About Us

LESS IS MORE WINES is a Los Angeles online store focused on low-intervention wines.

We care about how the wines are made, in the vineyard and in the cellar. We are interested in the farming practices employed, and winemaking decisions. We believe in a light, conscious approach, avoiding the dogmatic and the formulaic.

We mostly care about how the wine tastes. First and foremost, are they delicious? If they do not accomplish their most innate objective as a beverage, who wants to drink a theoretical exercise?

Most importantly, who wants to drink industrial plonk?
As you may know, wine labels do NOT list any additives.

We care about the winemakers behind the wines. We have met some, or want to meet them, these are all people we respect and admire for their care and craftsmanship. Yet our top concern is the people drinking their wines. Can we back up this product 100%? If we cannot, then we cannot sell the wine.

LESS IS MORE HAS A SMALL AND FINITE SELECTION BY CHOICE.

We ask the following questions about the wines we sell.

Are these wines made thoughtfully?

What is the intentionality behind them?

Is there winemaking approach aligned with our values?

Do we desire them?

Can we remember them the day after?

Are they evocative?

Is it a good value?

We care to offer wines we believe in; price is a fundamental factor. We can’t honestly believe in a wine we sell if we don’t believe it’s worth every dollar. When we sell a wine we consider expensive, we still think it is worth every dollar.

We keep it light; we are the middlemen; it’s wine. It’s super serious, but so is everything else. We try to keep it light on the pretentiousness.

We are after people who want to try new things that are not bogged down by their preconceptions. A lot of our wines are natural wines; however, we don’t fly that flag.

WHEN DEAN YOUNG TALKS ABOUT WINE

by Tony Hoagland

The worm thrashes when it enters the tequila.
The grape cries out in the wine vat crusher.

But when Dean Young talks about wine, his voice is strangely calm.
Yet it seems that wine is rarely mentioned.

He says, Great first chapter but no plot.
He says, Long runway, short flight.
He says, This one never had a secret.
He says, You can't wear stripes with that.

He squints as if recalling his childhood in France.
He purses his lips and shakes his head at the glass.

Eight-four was a naughty year, he says,
and for a second I worry that California has turned him
into a sushi-eater in a cravat.

Then he says,
This one makes clear the difference
between a thoughtless remark
and an unwarranted intrusion.

Then he says, In this one the pacific last light of afternoon
stains the wings of the seagull pink
at the very edge of the postcard.

But where is the Cabernet of rent checks and asthma medication?
Where is the Burgundy of orthopedic shoes?
Where is the Chablis of skinned knees and jelly sandwiches?
with the aftertaste of cruel Little League coaches?
and the undertone of rusty station wagon?

His mouth is purple as if from his own ventricle
he had drunk.
He sways like a fishing rod.

When a beast is hurt it roars in incomprehension.
When a bird is hurt it huddles in its nest.

But when a man is hurt,
he makes himself an expert.
Then he stands there with a glass in his hand
staring into nothing
as if he were forming an opinion.