By spousal order, I’ve had to limit my membership in wine clubs to two. So after an excruciating process of elimination, I came up with a pair of desert-island wineries. I didn’t pick them because they make my favorite or most prized wine. (That’s what mailing lists are for, and thankfully Alice didn’t say anything about them, since I’m on like a hundred.) I picked the wine clubs I did because I knew they’d send me consistently good, reasonably priced bottles I can sign for on my doorstep, unpack, and put straight on the table. Additionally, the wineries had to be within striking distance, since I like to exploit my membership to get VIP treatment when I visit, including discounts, free tastings, reserved seating, photo ops, whatever.

Justin Vineyards was one. I collect their Bordeaux-style blend called Isosceles, and at the time I signed up, they were having great success with Rhône grape varieties like syrah and mourvedre, which I love. Someday, too, I hoped to be able to stay at Justin’s pastoral-looking bed and breakfast and eat at their restaurant. (The other is Chateau St. Jean in Sonoma.)

So how did it come about that, as Alice puts it, “every time I drink a wine from Justin, a piece of me dies inside“? Click here for the story:

For years I enjoyed all the wines they sent, not to mention the free shipping. But some bloopers — starting with the 2004 Chardonnay, which struck me as unhappily acidic — started to come through. Then, on a recent trip to Paso Robles, I finally got a chance to visit Justin, and it really pains me to report that upon returning home I’m rethinking my membership.

Why? When we visited, we didn’t find out until we’d made our way through a reception area, a library, and a crowded tasting room that there was an separate “reserve” facility for Justin Society members. We didn’t have the energy to retrieve our car, drive down the road, and park again — even for free wine — so we tasted through their regular releases. That’s when our hearts began to break. “Undrinkable” was whispered after the thin and acidic 2006 chard ($20), “inoffensive,” after the 2005 zin, “simple” after the 2005 syrah ($26), and “cough syrup” after the 2006 Obtuse ($26), a Port-style wine made from cabernet.

Perhaps Justin has grown too fast for its quality to keep apace. The owners, Justin and Deborah Baldwin were pioneers in Paso Robles (they bought their 160 acres in 1981). Now they do the inn, the restaurant, a gym, contract vineyards, and a whopping 28 different wines (though not necessarily all at one time).

I’m still going to cellar some of each vintage of Justin’s Isosceles (I sampled the 2004 when it arrived this year, and my notes read “great big fruit and some spice flavors, closed up after some time in the glass — young”). In the meantime, if you want to further strain my loyalty, tempt me with your stories of wine clubs you love, and why.