Meh.  There is nothing that screams poseur like an oenophile’s dissection of wine.  Few of us know what vanilla, espresso, toastiness, or smoke could possibly mean when it comes to vino – and still fewer care. 

I remember a hilarious lampoon of this from a novel, in which an obnoxious character rhapsodizes about the unique quality of wine made from the grapes of the Northeast corner of the vineyard, where the diabetic tomcat relieves himself.

Blind taste tests usually show that the average person has trouble distinguishing plonk from vintage.  Pick a decent red, pay more than ten bucks, and you’ll probably be OK.