Bacchus in a Box: An Ode

I flatter myself to think my knowledge and taste in matters oenophilic are rather more than sufficient for a lady my age. I’ve sampled vintages from nearly every continent and clime, I can pair wine and cheese like it’s my job (mostly since it was once my job), and can choose a suitable bottle for even the most finicky of palates. Based on volume of consumption alone, I’m sure I’ve qualified through some back-door loophole for the Court of Master Sommeliers or at least a thank you card from several of the world’s vintners. I tend to take a liberal reading of Julia Child’s recommendation of a glass a day. After all, she lived to the grand old age of 91; why not hedge my bets by upping the intake a bit?

My history with this storied beverage does not begin with long sojourns in my parents’ wine cellar, however. I’m a mutt of largely French and Irish pedigree, so the sacramental liquid was surely no secret growing up—my grandparents still will stop you mid-sentence if the clock chimes four to indicate that it’s “happy hour” and to take your drink order—but its form as I understood it was rather different from how I enjoy wine most frequently today. Simply, I believed that wine came in a box. Further, I believed it was always pink. What is more, I thought it was served in a disposable plastic cup. With an ice cube.

I never watched as my parents cut the foil from the mouth of the bottle or listened for the squeak of the corkscrew as it plunged into the cork or the satisfying pop when that cork was removed from the bottle. I did, however, watch as my mother carried the white box from the liquor store via its convenient built-in handles, as she used the back of a butter knife to punch in the perforated window at the bottom of the box, as she pulled the black spigot through that hole, hoisted the box onto the bakers rack in the kitchen, and fill her plastic cup, the ice crackling as the wine was poured over it. Toward the end of the week when the wine was nearly depleted and no tipping of the box would liberate the dregs left inside, mom or dad would extract the shiny silver bag from the cardboard and squeeze it to eke out the last few drops.

The first time I ever felt the effects of alcohol was from a box of wine. My father had recently redone our basement and included a bar in the renovation. This was really just a countertop held up by a pole, but at seven or eight years old it was about the height of my chin. A box of white zinfandel had been left at the edge and fascinated by the tap, my brother and I stood under the counter with our mouths open and poured the wine straight down our throats. This was clearly the beginnings of my becoming the classy bird that I remain today.

Anyone who spent their best years in New York City will have at least one story about the Chablis at Silk Road Palace, more frequently known by the handle “China Wine.” This renowned venue serves very forgettable-to-bad Chinese food for the price of good Chinese food, but offers unlimited boxed wine. Due to this fact, there is frequently a significant wait on a weekend night--but no worries! Silk Road Palace provides you with box wine while you wait. Resultantly, many an undergrad never makes it to the actual meal before having to repent to the porcelain gods. A friend from my alma mater told me a story just this week about a buddy of his who enjoyed his Chablis so much that he lost his shoe on his way home, convinced the NYPD that they must drive him over the Brooklyn Bridge, and then had to cross back over to Manhattan diddle-diddle-dumpling style whist sobering up and beginning to regret his Dionysian experience.

I’ve thus far given boxed wine short shrift. No, it’s not considered the most au fait beverage. Even my mother—she of the plastic cup and ice cube—once said to me, “Perhaps I should stop drinking wine from a box. The radio announcer just made a comment that after Celebrity Deathmatch, Tonya Harding and Paula Jones would probably go split a box of wine. I think it might be considered trashy.” Well, to you Mom, Tonya, and Paula I say: drink away! There are several wonderful aspects of box wine:

First and foremost: Volume. As a mother of three, my mom was certainly not going to be running to the packy each evening to find the perfect pairing for shake and bake chicken. With box wine, she always had what she liked on the ready and could minimize visits. This works equally well for parties.

Second: Storage. The boxes are quite the perfect size to fit in fridges of both mini and full size. They can be stacked. They don’t roll around in the back of your car and they don’t require all sorts of protective waste in shipping, so you’re making an environmentally sound decision as well.

Third, Freshness. As there’s no cork, you don’t risk corkage. Also, I’ve heard that people sometimes find themselves in situations where there is some wine left in a bottle they’ve not finished. If this isn’t drunk reasonably soon, it will spoil. In box wine, the internal bag contracts as the wine is finished, thus keeping the air out and the liquid fresh. Ditto to the tap.

Fourth, Quality. Yes, quality. Gone are the days where Rossi and Franzia are all that come in square. Increasingly vintners are choosing to package wine in boxes, often cutting the size down a bit from the more classical varieties of boxed wines to a smaller “premium” 3 litre. Whole Foods, for example, offers a box in their line and Three Thieves makes small juice boxes of vino which are not only drinkable, but excellent for summer concerts, outside plays, and your lunchbox at work.

Hopefully we’ll be adding some reviews of the best boxes of Europe and the Americas to help you expand the horizons of what you imbibe and begin to think inside the box. Check back soon!