How does ChatGPT “do me?”
What happened when I asked AI to write an article on old vines using my voice
The Experiment
After reading, in The New York Times, about the fiction writer Andrea Bartz who successfully took on AI giant Anthropic in a class action suit for stealing writing for the purpose of training AI programs (re The Thriller Writer Who Took on a Tech Giant), I asked ChatGPT to write an article “in the style of Randy Caparoso” on two related subjects: 1) old vine Zinandel, and 2) why old vines are important.
Since I’ve published numerous permutations on these subjects over the past 25 years, I knew ChatGPT would have plenty to draw upon. In fact, the AI source’s first response was:
Sure! Here’s an article on Old Vines written in the style of Randy Caparoso, who is known for his lyrical, evocative prose with a deep reverence for terroir, history, and the emotional connection between wine, place, and people.
Fair enough. The Caparoso-ized article that I got, within a few seconds, was actually pretty good, although I’d describe it, from a rhetorical standpoint, as something of a cartoonized version of what I’d normally write. Nonetheless more than interesting, I think, for an average reader. Even if lacking in credible detail, it was a reasonable facsimile of “me.”
Curious, right after I got my instant article, I queried ChatGPT about what exactly is “the writing style of Randy Caparoso” to see what it based its imitation of me on. Within 5 seconds it delivered a 530-word analysis (I did a word count) of my style in the context of what I write. I won’t bore you with the details, but I think the summary at the very end describes exactly why ChatGPT presented an exaggeration of what I do. To wit,
In Summary: Randy Caparoso’s Wine Writing Is...
Poetic, but never pompous
Rooted in place, especially Lodi and historic vineyards
People-focused, with attention to growers and farmers
Emotionally resonant, connecting wine to memory and meaning
Accessible, even when deeply knowledgeable
Advocacy-driven, especially around old vine preservation
If you’re looking to write in his style, think of it as walking the vineyard row with your reader, pointing out not just the clones and canopy management, but the wind on your neck, the farmer’s calloused hands, and the story in each vine’s twist.
I think, at least, it got the important parts right; that is, about how I endeavor to impart the experience of wine primarily through vineyards or terroirs (rather than just what you find in a glass or through manipulations of winemakers) without sounding too pedantic (even when long, since lord knows I can drone on and on).
Immediate Conclusions
I can see where ChatGPT can be very useful, especially for a writer looking for an easy starting point (what can be easier than “research”—information that, in the olden days, might take me days, weeks, even months to gather—done within 5 seconds?) smart enough to be able to take raw material and successfully shape it into his or her own voice.
ChatGPT, however, does run a disclaimer at the end, saying that it can be “wrong.” In the essay that was returned to me, in fact, it cited an official seal for old vine certified vineyards on bottles that absolutely does not exist. In another place, it cited a winemaker I have never, ever written about, not once during my 44 years of published wine writing (I started in the typewriter and Wite-Out days). Where it got these pieces of information (which certainly can’t be found anywhere in the internet), only the god of digital heaven knows.
Here’s where it gets weird: I know I’ve often used the word “whisper” when writing about old vines. Can’t help it, I literally taste terroir in glasses of wine made from many vineyards. To me, it’s like vineyards whispering to me. ChatGPT threw that indulgence right back at my face, repeating it in several ways at least a dozen times; whereas in any one article, I obviously wouldn’t use “whisper” more than once or twice, lest I sound like a babbling, or hallucinating, fool.
So that would be my major caveat: Not only can sources such as ChatGPT make mistakes, sometimes those mistakes are doozies. It can make things up, apparently, from seemingly whole cloth. Plus, there is almost no flight of fancy ChatGPT is unwilling to take. It does not comprehend shame, or insipidness.
Otherwise, my thoughts on ChatGPT in its current form are that it...
Tries so hard to replicate human feeling, it ends up caricaturizing, like an SNL skit, all the emotional elements it manages to dig up, such as the quirks (or in my case, habitual obsessions) of a particular writer’s prose and phraseology.
Is definitely detail and fact challenged.
While it brings out lots of nice points that I might forget to include, it is strangely selective on the examples it chooses. In my specific case, citing vineyards that I rarely write about (as opposed to vineyards I mention often), and using descriptors I almost never use. Such as “brambly,” a word I’d use only in the context of how Zinfandel used to be described (no one today should describe a Zinfandel as brambly since “bramble” disappeared from common language a while ago, once America transitioned from a rural to suburban culture).
In other words, AI is not the best arbiter of words or facts. It is predictably random in its choice of specifics. An intelligent human has to step in to make it toe the line.
That said, the following is the wonderful (if only because it’s about old vines and celebrates many of my oft-repeated points!) article written exclusively for me, by the digitalized “Randy Caparoso,” which includes the exact titles and subtitles chosen by ChatGPT. I did, however, edit out the parts in error, while leaving in the excesses (such as the purple prose and onerously repetitive references to “whispers”) of AI for all to see. I also left in the words it chose to bold, presumably to leave road signs for prospective users.
And finally, the AI generated images—many of them as purplish as the prose—are all based on my own photographs.
Old Vine Zinfandel: Our Living Tapestry in a Glass
[By ChatGPT]
Walk into a vineyard of old vine Zinfandel in Lodi just after sunrise, and you’ll feel it—the hush, the reverence, the weight of memory that clings to the knotted trunks like morning mist. These aren’t vineyards so much as living heirlooms, gnarled monuments to the hands that planted them and the rhythms of time that have shaped them.
“Old vine” is more than a phrase—it’s a heartbeat, a whisper from the past. And no grape variety in America wears that mantle quite like Zinfandel.
A Rooted Legacy
Let’s begin with a truth: Zinfandel is America’s heritage grape, but its soul is nowhere more fully revealed than in the vineyards that have weathered a century or more of sun, frost, drought, and plenty. In Lodi, in the Sierra Foothills, in Dry Creek and Contra Costa—these vines don’t just grow, they endure.
Some, like the Royal Tee Vineyard in Lodi (planted in 1889), or Pagani Ranch in Sonoma Valley (early 1900s), are as vital now as they were a century ago. They sprawl, untrellised, like old hands reaching in every direction. Head-trained and dry-farmed, they speak a dialect of place that no modern clone or irrigation system can replicate.
These vines don’t yield much—maybe two tons an acre on a generous year—but what they give is essence, not excess. They are more than just old; they have become sacred ground.
Why They Matter
Old vine Zinfandel matters not just because it’s delicious—though it often is—but because it’s living history.
Each vine is a survivor. They’ve outlived two World Wars, Prohibition, countless shifts in consumer taste. They’re still here, whispering stories through their fruit. They teach us patience, resilience, and the importance of listening. They don’t scream their identity; they murmur it with quiet confidence.
And in a wine world increasingly driven by marketing spin and fleeting trends, these vineyards offer something rare: authenticity. No reboot, no rebranding required.
Marian’s Vineyard (Lodi AVA – Mokelumne River, 1901)
If there is a single vineyard that whispers the ancient dialect of Lodi’s Zin heritage, it’s Marian’s—a 1901 planting of own-rooted Zinfandel on the deep sandy loam of the east side. Named for Marian Mohr-Felten, this vineyard is farmed by Jerry and Bruce Fry of Mohr-Fry Ranches, fourth and fifth-generation growers who view these vines as family.
The vineyard’s wines, bottled by producers like St. Amant Winery, show purity: bright raspberry and wild cherry, but always framed by spice and a minerality that seems to hum from beneath the earth.
“These vines don’t need to be trained,” Bruce Fry once said. “They already know what to do.”
Evangelho Vineyard (Contra Costa County, 1890s)
Here, in the sandy soils of Antioch, flanked by rail lines and encroaching subdivisions, Evangelho sits like a time capsule.
Planted in the 1890s to Zinfandel, Carignan, and Mataró (Mourvèdre), this vineyard thrives on its own roots in soils of almost pure beach sand, which phylloxera cannot abide. The winds from the Sacramento River blow cool air across the vines, giving freshness to wines that might otherwise veer into heat.
Morgan Twain-Peterson’s Bedrock Wine Co., Turley Wine Cellars, and Ridge Vineyards have all bottled Evangelho, treating it as hallowed ground. The resulting Zinfandels are often perfumed with red licorice, sandalwood, and earth, but never heavy—always laced with vitality.
Pagani Ranch (Sonoma Valley, circa 1895)
In the cooler reaches of Sonoma Valley’s east side, Pagani Ranch has been farmed by the same family since it was planted over 125 years ago. These majestic head-trained vines—Zinfandel interspersed with Alicante Bouschet and Petite Sirah—produce wines of brooding power and uncanny depth.
Producers like Carlisle, Ridge, and Bedrock all pay tribute here, capturing a richness that doesn’t scream but simmers. Think blackberry preserves, leather, baking spice, and black tea—all tightly knit into a firm, age-worthy frame.
Kirschenmann Vineyard (Lodi AVA, 1915)
Owned and farmed by Tegan Passalacqua, winemaker at Turley Wine Cellars, Kirschenmann is a 1915-planted vineyard on Lodi’s famed Tokay sandy loam. It’s a study in elegance: head-trained, dry-farmed, and organically stewarded.
The wines from Kirschenmann are often the opposite of what many expect from Zinfandel. They’re light on their feet—pomegranate, crushed rock, savory herbs—and show the grape’s potential for transparency over opulence. It’s a vineyard that speaks not in shouts, but in finely articulated whispers.
The Flavor of Time
What does old vine Zinfandel taste like?
Not the jammy, sweet-leaning caricatures that the mass market has come to expect. No, these wines are poised, perfumed, complex. There’s black raspberry and wild bramble, yes—but also iron, dusty earth, sun-baked herb, and sometimes that fleeting perfume of rose petal or pipe tobacco that lingers like a memory you can’t quite place.
In the hands of thoughtful vintners such as Tegan Passalacqua (Turley and Sandlands), these wines are transparent windows into their vineyard source. Every bottling is a map—etched in acid, tannin, and fruit—to a specific plot of land and a chapter of California’s wine story.
Why They Matter
Old vine Zinfandel matters not just because it’s delicious—though it often is—but because it’s living history.
Each vine is a survivor. They’ve outlived two World Wars, Prohibition, countless shifts in consumer taste. They’re still here, whispering stories through their fruit. They teach us patience, resilience, and the importance of listening. They don’t scream their identity; they murmur it with quiet confidence.
And in a wine world increasingly driven by marketing spin and fleeting trends, these vines offer something rare: authenticity. No reboot, no rebranding required.
A Call to Stewardship
Old vine Zinfandel vineyards will only survive if people believe they’re worth saving.
Organizations such as the Historic Vineyard Society and Old Vine Registry have been organized to help preserve these irreplaceable vines. Fighting to keep these vineyards not just alive, but relevant. Because when the market rewards freshness over depth, and scalability over soul, it becomes all too easy to bulldoze the past for the promise of yield.
It takes commitment—because replacing them with higher-yielding clones is always tempting. But every time a vineyard such as Marian’s, Kirschenmann or Evangelho is preserved, it’s a win for authenticity, for place, for storytelling in a bottle.
How a Zinfandel Tells Its Story
So next time you pour a glass of old vine Zinfandel, pause for a beat.
Swirl it slowly. Smell the layers. Taste the decades.
Because this isn’t just wine—it’s the labor of forgotten hands, the sweat of immigrant farmers, the arc of a nation’s agricultural evolution. It’s soil and sun filtered through age and time and heart.
And in every sip, it says: Remember me.
Why Old Vine Viticulture Still Matters
There is a quiet dignity in old vines.
You don’t just walk into an old vine vineyard—you arrive. You feel the shift. The gnarled trunks don’t posture or perform. They don’t try to impress. They’ve seen more harvests than the people who farm them, and they carry that age not as weight, but as wisdom.
Old vine viticulture, especially in places like Lodi, Contra Costa, Dry Creek, and the Sierra Foothills, isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about stewardship. It’s about connection. It’s about wine as a living thread—tying the past to the present, the farmer to the land, and the glass to something that matters more than marketing.
We preserve old vines not because they are old, but because they are essential.
Vines with Memory
There’s a particular rhythm to vineyards planted a hundred years ago.
These aren’t sprawling trellised rows engineered for efficiency. These are head-trained, dry-farmed bushes—each vine spaced apart with room to breathe, to weather, to learn. Walk through a vineyard like Marian’s or Evangelho, and you don’t see uniformity. You see individuals.
Each vine tells a story. Some lean sideways, some rise like fists from the ground, others curve like dancers frozen in time. Their roots dig deep—far deeper than young vines ever could—tapping not only water, but memory.
And the fruit they yield? Modest in quantity, but profound in expression. Lower yields, thicker skins, deeper flavor. This isn’t just good farming. It’s character forged by time.
Wines That Whisper
Wines from old vines don’t need oak to make a point. They don’t need flash or flair. The best of them speak in a dialect that’s hard to describe but unmistakable when tasted.
There is concentration without heaviness, ripeness without excess, and a kind of savory depth that seems to come from beneath the topsoil of flavor.
Wines made from vineyards such as Marian’s (1901) or Kirschenmann (1915) do not shout who they are, or how long they’ve been there. They murmur. And if you’re patient enough to listen, they’ll tell you everything.
Beyond the Glass, a Living History
There’s a temptation to romanticize old vines into relics. To view them as museum pieces with no modern relevance. But make no mistake: old vines are not fragile. They are resilient.
Old vine viticulture isn’t so much about the past as a continuity.
These vines are a testament to people who believed in a place long before wine was fashionable. Immigrant farmers who planted in faith. Generations who tended by hand, often without recognition. Their vines are still speaking, long after they’re gone.
To tear them out for younger vines, higher yields, or more marketable varietals is to break that line—to silence a voice that still has something vital to say.
But it happens. All the time.
Because old vines don’t produce big numbers on a spreadsheet. They require more care. They ask for trust. And they demand a kind of slow farming that doesn’t fit easily into modern metrics.
So why preserve them?
Because what they offer can’t be replicated. Because a vine that’s survived 100 years has earned its place. Because wine should not only be about what sells, but what matters.
A Deep Rooted Future
In a world chasing what’s next, old vines remind us of where we’ve been—and where we still need to go. They offer proof that longevity and depth still matter. That deep roots and sense of place still matter. That people who care enough to listen to the land—rather than dictate to it—can make wines that resonate deeper than trends.
So next time you lift a glass of old vine wine, take a moment.
Smell the dust. Taste the age. Listen carefully to hear the voice.
It’s not just a beverage. It’s a living thing. A conversation across generations.
A vine with roots deeper than any of us, and still has more to say.
