I guaran-damn-tee you no naming consultant was hired or harmed in the development of this wine brand:
The calligraphy is teeny, so I'll help you out: It's called Dead Letter Office. And that's how I know it was named internally, probably by the owners themselves. If a naming consultant (such as yours truly) proposed using the D-word to name a wine, she would be mocked, vilified, and sent slinking from the room. Dead, professionally speaking, is what she'd be.
But you know what? I like this name. I admire its Gogolian-Melvillean allusions, not to mention its unblinking acceptance of mortality. (A mortality that, let it be noted, could conceivably be hastened by overconsumption of the product, whose alcohol content is a robust 15 percent.)
I even like the ruminative, vaguely wistful story on the label:
"Return to sender, address unknown", or so the song goes. But what happens to mail of abstruse, or absent, address or origin? Enter the brave clerks of the Dead Letter Office. Only they have the authority to open undeliverable mail, strictly forbidden to read any more of the communication than absolutely necessary to facilitate safe delivery. Thanks to them, every year thousands of displaced letters find their way home.
None of that overtones of burnt coffee or subtly evocative of Milk Duds or seven rolling acres of former swampland blah blah blah. Nothing useful, either—true enough. But I can't help feeling that anyone confident enough to create that name and commit to that story has nothing to fear from the wine snobs. (One of those wine snobs called the 2005 Dead Letter Office "numbing." Well, sure. What part of D-E-A-D did he not understand?)
Here's some background: Dead Letter Office is a Shiraz blend from Henry's Drive in South Australia. I spotted it at BevMo. I didn't buy it, but don't read anything into that: I'm not much of a wine drinker, and $33.99 seems like a lot to pay for Bottled Headache. Which doesn't mean I wouldn't be thrilled and honored to name your winery or wine brand for you.