Let's free-associate for a moment. I say: "Romania." You say: "Ceausescu, communism, orphans and war-ravaged grey cities. Oh, and Dracula." Probably. What you definitely don't say is: "Beautiful place, lovely wine, too."

We have a very emotional attachment to wine and its origins - which makes Romanian wine very hard to sell. "You can go skiing in the Carpathian Mountains," the press officer for a newish brand called Prahova Valley offers lamely. In an attempt to sell the wine, she has been reduced to acting as a travel promoter for the whole country.

It may come as a surprise to learn that Romania is the world's tenth-biggest wine producer. It is less of a shock to hear that the wine is very cheap. But the critical question is, as always, can you derive any pleasure from swilling it round your gums and swallowing? I am interested to find out, not least because I spend far too much on wine these days. I seem to have forgotten how to buy a decent bottle of plonk for everyday drinking. Will Prahova Valley Pinot Noir 1999, at £3.49 a bottle (from the Co-op, of all places), do the trick?

"Don't look for complexity in Romanian wine, or try to compare it with Burgundy, which is also made with Pinot Noir," an expert warns me. "Buy it young, drink it young. End of story."

Thus prepared, I am worried I might give Prahova Valley an easy ride. So I do something really mean. I take it to Corney & Barrow, an upmarket merchant that specialises in Bordeaux and Burgundy (palates attuned to the intricate structure of Old World wines are always going to be harder to impress with anything simpler), and ask the gentlemen - I use the term mainly to flatter - there to taste it with me. Blind.

Most people in the trade hate blind tastings because the chances of covering yourself in glory are slim, while the chances of making a fool of yourself are high. I tell Ali, Jeremy and Charles (who is French) that I want to know only two things: would they ever choose to drink this, and how much would they pay for it? But they are good sports and I get a lot more.

Charles (the Frenchman) is first to the glass. He wrinkles his nostrils at first sniff and gurns. "It's not vinegar," is all he is prepared to give. After a few more sips, and a few more faces, he relents a little. Then the Frenchman accuses it of being Spanish or Italian. But suddenly it's not so bad, after all. Worth perhaps a fiver, but he'd never buy it. "When would be the occasion to drink it?" (This is answered with a dismissive shrug.)

Jeremy and Ali are more circumspect. They throw ideas around, at first also thinking it might be Spanish (they had not heard the Frenchman's verdict), then toying with the idea of Greek. Eventually, Jeremy pronounces: "I just think it's peculiar, which makes it neither straightforward New or Old World. It's got to be eastern bloc - Bulgarian or Romanian. And if not, then something mucky from the southern Rhone."

I'm impressed. But is it worth drinking? "It's not flabby," concedes Ali, "it's got some acidity, soft tannins, a nice nose with light spice and pepper and reasonable fruit." "But the wood component is kind of strange," interjects Jeremy.

In the end, they decide that it's not too bad. They wouldn't buy it themselves, but they probably have what my father calls "right poncey" tastes. Most importantly, they'd be happy selling it to people: "It's a bit nondescript, but it has good qualities, too." And they think it's worth about a fiver.

What they are saying, essentially, is that it's great everyday drinking - and at a bargain price. Just one word of warning: avoid the Prahova Valley Merlot Reserve. It's £1 more expensive and none of us liked it at all - "lolly water with a dash of alcohol" was the last word.

So there you are.