote that "all happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" and this observation can just as easily be applied to good and bad wines: the best wines share certain similarities, while truly awful wines are often sui generis in their wretchedness. That's part of what makes it so easy, and entertaining, to write about wines we dislike and, when it comes to wine journalism, there are few things more pleasurable than a witty, erudite, brutally candid takedown of a crappy wine.

In a recent issue of Noble Rot magazine, Keith Levenberg contributes a delicious screed aimed at Sine Qua Non, which has become the ultimate in California cult wines.

"These wines are trash," Levenberg wrote. "They are worse than trash, because they are trash elevated to the level of the profound." Of Sine Qua Non devotees, he says that they "are not just destroying their livers. They are destroying society. They have not just chosen bad wine over good wine. They have chosen Bieber over Beethoven, poison over sustenance, barbarism over civilization, anti-matter over matter." Levenberg, as you may have gathered, is not a fan of Sine Qua Non.

This 2500-word broadside was prompted by the sale of a bottle of Sine Qua Non rosé that fetched $42,780 last year on WineBid.com. As Levenberg explains, part of the appeal of these wines is the, um, quirky names that proprietor Manfred Krankl gives them – things like "Boots, Pasties, Scanty- Panties and a Ten Gallon Hat" (it's a Roussanne, in case you were wondering) – as well as their oddly shaped bottles and distinctive labels.

But what has mostly given them such cachet is the fact that a lot of people just really like the wines, which are mostly Rhône varietals and blends from California's Central Coast. In the last decade, probably no estate has won more rapturous praise, or more eye-popping scores, from Robert Parker, and there are clearly many people who share his affection for SQN – to the point that they will spend $42,000 for a bottle of Krankl's rosé.

Like Levenberg, I'm not a fan of the SQN wines. I find them grotesquely alcoholic and rich. To put it as snootily as possible, they are amazingly vulgar – a Kardashian collection of wines, if you will. But unlike Levenberg, the existence of SQN does not make me despair. I view the SQN phenomenon partly through the prism of self-interest – the millions of dollars that are spent chasing Krankl's confections are millions of dollars not spent chasing the wines that I happen to prefer.

© Sotheby's; Fotolia

Steinberger claims he wouldn't pour the SQN wines down the drain "for fear of damaging the pipes."

But the main reason I'm not troubled by the SQN craze is because I find it genuinely intriguing and, in a strange way, gratifying. SQN produces arguably the most polarizing wines on the planet – a distinction that used to belong to the Australian producer Mollydooker. I'm fascinated by the reactions to these wines. I'm not being dramatic when I say that I literally can't stomach them. I'd think twice about dumping the wines in my sink for fear of damaging the pipes.

And yet, Parker and scores of others believe that SQN produces some of the greatest wines on the planet – wines that can comfortably share a table, if not eclipse, Bordeaux first growths and the most acclaimed wines from the Rhône. There is simply no way that Levenberg or I can convince them otherwise, nor is there any possible way that they can persuade us to feel differently. It is a debate that is not lacking in certitude.

It is also a debate that is unlikely to yield resolution. As much as I might hope that SQN devotees will eventually come to their senses, or undergo palate transplants, that is a faint hope. And, much as I enjoyed Levenberg's essay, I doubt that it caused even one SQN fan to look at Krankl's wines in a less flattering light. Personally, I've made my peace with this kind of polarization. The evidence is overwhelming – tastes vary dramatically, and one man's nectar is another man's rotgut. That's just the way it is, and I think it's part of what makes wine such a compelling topic and rewarding hobby.

The beauty of "extreme" wines like SQN is that they reveal these differences instantly and unambiguously. They function as a kind of Rorschach test for palates – you either love them or hate them; there is no middle ground, no prevaricating. And that's why I am suspicious of any wine critic – and there are some – who claims to find great merit in wines like SQN but also in wines like those of, say, Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, which are the total antithesis of Krankl's confections.

Critics, of all people, have an obligation to take a stand, and if you truly adore the subtlety and elegance of La Tâche, it is impossible to believe that you can derive equal pleasure from wines like Krankl's The 17th Nail in My Cranium (it's a Syrah that weighs in at around 16 percent alcohol). These are wines that offer completely conflicting notions of balance and quality – and, no, it doesn't matter a bit that they are made in different regions and from different grapes. In fact, I'd say that any critic who gives whopping scores to SQN and then turns around and does the same with DRC is not really a critic; he's a shill or – worse – a cynic, deliberately not coming down on one side or the other for fear of offending his audience or costing himself potential readers/subscribers.

That's a strong statement, I know, but SQN provokes strong opinions.

*The views expressed here are solely those of the author and do not reflect the opinion of Wine Searcher.