I Like The Label (and the wine)

There’s a moment in Schitt's Creek when David Rose famously says, “I like the wine and not the label.” In the context of the show, the line has nothing to do with wine at all, which is part of what makes it so funny. Like many of the show’s best moments, the humor comes from the way the line works on two different levels at once. It’s clever, a little dramatic, and very much in character for David.

But like a lot of good lines from that show, it stuck with me long after the episode ended. Not because of what it meant in the scene, but because of how strangely relevant it felt when I thought about actual wine.

The more I sat with it, the more it made me think about wine in a different way—specifically, about the label.

Of course, the point David is making in the scene isn’t about bottles or vineyards. But the phrase lingered in my mind because wine is one of the few things where a thin piece of paper glued to the front of a bottle carries so much meaning. That small square of design is often the first thing we see when we encounter a bottle. It’s what catches our eye from across a crowded shelf, the visual signal that pulls us in for a closer look. Before we know the region, the grape, or the vintage, we’ve already formed an impression.

In many ways, the label acts as an introduction. It’s the handshake before the conversation begins, the first impression before the cork is even pulled. With just a bit of artwork, typography, and color, it tries to tell you something about the wine inside—sometimes about the place it comes from, sometimes about the personality of the winemaker, and sometimes simply about the feeling the winery hopes the bottle will evoke.

For many people, including me, wine can feel intimidating at first. Walk into a wine shop and suddenly there are shelves upon shelves of bottles, each one representing a different region, grape, style, and story. The labels carry names that are difficult to pronounce, references to places you might not recognize, and descriptions that sound poetic but mysterious.

Somewhere along the way it can feel like there’s a whole language you’re expected to speak fluently before you’re even allowed to enjoy the drink.

When I first started exploring wine, I definitely didn’t speak that language. I couldn’t have told you the difference between Pinot Noir and Syrah. If someone asked me to explain what separated Sauvignon Blanc from Chardonnay, I probably would have smiled politely, nodded thoughtfully, and changed the subject as quickly as possible.

Standing in front of a wall of wine bottles sometimes felt a bit like being handed a test I hadn’t studied for. Everyone else seemed to know what they were looking for—regions, producers, grape varieties—while I was quietly hoping that whatever bottle I picked wouldn’t reveal how little I actually knew.

But there was one thing I did know, even then.

I knew which labels I liked.

Before I knew anything about terroir, vintages, acidity, or tannins, I chose bottles the same way I chose books in a bookstore or paintings in a gallery. I gravitated toward the ones that caught my eye and made me curious enough to pick them up. Sometimes the label was minimalist and elegant, with clean typography and soft colors that felt calm and refined. Other times it was playful or artistic, covered in illustrations that looked like they belonged in a sketchbook or on the wall of a small gallery.

And sometimes the label was simply unusual enough to make me pause. Maybe the artwork hinted at a landscape, or a story, or a sense of humor I hadn’t expected to find on a wine bottle.

Whatever the reason, something about the design made me want to know more.

That curiosity turned out to be the perfect entry point.

Wine lovers will often say you shouldn’t judge a bottle by its label, and in many ways that’s fair. The liquid inside the bottle is ultimately what matters most. But labels are far from meaningless. They are tiny works of design that attempt to capture a winery’s personality, a landscape, a tradition, or sometimes just a mood.

Some labels feel like vintage travel posters pulled from another era. Others resemble contemporary art, full of bold colors or abstract shapes. Some are quiet and understated, relying on simple typography and classic design, while others are colorful, strange, or wonderfully unexpected.

Whatever their style, they all serve the same purpose: they represent the story inside the bottle.

And when you’re new to wine, that small piece of art can make the whole experience feel far less intimidating. It replaces pressure with curiosity. Instead of feeling like you need to understand everything about the wine world, you’re simply following something that interests you. A label becomes a doorway rather than a barrier.

That idea is what eventually inspired this blog.

Each post will start the same way: with a label that caught my attention. Maybe it’s the artwork, the typography, the color palette, or the story hinted at through the design. From there, I’ll explore the winery behind the bottle, the place where the wine was made, and of course what it’s like to actually open it and taste what’s inside.

Because while the label might be what convinces me to bring the bottle home, the wine still deserves its moment in the spotlight.

Sometimes the wine will be incredible, the kind of bottle that surprises you with how layered and expressive it is. Sometimes it will simply be enjoyable, the perfect thing to pour at the end of a long day or share with friends around a table.

But the mission here isn’t just about tasting notes or technical details.

It’s about celebrating the small works of art that live on the outside of the bottle—the designs that make someone pause in the aisle and think, that one looks interesting.

So yes, I understand what David Rose meant when he said he likes the wine and not the label.

But in my case, I’ll happily admit that the label is often where the story begins.

And the wine?

That’s a very nice bonus.