When it comes to true wine sampling, sometimes Sainsbury’s just isn’t enough...

The scrolls had spoken of a temple, far to the east (the big Asda at the retail park on the edge of Cambridge), in which could be found a trinity of essential wines: red, white, and rosé; father, mother, and child; thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Known not by names, but by adjectives. Each one ringing in at a record-breaking £3.19. We knew that this was not an opportunity to miss.

Having listened to the shipping forecast, popped to Mountain Warehouse to get kitted out, and double-checked that we could use this for our Bronze DofE, we ventured out. The journey of two and a quarter litres of dirt-cheap wine, as they say, begins with a single sip.

Rich & Ripe

Let’s kick off with the red. At first glance Rich & Ripe seems nice enough. Poker-faced, with perhaps a hint of coyness sneering from behind that laconic subheading, ‘Red Wine’. But it’s all a facade because, on drinking, it proves itself to be made of much harsher stuff. Like a tattooed vagabond who wants to assert themselves too much, or some post-industrial run-off, it teases and torments the softer parts of the back of the throat, boils in the stomach, and refuses to be contained. A mercurial, chain-smoking punk, Rich & Ripe shows off its scars and piercings with such fumigating bombast that we felt as if we’d just drunk the equivalent of 100 cigarettes in tarry liquid form – and that was just the first glass!

“The journey of two and a quarter litres of dirt-cheap wine, as they say, begins with a single sip.”

This half-glistening, dusty ruby of the New World might promise ‘easy drinking’, but again and again the rapturous addiction demanded satiation, pulling on glass after glass. Needless to say, there was something breathless – even erotic – about it and, in true sultry red wine style, we were left imprinted with those infamous red wine lip stains: the ever-deepening love bites that recall heady, toxic liaisons, vampiric lust, and all the delights and dangers of unchecked desire.

This wine is an antihero; the brigand we root for but ultimately cannot reconcile. For food pairings there’s the cryptic recommendation to ‘enjoy with food and friends’. Hmm... Enjoy with friends? It’s not too difficult to believe that this sulphuric concoction might indeed be hiding some deep-set cannibalistic urges.

Exhausted by the trials of voyage we sought refuge in a nearby lodge. We were thrilled to find warm rooms, clean sheets, friendly staff, and a good night’s sleep. Freed from the acidic phantasma of the evening, we awoke eager and ready to tackle the new horizons that beckoned. 5/5, for both value and quality of room. (Not sponsored by Travelodge – yet, but we’re hopeful!)

Zesty & Vibrant

The white – the second piece of the puzzle – was up next. And if the red was wintry and inflamed, then Zesty & Vibrant held all the colours of a spring meadow within its verdant dimensions. April showers, blissful May afternoons and, to be fair, those hand wipes you get in Chinese restaurants. While it might wear some trappings of its family, Zesty & Vibrant walks in a very different orchard. Suddenly we found ourselves in a Pre-Raphaelite vision, a minimalist garden of crisp Hellenic proportions with this garlanded harbinger. A new world Sappho, reclining, blasé, in languid welcome.

“My God that is zesty!” one of us commented intelligently.

Slipping down the valleys of tongue and throat, Zesty & Vibrant leaves a carpet of flora (and fauna, for all you animal lovers out there) wherever it treads – or, at least, that’s what we infer from our notes, which read: ‘I feel like I’m growing fur on my tongue’.

“’My God that is zesty!’ one of us commented intelligently.”

Alas, the vision darkens! Such youthful pageantry of spring’s first delights must fade, in time, like the withering of white lilies.

In other words, we ran out of the stuff.

Our grief turned destructive. The violent contrast of thesis and antithesis struggled to be reconciled. We quarrelled and threw things at each other, swore at the photographer, threw the photographer at each other, chucked the minion bag into the road screaming ‘hell is empty, and all the devils are here!’ and went our separate ways. One returned to the Travelodge; the other retired to a nearby Premier Inn, which is sadly not sponsoring this review, and was just not as good to be honest.

Fresh & Juicy

The morning of the third day arrived. And, like the pink foam of the cloud-spun sunrise, we rose to meet Fresh & Juicy -- a blended polyphony of red and white.

For all its renegade rebellion though, this whippersnapper just can’t seem to shrug off its familial hallmarks; just like its parents, this rosé wears its heart on its sleeve. It’s sun-shot, gauche, saccharine: like an overripe tomato ready to burst at the bite, or a childhood jam sandwich oozing colour and flavour. Endearing maybe, but its naiveté found us jaded – changed. Nostalgic summer afternoons floated in front of us, fugitive and rose-tinted. A plastic billboard of a Malibu beach – neon-lit, of course – but empty.

“Fuck it! A £3.19 rosé by any other name would smell just as bittersweet.”

Fresh & Juicy was a summer fling we were too heartbroken to commit to; a lullaby too childish to soothe our cares; a shit wine we could, finally, see through. It wasn’t fresh and it wasn’t particularly juicy, but fuck it! A £3.19 rosé by any other name would smell just as bittersweet.

And so, we ended our pilgrimage. A little sadder, perhaps. A little wiser, for certain – and, most importantly, with the knowledge that Asda’s trio of family unfriendly wines does indeed provide the most cost efficient ABV% per ml of pretty much anything, short of Frosty Jack’s. But, be prepared to travel – physically and emotionally.

Yes, this basket of vinos was always going to be about the journey. But, when all was said and done, this problematic threesome only left us searching for a destination.