Let’s be honest: walking into a bottle store these days feels less like buying a drink and more like decoding a cryptic treasure map written by a committee of marketing interns on a sugar rush. You’re standing there, clutching a Merlot because you know you like Merlot, but suddenly your eyes glaze over. There’s a gold medallion. A silver star. A little plaque that says “John Platter’s Wine Guide 202X” – and you’re left wondering: Is this thing still valid?

I usually pride myself on ignoring these shiny little ego-boosters. I’m a free spirit. But yesterday, I found myself staring at a bottle of fortified wine I’d never tried before, and I caved. I squinted at the stars. I counted them. I whispered to myself, “Well, if it’s got all these little gold stickers on it, it simply must not be poison.” And I bought it.
Then, just to prove I have no moral backbone, I recently bought a Portuguese port. Proper stuff. Came straight from the motherland. No stars, no stickers, no awards, no Platter’s anywhere. Just a bottle looking at me with naked, honest ambiguity. Without the stickers, I was forced to actually talk to the staff at the liquor store.

Now, these staff members are a fascinating breed. They stand there, arms folded, looking like they’ve personally aged every barrel in the back. But let’s be real: have they cracked open that specific bottle of port? Probably not. They’re local experts purely by geographical proximity to the shelf. Ask them about a 2018 Cab and they’ll give you a soliloquy; ask them if the port is sickly sweet and they’ll just repeat the price.

Some people say, “The best wine is the one you’re holding in your hand.”
What a magnificently useless piece of advice! That’s like saying the best car is the one parked in your driveway. Thanks, I’ll just sip my mystery liquid and trust the universe. That glass in your hand could have come from a snobbish wine blog, a vintner in Kloof Street, Cape Town, a random bin at Checkers, or Norman Goodfellows. Where did it come from? I guess if you’re holding it, you either drink it or toss it. The choice is yours.

I went to a wine tasting festival in Simon’s Town a while back. You had the Serious Swirlers, the Aggressive Sniffers, the ones who gargle the wine like mouthwash while holding intense eye contact with their partners, and then the ceremonial spitting into buckets. Followed by a cheese nibble, a water rinse, and a sage nod to the heavens.
It’s fun. But it illustrates that wine is entirely subjective. One person’s “elegant bouquet of blackcurrant and oak” is another person’s “grape juice that tastes like my grandfather’s shed.” Some people swear by the cheapest plonk they can find.

I’m the wayback machine wine was cheap. A friend would say, “Try this,” and we’d buy a bottle, drink it over a weekend, and decide we were connoisseurs. Tastes change, of course. One month you’re into soft Merlots; the next you’re on a Pinotage because you had a steak.

These days, wine prices are enough to lower your spirits. You can’t afford to experiment bottle-to-bottle like a mad scientist anymore. Which brings us back to the dilemma: we actually need a guide.
But then you pick up the John Platter’s guide and it reads like a phonebook for snobs. Or you download Vivino, and lo and behold—neither the port nor the fortified wine I just bought even exist on there.

And here’s the real trick of the trade: Eye-level shelves. That’s where they plant the expensive ones. R140 to R300+ just staring you down, judging your bank balance. You may have to lower your gaze to the bottom shelf. There, hiding in shame, you might find an odd special.

Right now, two guys I know are driving up to Sutherland—the coldest place in South Africa, where the air hurts your face. They’re going for work, but their primary concern isn’t the job; it’s what liquid fuel they’ll buy to keep warm in the hotel that night.

Winter changes the rules. Suddenly it’s all red wines, ports, certified wines, gluewein, and hot toddies. Anything to warm the soul while you’re wrapped in a blanket questioning your life choices.

So, at the end of the day, do you trust the stars, the stickers, and the Platter’s plaques?

Honestly? They’re slightly better than a blind guess. They’re the horoscopes of the wine world—vague enough to apply to everyone, shiny enough to convince you it means something.
Thank goodness we have them, though. Because without those little gold medallions, how would we ever pick a bottle? We’d have to rely on the staff. And we all know they haven’t tried it either.

Raise your glass to the stickers—they’re trying their best. Even if that five-star rating came from a panel that tasted it after a heavy lunch.

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