When Shakespeare asked, “What’s in a name?” the answer was easy; not much, since “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Of course, it hasn’t turned out to be that simple. For one thing, he wasn’t a lawyer. For another, the global wine industry and the idea of brand names hadn’t been invented yet—Tuscany’s wine was known as “Florence red,” white from Germany was “Hock,” fortified sweet wine from various places was “Sack,” and Chablis was just an unremarkable little town 110 miles south of Paris, quietly biding its time until it became a political football kicked back and forth between California and France.
These days, names are a big business—whether being created or defended, whether geographic, generic, or brands, serious or jocular, there’s a small army of lawyers, designers and marketers marching toward your consciousness, intent on capturing your attention and some of your dwindling supply of dollars. Some of them are having fun, but since protectionist governments and lawyers are involved, many are not.
Some of the fun flirts with cringe-inducing puns. France’s Rhône region is a recurring target: My favorite label shows a cartoon of a cat sitting on an egg; the name of the wine is “Chat-en-Oeuf” (say it fast, and you’ve got half of one of the world’s most famous wine names, Chateauneuf du Pape). Another sophomoric gag is “Goats do Roam,” a South African Syrah blend that somewhat resembles Côtes du Rhône—the nomenclature attracted a lawsuit from someone who wasn’t amused (luckily, the judge was).
You may have read about the Lodi winery that produces a zinfandel dessert wine that’s like port, but can’t be called that because Portugal would sue them, so it’s called “USB Port.” Here’s another cutie: Last week, Andy Quady came over to London from Madera, and we caught up on old times while tasting his port-style wine. He avoids the wrath of Portugal by calling it “Starboard.” (To make sure non-sailors get the joke, he says it’s “a wine for right-thinking drinkers.”) This week, Australia proposed a different solution, by coining completely new words for fortified wines. Sherry types would be called “apera,” and Tokay-style sweeties would become “topaque.” You just know this was the work of a committee, don’t you?
It’s not always fun and games, though. Chianti Classico bottles used to be adorned with the silhouette of a black rooster, which became one of the best-known symbols in the world. Then somebody in Modesto realized that rooster translated in Italian to “gallo.” Whoops! Remember the scene in “Jurassic Park” when the earth shook to thunderous thumps and then the giant foot of a Tyrannosaurus Rex came down on a truck? That’s a good analogy for what happened when E&J Gallo decided to assert its name as a universal trademark: the rooster was history, flattened into roadkill. Unencumbered by any sense of irony, the former purveyors of “Hearty Burgundy” and California “Chablis” had come full circle.
This is a game that will run and run, onward if not upward. Last spring, the producers’ association of Brunello di Montalcino, in southern Tuscany, noticed that Lorenzo Petroni was turning out a Brunello di Sonoma at his winery just up the hill from Highway 12. In what passes in legalese for politeness, they asked him to desist. In what passes for politeness for Lorenzo, he pointed out that his robust wine is made from Sangiovese, that Brunello is an alternative name for the grape, and that he was proud of its Italian-American character. In other words, Lorenzo doesn’t desist.
Next up will be Prosecco. The wine’s named for the grape, which is being planted in New Zealand and California, generating apprehension in the Veneto region of Italy. Send your kids to law school—there will always be work.
Brian St. Pierre is happy not to be the Arizona Cardinals quarterback who shares his name, preferring London and ”imported” California wine. St. Pierre may be contacted via feedback@sonomasun.com.
