It's hard to read the title of Alice Feiring's new book without construing the work as a well-aimed character assassination on the world's most prolific wine critic, but she makes it fairly clear throughout that she is crusading against on an icon, and not the man himself. For a war-monger, Feiring writes charming prose, extolling the virtues of simple, natural wine-making, and exposing the cruel, technical methods that have robbed many wines of character. In parts, it reads like a Sinclair exposé of the horrors of modern viticulture, and in others, she reminisces over the fleeting loves of her life, be they vino or vir.