This week marks the fifth anniversary of Everyday Drinking. How time flies! Hard to believe that I’ve been publishing here for five years!

The traditional fifth anniversary gift is wood, representing strength and growth, which I guess makes sense when you think about wood barrels in the making of fine drinks. Five years isn’t a very long time in the world of wine and spirits, where things can age for decades. But it’s long enough to reflect on publishing this newsletter, and the challenges we all still face in the drinks industry.

When I started this in the spring of 2021, still in the thick of the pandemic, the media world was in a bad place. At the time, I felt like I was taking a big risk in going it alone. Media was certainly crumbling all around us. But who knew what this thing called Substack would become? Who knew that newsletters might be the way forward?

Well, as it turns out, the media world in 2026 is an even worse place! Quite honestly, who knows what the way forward might be? So many of the publications we all love have either shuttered, or are a shell of their former selves through layoffs, neglect, mismanagement, or clueless editorial direction.

But media isn’t the only thing in crisis. As we all know, it’s a time of crisis and reckoning for the wine and spirits industry. Big drinks companies have been slow to realize that people don’t want to buy what they’re selling any longer. The industry has been slow to embrace the idea that younger generations are drinking less, but better quality and at higher price points. At this point, one might think that drinks media and the drinks industry would have a common problem (and opportunity) to work together on.

But a curious thing that nobody talks about is the key role that the industry and its public-relations apparatus has played in the demise of wine and spirits media. I hear endless grumbling from industry people about messaging and media, about reaching new audiences, about the lack of new ideas and strategies. And yet, they continue to fund and support the same old, broken model. They gripe about critics, yet still advertise with and pay expensive “industry/pro subscriptions” for better placement in the same old legacy publications. I see companies trying to sell artisan, premium wines who spend their marketing dollars on wine media that’s mostly funded by mass-market brands. Make it make sense.

Every day, I get dozens of emails from PR and brand people, pitching me on “new” products and services that feel like the same old thing, notifying me of the same old tastings to attend, inviting me on old-fashioned group press trips. These PR and brand people, presumably, are emailing in hopes that I will write about their products, services, tastings, and places.

Honestly, it amazes me that the world’s appellations, drinks companies, entrepreneurs, and trade groups still keep pouring cash into this old, broken PR and branding model. What a waste of money! I cannot imagine that 90 percent (or more) of what clients spend on this old PR model nets any results.

Some days, as I am deleting these PR emails en masse, I wonder: For whom or for what, exactly, do these people hope that I am writing about their pitches? Seriously, like who? Given how much of drinks media has gone out of business or downsized. And for what? Given that anyone who works for what’s left of drinks knows even the legacy publications pay peanuts for content.

To which some of you may, reasonably, ask: Why don’t you write about these things for your own newsletter? It’s a great question! By now, Everyday Drinking has one of the biggest wine and spirits readerships in America. But you would be so surprised how disappointed that most of these PR and brand people are when—once in a blue moon—I reach out for more information…only to tell them that I will be writing this for my own humble newsletter. If you want to make a PR person cry, tell them you’re going to write about their client…but only for your Substack newsletter rather than pitching Wine Enthusiast!

The irony of this, of course, is how many of these people read every issue of this newsletter. Most of them without paying. (If this is you, I invite you to upgrade at my current deep discounted rate.)

All of which is to say: Everyday Drinking is entering its fifth year with its independence intact. Like everyone else in media and content creation, I’ve certainly had conversations with brands and regions and companies about sponsorships and partnerships and collaborations. But over and over, I encounter the same old way of thinking—thinking that completely misses the current reality of where both drinks and media stand. Therefore, I am pleased to say that we are still independent and ad free.

Which is why I am asking, once again, for your support to keep Everyday Drinking going. I am very grateful to loyal readers like you, who read what I write each and every week. It’s you who’ve made Everyday Drinking one of the top drinks publications in the U.S.

If you’ve been enjoying my work for free, please consider upgrading to paid. Your subscription helps keep Everyday Drinking independent and ad free, and allows me to continue my work as a voice and advocate within the wine and spirits industry.

If you still haven’t yet made the leap to paid subscriber, that’s okay and easily changed. Today, I’m offering you my deepest discount, 40 percent off an annual subscription. By upgrading, you’ll be supporting the work I’m doing with this newsletter, the work that you continue to enjoy.

Upgrade today for 40% off!

Cheers to (hopefully) five more years. Thank you!

More Industry Commentary on Everyday Drinking

So I’m writing for Wine Enthusiast once again, and I have a number of pieces coming out that I’ll be linking to over the next few months. My first is a feature in their May “Bubbles” issues on—what else?—the ongoing drama in Catalonia’s sparkling wine scene, and the rise of Corpinnat.

Readers of Everyday Drinking know this isn’t the first time I’ve written about Corpinnat, which in the past I’ve cited as a “wine of resistance.”

Over the past decade and a half, few corners of the wine world have experienced as much upheaval as Catalonia’s sparkling wine sector. Less than 20 years ago, almost all the bubbly made in Penedès was simply called Cava, Spain’s most famous sparkling wine. At the top end, Cava is considered Spain’s version of Champagne. Unfortunately, many people know Cava for the bottom end. While there are 300 wineries in Cava, more than 80% of the production comes from three houses— Freixenet, Codorníu, García Carrión—who influence the Denominación de Origen (D.O.). In Spain, 90% of Cava retails for under 10 euros. “Most Cava is basic-level sparkling wine. I have friends in the States who tell me, ‘Oh, I use Cava in my mimosa,’” said Roc Gramona [the sixth-generation winemaker of the venerable Gramona estate and the current vice president of Corpinnat].

For producers of higher-quality, higher-priced sparkling wine, being associated with an ocean of inexpensive Cava became unsustainable. “The situation was so bad that we realized we all had to get together to survive,” said Ton Mata, CEO of Recaredo and the first president of Corpinnat.

One of the major issues for Catalonia’s disgruntled sparkling winemakers is that the Cava D.O. lacks a clear geographic identity. Cava can be produced in over 20 different regions across Spain, as long as it’s made in the méthode traditionnelle. In Cava’s spiritual home of Catalonia, this lack of terroir has always rubbed producers the wrong way.

Please click here to read the whole feature, which I promise is worth your while.

Every time I write about Corpinnat, it keeps growing: At the time of my reporting there were 21 members. Among the big news I reported is that legendary winery Juvé & Camps, which makes more than 2 million bottles of long-aged sparkling wines each year, recently announced they will leave Cava to join Corpinnat. Meanwhile Cava’s sales continue to decline, dropping more than 13 percent, and by more than 18 percent in international export markets, from 2023.

“The ongoing effervescence in the world of Catalan bubbles might not mean much to entry-level and price-sensitive consumers, but the fact that some of our benchmark, flagship sparklers are not DO Cava anymore is likely to play out differently in premium segments of the trade,” says my colleague, Barcelona-based consultant and educator Nika Shevela, DipWSET and founder of Wine Alphabet.

As Corpinnat grows, I hope the confusion of naming Catalonia’s best sparkling wines will eventually become clearer. For those keeping count, if you buy a sparkling wine made in Penedès right now, it could be called by one of five different names: Cava, Corpinnat, Clàssic Penedès, Conca del Riu Anoia (used by Raventós i Blanc), or Vino de Mesa, a.k.a. table wine (used by wineries such as Mas Gomà and Terra de Marca).

Because Corpinnat is registered as a trade organization rather than an appellation, it moves differently than the typical European AOCs, DOCs, or DOs. As Ton Mata of Recaredo told me, “we can put more strict rules into place than an appellation can.”

This is an aspect of the story that was too broad in scope for my Wine Enthusiast feature. I believe the rise of organizations like Corpinnat, or the VDP in Germany (a trade group of around 200 top wineries that promotes strict quality standards) raises a bigger question: Do appellations matter as much as they once did? “There is certainly an ongoing debate over the relevance of appellations globally,” Shevela said.

The pushback against traditional appellations is happening in two ways. First, there is a long European tradition of maverick winemakers leaving the strict rules and confines of appellations, particularly in France. Sarah Parker Jang explored this phenomenon in her recent piece about Provence for Everyday Drinking.

Vin de France has become shorthand to consumers (especially young ones) for experimental winemaking, often minimal or low intervention. This serves a purpose for marketing—Vin de France is now a brand of its own, in a way. But will there come a day when the INAO has a mess of Corpinnats and Verband Deutscher Prädikatsweingüters (VDPs)—private organizations that broke away from the appellation systems—to contend with? How many Château Lafleurs will it take before things change?

Maybe this battle will simply devolve further along the lines it’s already taken, where the consumer has to simply know producer names—both the AOCs/Château Pradeauxs and the Vins de France/Le Temps des Rêveurs of the French wine world—and the story behind them to know who is making the styles of wines they want to drink in the way that consumer prefers that they be made: traditionally, transparently, organically, regeneratively, low-intervention, etc. For so many wine consumers who think in this dimension, appellation labels are already just that—simply a label.

But in numerous legacy regions, there is a pushback from winemakers who want stricter rules, who believe that the traditional appellations have become too mired in the past, too lax on quality standards, and lacked a commitment to terroir—often due to influence from big companies and cooperatives who sell cheap wine. This is what’s happening in Corpinnat. “We never made Cava because it wasn’t interesting,” said Jordi Annan of Celler Pardas. “It was only when Corpinnat started that we decided to make sparkling wine.”

In Rioja, as another example, a new-wave of smaller wineries has pushed for radical change, and to the Consejo’s credit, they are listening and (slowly) shifting. For years, Rioja classifications were based on oak aging (crianza, reserva, gran reserva). The focus is now much more on conveying a sense of place.

In Germany, the VDP’s focus on single vineyards and its classifying of “Erstes Gewächs” and “Großes Gewächs” (essentially Premier and Grand Crus) has led to the German Winegrowers’ Association adopting that classification for all of Germany. Changes to the German wine laws will be based on the VDP’s well-established classification pyramid vineyard sites. The VDP’s focus on special vineyards and terroir has superseded German wine’s old, dated classification of sweetness levels.

I wrote about those changes in Germany. It’s a bold move in this current era of wine, when so much so-called consumer “education” is about “demystifying” wine and avoiding so-called “confusing” talk of about the value of place in an age of terroir denial.

I’ve observed that a certain type of wine influencer/educator has begun to steer completely clear of talk about terroir. At the low end, the focus is on a certain populism…But much of the higher-end natural wine chatter also avoids a deep discussion of place. While the best natural-wine producers are committed terroirists, a lot of the derivative, middling natty wine talk is way more about winemaking technique and philosophy—which are similar whether we’re talking about Sicily, Loire, Oregon, or elsewhere. After all, you can make “zero/zero” wine anywhere.

With Corpinnat, the organization was built on very strict rules. Grapes must be 100 percent organic and harvested by hand, and all wine must be made at the winery, with no juice bought from outside. If Corpinnat wineries buy grapes, they are obligated to pay growers a premium under long-term contracts. Aging rules are also strict: All Corpinnat wines must spend at least 18 months on the lees (meaning all wines qualify as reserva), and wineries must make at least one wine that ages 60 months or more on the lees.

And those rules will soon get even stricter. From my Wine Enthusiast article:

Perhaps the biggest rule that Corpinnat has instituted, the one that will most profoundly alter winemaking in Penedès, is its plan to ban international grapes like chardonnay and pinot noir. Starting in 2035, Corpinnat producers will only be allowed to use xarel-lo, macabeo, parellada, and malvasia de Sitges for whites, and garnacha, monastrell, xarello vermell, and sumoll for reds. “My father was very against outlawing chardonnay,” Gramona said. “But we can only be an alternative to Champagne if we use our own grapes.”

Ton Mata of Recaredo took me to a vineyard that had originally been planted in 1996 with Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, which they ripped out. 2014 was the last vintage they had both. “What was working in 1996 isn’t working today,” he said. “I’m glad the young people today already know this.”

12 Spanish Sparklers You Should Not Call Cava (Because They’re Corpinnat)

These Corpinnat tasting notes and bottle recommendations are for paid subscribers only. I am offering a deep discount today.

A great day to upgrade at 20% off!

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“Hpnotiq is back?” asked Punch, in a strange article posted this week. The answer? Maybe? “A handful of bars are reaching for the aquamarine bottles yet again,” and some are making updated versions of the Incredible Hulk, a venomous early aughts “cocktail” that combined Hpnotiq and Hennessey Cognac. Overall, not a particularly convincing argument that a renaissance is under way.

The Punch post is just one of several articles I’ve seen over the past year or so suggesting that the infamous electric-blue liqueur is having a moment. I mean, people have been actually predicting Hpnotiq comeback for more than a decade. In 2015, AdWeek reported, “Once a club staple, the spirit now looks to nostalgia.”

In what I guess we can call The Golden Age of Hpnotiq (2001-2009), the liqueur was a standard in hip-hop lyrics. In fact, there are at least 163 songs that name-check Hpnotiq. (Everyone from Drake to Kanye to Eminem to Karol G has used it in a rhyme). This would be the same era as Lil Jon’s “Crunk Juice” (a poisonous mix of Cognac and an energy drink like Red Bull) and Busta Rhymes’ “Pass The Courvoisier, Part II.” Y2K, baby.

So, what is Hpnotiq? Well, kids, just read the label on the slender bottle, which explains it’s “A Refreshing Blend of Premium French Vodka, Exotic Fruit Juices, and a Touch of Cognac.” It’s only 17% alcohol by volume, cloying, and tastes sorta pineapple, sorta passionfruit, sorta mango, sorta citrus. Honestly, Hpnotiq tastes…blue? But a crazy, artificial blue never before seen in nature.

According to a 2019 “oral history of Hpnotiq” in Mel Magazine (which also declared a “comeback” and a “Hpnaissance”), the liqueur in the “sex-toy-shaped bottle” was created in 2001 by Raphael Yakoby, a 25-year-old college dropout with zero business experience, who was living on Long Island—which, of course. “I was walking through Bloomingdale’s and saw this blue perfume in a beautiful bottle on a counter, and I thought, ‘Wouldn’t that be great for a liqueur product?’” Yakoby told the New York Post in 2007. It was an instant hit. By the following year Yakoby was worth $50 million.

You started seeing Hpnotiq pop in all sorts of cocktail abominations: A Hpnotiq Margarita where it subbed for Cointreau, a Hpnotiq “Martini” with coconut rum and pineapple juice, and the aforementioned Incredible Hulk, which turned an angry green when Cognac was added. Cocktail menus were populated by these sorts of drinks in the mid-to-late aughts. If you ever wonder why the classic cocktail renaissance happened, well kids, it was a reaction to monstrosities such as the Emerald Ice (Hpnotiq floated on top of Sprite, lime juice, and Sour Apple Pucker). Now, I guess, the pendulum could be swinging back, away from the whole speakeasy-craft-cocktail thing and toward…Hpnotiq?

In Hpnotiq’s defense, I will say that in the category of bad, cloying liqueurs, it’s one of the better ones. Is that faint praise? Well, yes, but still praise all the same. And to be fair, with the brandy category in such a dire crisis, it might be time for Cognac to embrace Hpnotiq and the Incredible Hulk (and maybe even Crunk Juice) once again.

For someone who covered spirits during those heady days of the 2000s, Hpnotiq brings back warm memories of a time when the the spirits market was ecletic, the wild west, and people were willing to buy and try anything weird and new. This was long before celebrity tequila, before a million “new gins” crowded shelves, before every dude became a bourbon aficionado. Back then, a small handful of entrepreneurs seemed more apt to bring in crazy, off-the-beaten-path products, with a few hits (St-Germain elderflower liqueur, for instance) amid many misses. I wrote about this era a couple of years ago in an essay called “Cleaning Out the Liquor Cabinet”:

How about a stone pine liqueur from the Alps? How about a peanut rum liqueur from St. Lucia? How about Dutch genever in heavy clay bottle? How about a root-beer-ish-flavored “amaro” meant to historically recreate early American root tea? How about a Polish vodka made with bison grass that’s banned in the U.S. because it has a chemical that causes blood thinning?

Hpnotiq grew out of that time, and its sheer staying power is sincerely impressive.

All of which still fails to answer the question: Is Hpnotiq having a comeback? My only recent experience with Hpnotiq is when my brother gave a bottle to my son Wes as a joke gift as he went off to college. I asked Wes whatever happened to the bottle. “I drank it once and it sat in my closet for like a year,” he said.

Was it a Gen Z thing? I texted Everyday Drinking’s resident Gen Z drinks trend specialist Annie Arriaga. “So is Hpnotiq back or not?”

“Asking the wrong gal. Never left for me.” (Annie, who is from Miami, suggests however that it might be a Miami thing.)

In the end, whether you are a Hpnotiq hater or a fan, I invite you into the comments to share your memories, nightmares, and above all, cocktail recipes involving the infamous electric-blue booze.

Related Booze Coverage in Everyday Drinking

Last night I was depressed, worried, and frustrated at the state of the world, and so I broke out one of my favorite Cognacs, 1989 Grosperrin Bois Ordinaires de L’Île d’Oléron. This is a very rare 26-year-old brandy from Cognac’s least-known cru, coastal Bois Ordinaires—specifically from the Atlantic island of Île d’Oléron. “It is 40 times more difficul…

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Here at Everyday Drinking, we’ve been doubling down lately on things that are amazing, but not particularly popular. A couple weeks ago, for instance, we ran an ode to spring—even though spring is not popular with Americans anymore. Recent surveys of seasonal preferences place it a distant second or even third to autumn, the runaway winner.

Last week, we…

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Join me and a small group of fellow writers in Rioja this fall for an exciting week devoted to writing, creativity, and taste! From October 11-17, I will lead a group of no more than six people in an immersive, all-inclusive experience to improve your drinks writing and your tasting. We’ll spend our mornings workshopping your writing, our afternoons visiting Rioja’s top wineries, and our evenings and mealtimes experiencing the vibrant city of Logroño, its amazing restaurants and tapas (aka pintxos) scene.

This immersive program is for people who want to take their writing and tasting skills to the next level. If you write (or aspire to write) about wine, spirits, food, travel—whether professionally or personally—this course is for you. Are you an aspiring journalist, essayist, or tastemaker? Are you a sommelier or bartender who wants to expand into creating content? Are you looking to supplement what you’ve learned in your WSET courses? Do you work in wine communications, marketing for a drinks company, or publish a newsletter for an importer, shop, winery, or distillery? Are you an influencer who wants to write? Well, this experience is for you. We will explore all aspects of writing about taste, which is quite different than other genres. I have years of experience teaching coaching, editing, and publishing emerging writers, and look forward to sharing that experience with you.

This is not a run-of-the-mill “writers retreat” where you’re trapped in some farmhouse for a week, vaguely “being creative.” The focus here is on developing your work, based on your goals. You will get plenty of feedback, both from our group, and one-on-one with me. Every day, there will be group exercises and tastings, as well as time to work on your personal writing (which we will discuss 1:1 before, during, and after the workshop experience).

Oh, and by the way, we’re going to have a lot of fun, too, experiencing one of the world’s great wine regions. With my access, you’ll be tasting at some of Rioja’s top wineries, places you likely wouldn’t be able to visit on your own. I’ll show you my favorite spots in Logroño and the Rioja countryside, and there will be plenty of free time for rest and pleasure.

Please share this with anyone in your life who might be interested! And if you’re a company, organization, or benefactor interested in supporting a fellowship for a deserving writer, please see below and get in touch.

Everyday Drinking’s Writing Boot Camp

7 days/6 nights (arrive October 11, depart October 17)

What’s included?

• Daily group writing workshops with me

• One-on-one editing and coaching session (as well as intro and follow-up sessions before and after the trip)

• Convenient hotel accommodations in Logroño’s city center (six nights)

• All meals (breakfast, lunch, and dinner, including wine), including several lunches at great Rioja restaurants, dinner in a wine cellar, guided tapas tours.

• Rioja winery visits every day, including transportation

• Private tastings every day

• Private ground transfers to/from Logroño train station

How much does this cost?

$5,100 per person, single occupancy. Right now, through May 30, I’m offering an early-bird discount at $4,800 per person, single occupancy. A non-refundable deposit of $1,200 is due upon acceptance into the program. The remaining balance is due by August 15, 2026.

How do I apply?

Please click on this form to submit your application. Don’t be intimidated, this is a super easy form, and really just a way of helping us get to know you a little. Admission to the program will be on a rolling basis, and I will contact you with details and full itinerary within a few days of applying. Once accepted, you will have five days to make your non-refundable deposit.

How many participants will there be?

The group will include no more than six writers, to ensure maximum attention to your writing goals.

What’s not included?

Transportation to/from Logroño, Spain. (I can help with your travel planning, if needed. I can also help with suggestions if you would like to extend your trip a few days).

How can I support a deserving writer to attend?

If you’re a company, organization, or benefactor who would like to sponsor a fellowship for a writer to attend the Everyday Drinking Boot Camp, please get in touch with me directly to discuss: jason@jasonwilson.com

What if I have more questions?

Just DM me here on Substack or email me at jason@jasonwilson.com

What is Rioja (and Logroño) like?

Hopefully, a major draw of this program is Rioja itself. To learn more about the region and the city of Logroño, you can check out my travel pieces here:

Who are you?

I’m Jason Wilson, nice to meet you. I’m the creator of the influential newsletter, Everyday Drinking (which was awarded Substack’s Food Writing fellowship in 2022). I’m also the author of three drinks books: Godforsaken Grapes, Boozehound, and The Cider Revival. Anthony Bourdain called Boozehound “superbly informative, entertaining, and yet deeply subversive.” The New York Times named Godforaken Grapes one of “best wine books of 2018” and The Cider Revival one of “the best wine books of 2019.”

I’ve been a drinks columnist for the Washington Post, critic for Vinous, contributing writer for Wine Enthusiast, senior correspondent for New Wine Review, dining columnist for the Philadelphia Daily News and Philadelphia Magazine, and even the beer columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle. My work has appeared in the New York Times, the New Yorker, Travel + Leisure, Food + Wine, AFAR, Conde Nast Traveler, and many other publications. For 22 years, I was the series editor of The Best American Travel Writing anthology. I have taught writing and wine workshops for many years, including at the university level.

Distiller and winemaker Laurent Cazottes pointed to a diagram on the wall of his tasting room that showed the differences between conventional, organic, and biodynamic viticulture and certifications for the latter two practices. “Eighty-five percent of wine in the world is conventional, but 15 percent is here,” Cazottes told me, gesturing to the organic and biodynamic segments of the chart.

“And in spirits, 99.9 percent is made here,” he said, pointing to the conventional segment and the list of deplorable practices it permits: the use of pesticides, insecticides, additives, and so on.

For someone like me who started in wine and came to spirits from the side, I’ve often wondered about this difference. There’s a significant, influential movement in the wine world that recognizes an essential connection between quality produce and quality wine, and that improved agricultural practices result in a better-tasting product. This idea is still quite niche in spirits. While there is a strong trend in the wine industry toward small-scale organic farming, biodynamics, and regenerative practice, agriculture in the spirits industry remains heavily industrial.

I visited Cazottes in February at his distillery in Gaillac, in Southwest France, where he farms 20 hectares of fruit trees, grapes, flowers, plants, and grains that are the raw materials for his range of eaux de vie, liqueurs, and aperitifs. He grows Williams pear, greengage plum, wild quince, Périgord truffle oaks, walnut trees, tomatoes, aromatic herbs, and five hectares of an ancient grain called petit épeautre, or Einkorn wheat. He also has four hectares of indigenous grape varieties like mauzac rose and prunelart.

Cazottes drove us through the village to see his orchards. “My father was a moonshiner,” Cazottes said cheekily, meaning a bouilleur ambulant, or itinerant distiller, a traditional occupation in France. In 1998, when Cazottes was 23 years old, he decided to take over his father’s business. He changed the focus, planted trees and vineyards, and sought to create a brand.

Cazottes’s approach makes him part of the 0.1 percent of spirits producers that reject conventional agriculture’s sacrifice of quality for high yields and low costs. He’s meticulous about using the best produce—organically grown with biodynamic practices—to craft his spirits, most of which are single vintage. This is the reason why Michelin-starred restaurants and top bars in France, the U.S., and around the world clamber for bottles of his small-production eaux de vie and liqueurs. It’s why they pursue collaborations with him, as do cult winemakers like Jacques Lassaigne in Champagne, Yvon and Jules Métras in Beaujolais, and Eric Pfifferling in Tavel.

Cazottes is a rarity as a distiller. There are now some organic vodkas, gins, and maybe a couple dozen tequilas on the market. There are a tiny number of organic Cognac producers. Of course, the overwhelming majority of grain production—which is the base for the majority of spirits production—is not organic, and is often grown far away from where it’s distilled. (Japan, to take an extreme example, imports its barley from Scotland and elsewhere in Europe.) There are only a handful of small, artisanal independent distillers working like Cazottes: farming their own produce, organically, transparently, and sustainably. Within the spirits industry, there are so few that it’s almost statistically insignificant. Two examples of distillers making brandies from organic fruit in a similar vein to Cazottes are Hans Reisetbauer and the Rochelt family, both in Austria.

Cazottes showed me the copper alembic still where he makes his spirits. It was his father’s old still, and he pointed out where the wheels were once attached when it was driven around. He explained the distillation process, how the aromas, flavors, and alcohol concentrate. It’s a relatively simple process, but it’s what goes into the still that makes the end product so remarkable.

“Alembic is not magic. It’s a concentration tool. If you put something very good inside, and you understand what’s happening in your still, you can make something very good,” Cazottes told me. “But if you put bad things in it, you can’t have something good. It’s exactly like wine.”

The production of Cazottes’s famous tomato liqueur is proof of this concept. Years ago, Cazottes started collecting tomato varieties. He now grows 300 cultivars in his home garden, planted amongst sage, savory, and greengage plum trees for biodiversity. They are handpicked from July to September, at peak ripeness, then destemmed and quartered by hand, and macerated in Cazottes’s eau de vie (made from local grapes).

The first iteration of this liqueur included 48 varieties of tomato in the liqueur, then 72 varieties; the current total is more than 280. “The diversity gives the aromatic complexity in a different way than the aging that you see everywhere in spirits,” he told me. We talked beneath a poster of hundreds of tomato varieties in his tasting room, and I took a sip of the tomato liqueur he poured. It tasted like summer concentrate: tomato skins still warm from the sun, tapenade, leafy herbs, sultanas, fish sauce. It was fresh, salty, funky, and mind-blowingly detailed.

It’s one of a range of liqueurs and eaux de vie that Cazottes makes from his fruits and plants, like mauzac rose grapes, Williams pear, greengage plum, and sour wild cherries. Each one has so much depth of flavor and complexity from the distillation process that they are almost hyperrealistic—more representative of the fruit than the actual fruit itself.

Cazottes poured a taste of his Genièvre Infusion Naturelle (G.I.N., for short), as well as the spirit he makes from Einkorn wheat. G.I.N. is so-named because it isn’t made by redistilling industrial 96 percent abv alcohol and thus can’t legally be labeled as gin under EU regulations. The Einkorn was originally crafted for Le Bristol in Paris, home of the three-starred Michelin restaurant Épicure. The bar had first asked Cazottes if he could make vodka from the ancient wheat. “I told them no, because vodka is like gin, it’s like pastis. You need to use industrial alcohol, 96 degrees,” Cazottes said. “It’s neutral, and I don’t want neutral alcohol. I want aromatic alcohol.”

Of course, this kind of highly artisanal approach to spirits, with its focus on intensity of aromas and flavors, means the price is going to be higher—but so is the ratio of quality to price. With tariffs and inflation, more people are drinking less, including spirits, but people are still drinking, even if that means “less but better.”

As Jason Wilson pointed out just a few weeks ago here at Everyday Drinking, fewer and fewer people are drinking cheap, crappy wines anymore—not even when beginning their wine-drinking journey. The wine industry should be embracing the reality that people want high-quality, organic practices, transparency, and sustainability. Consumers are looking at not just what’s in the bottle, but what went into making it, too.

There’s a real possibility that the spirits industry may face a similar reckoning, very soon. Before it does, maybe it’s time that it takes a page out of the Cazottes playbook.

Six Spirits from Cazottes, Made The Right Way

Goutte de Reine-Claude Dorée, 375 mL ($65)

After harvest, greengage plums are dried on racks (a process called “passerillage”) and the stones and stems are removed manually before fermentation and distillation. Notes of dried and fresh white-fleshed fruits, marzipan, sweet baking spices, herbal tea, with floral and savory notes. It reminds me of a scene in The English Patient, when the badly burned Count Almásy, played by Ralph Fiennes, is fed foraged fruit by his nurse Hana. Savoring the intense taste, he proclaims: “It’s a very plum plum.” (45% abv)

Goutte de Poire Williams, 375 mL ($125)

Ripe Williams pears are dried in passerillage, then meticulously destemmed, deseeded, and any blemishes removed by hand, before fermentation and distillation. Crystalline fruit, heady floral notes, sweet almond pastry, tea leaves, citrus peel, and pleasant woody aromas, with a mineral finish and a lovely creamy texture. (45% abv)

Tomates, 375 mL ($70)

Cazottes includes more than 280 varieties of tomatoes in this liqueur. Handpicked at peak ripeness, they are destemmed and quartered (also by hand), and macerated in Cazottes’s eau de vie—made from Jurançon Noir grapes—for 10 months. It’s redolent of fresh summer tomatoes, olive tapenade, oregano, sultanas, tomato leaf, even a touch of fish sauce. The rich flavor, almost sweet, is balanced by refreshing acidity. It’s bright, saline, and incredibly detailed. There’s unlimited potential here for cocktails and food pairings. (18% abv)

Guignes & Guins, 375 mL ($70)

This liqueur is made from sour cherries growing wild on the Cazottes domaine, harvested and pitted by hand, then macerated in eau de vie for 14 months. So very cherry, with aromas and flavors of cooked and tart fruits, red and purple flowers, mint and other fresh herbs, cloves, a hint of forest floor. It’s wild and sexy, a snapshot of super-ripe juicy fruit preserved in a bottle. (18% abv)

Coings Sauvages, 375 mL ($70)

This liqueur is from wild quince found growing throughout the orchards and hedges of the estate. The fruit is dried, destemmed and deseeded, then macerated. Delicate, fresh, floral and expressive, with notes of waxy yellow fruits, citrus, meadow grasses and flowers, honey, and marzipan. It’s slightly sweet, but a savory component and lifted acidity keeps everything in perfect balance. The finish is long and lingering. (18% abv)

Fleurs de Sureau, 375 mL ($72)

This will ruin St-Germain for you forever. An aperitif made from Cazottes domaine elderflower blooms picked by hand. Painstaking work is taken to pick only the petals for maceration. Aromas and flavors of pure, vibrant blossom and fresh-cut stems, powerful but simultaneously delicate and filagreed, with a long finish that carries a pleasant tisane quality. (17% abv)

Today, I’m thrilled to publish this profile of Arianna Occhipinti (one of Everyday Drinking’s favorite winemakers) by Robert Camuto, whose wine and travel writing I’ve long admired. For me, Robert’s 2010 book Palmento: A Sicilian Wine Odyssey was a model of what wine writing could be as I began writing seriously about wine. After many years writing for Wine Spectator, Robert is now publishing a newsletter on Substack, Italy Matters, which you should definitely check out.

The first time I drove through the Sicilian countryside to meet Arianna Occhipinti was in the summer of 2008, when she was on the verge of becoming a phenom—a 25-year old who’d returned home from enology school to make wine from a 2.5-acre vineyard.

Vittoria, Sicily was no country for young men. Let alone young women.

Yet here she was in her fifth vintage. She was a symbol that grew with time—a smart and attractive Sicilian with a great mane of thick black hair—who chose to stick around and not escape with much of her generation to Milan or London or New York. What’s more, she was an Italian woman speaking about wine not in a cocktail dress but in work boots dusted with soil.

She was also a living poster for “natural wines,” with her infectiously simplistic view of winemaking.

“You squeeze the fruit, let it ferment, and basta,” she told me.

But she was too smart and driven to settle for “the-wine-makes-itself” schtick, and to bottle stuff that wreaked of volatile acidity and brettanomyces while tiptoeing towards vinegar.

That year she would produce her first red vintage of the wine that kicked her business into hight gear. SP 68 – named for the main two-lane road that cuts through Ragusa province on the southeast of the island-- was a traditional Vittoria blend of light zingy frappato and darker, brooding nero d ‘avola.

Fermented in stainless steel and released amid the 2009 financial crisis at $25, the wine hit a bullseye for drinkability and affordability. (The New York Times’ Eric Asimov, called it “fresh, juicy, and joyous”). Stocks quickly sold out.

When I visited Arianna five years later, I was stunned by the signs of her success. She was rushing to complete an enormous new winery on a 60-acre farm of vineyards, citrus and olive groves, wheat fields and a majestic 19^th-century baglio (Sicilian farmhouse) in Contrada Bomboleri.

She was a producer of 120,000 bottles a year—wines that were becoming fresher and cleaner tasting and shedding their “must-be-organic” naïve mantle. Though she wouldn’t say it, she’d left most of the natural wine world in the dust.

And she made the smartest statement I’ve ever heard from a young winemaker.

“Wine should be a mirror of a place-- not a mirror of our mistakes,” she said.

In other words, Arianna was on a quest to make great wine and to show the world her corner of Sicily.

“My idea was always the same-- to express this territory,” she went on, her hand chopping the air in front of her. “I will finish my life with the same idea.”

Organics, biodynamics, fermenting on indigenous yeasts, no filtering, scant use of sulfites, gentle and simple winemaking and all the rest, were never an end, but a way to put more distinctive sense of “there” in the glass.

Last week I visited Arianna again, this time as part of a group of somms and Italian journalists to talk about wine and the world, to eat and drink, and discuss her latest obsession.

Arianna’s first wine obsession was, of course, frappato. Her wines broke the mold of the Sicilian heartland as a producer of wines that resembled sun-parched leather. She coaxed out freshness and saltiness with a ruby-colored liquid that almost seemed lighter than its weight in the glass.

At 43, with the first small lines of exprerience gathering around her dark intense eyes, Arianna now makes four versions of frappato—a wine that in her youth was viewed as “an entry level pizza wine.”

All four are fermented in aged in cement takes without barrels. There is her flagship “Il Frappato” and three single vineyard crus called PT, FL and BB, planted on variations of the local soils: white sands and red sands, compact limestone and porous calcareeous tufa

In recent years, with demand for her wines outstripping supply, Arianna has turned her gaze to grillo, one of Sicily’s most planted white grapes chiefly on the western side of the island near her birthplace of Marsala.

Grillo, a late-19th-century cross of Sicily’s Catarratto and Zibibbo (Muscat of Alexandria) was bred to be blended for aged and fortified Marsala wines. In recent decades it has been vinified alone as a dry table wine—with results that vary from vinous fruit punch to exquisite.

Arianna was inspired in Marsala by the dry, salty grillo wines of Marco de Bartoli’s son Renato and decided to try her hand at it in Vittoria, where the grape is known as riddu.

“Grillo is a grape of the sea,” she says. “It has a great potential to absorb the flavors of sea stones. It actually has a lot in common with chardonnay.”

To make her Grillo wines, Arianna has focused on two vineyards where limestone dominates, planting them both with massal cuttings from De Bartoli vineyards.

The first was in the Chiaramonte di Gulfi, Called Santa Margherita—a high altitiude clay and limestone vineyard about a halfhour drive from her winery. The wine called SM was first vinified in 2020, showing power and body under its elegant surface.

The second wine, launched with the 2025 vintage and set for release this spring, is called Serracalcara, from her the redder sands and calcareous pebbles of her Bombolieri farm. It’s a blade-sharp version that begs for a plate of delicate raw gamberi rossi (Mediterranean red prawns) fresh off the Sicilian fishing boats that dock about five miles from her winery.

The wines are delicious. But, as always with Arianna, the variety is not the end—it’s a vehicle to show off the vineyards.

On the second day of her gathering we tromped through wet and muddy vines blanketed with chest high wildflowers and cover crops. We tasted and tasted some more, and toured her cellars—Arianna the whole time gesticulating, chattering a mile a minute. Geology. Soils. Technical details of the wines. Southern Sicily that sits at a latitude south of Tunis, Tunisia.

We spoke about the wine crisis, the human crisis, wine “storytelling”, and ethics, while one of her staff put color- coded Post-it notes on a whiteboard.

Arianna has a total of 30 employees—twenty of whom work in the vineyards. Her team is young and energetic. They drink together, cook together and seem to enjoy hanging out.

She is her own enologist and doesn’t use a consulting winemaker. Rather she uses the services of a consulting psychologist for group and one-on-one motivation.

At first she says her grizzled vineyard workers were suspicious. Had anybody ever asked how they felt?

“He helps people work at their potential,” Arianna says. Then, as if it were necessary to explain, she says, “I make people work at maximum speed.”

Out the front gate of her farm runs SP 68, which connects her world and in Sicilian wine has come to be known as the fast lane.

Related Sicily Content on Everyday Drinking

“Spring is here. Do you care?” That’s the headline of a piece that ran last weekend in The New York Times Style section. Spring, according to the article, has fallen far behind autumn—with its cozy, sweaters-and-pumpkin-spice vibe—as Americans’ favorite season.

Spring, by contrast, can seem so muddy and disappointing. It is seen as a time of wildly fluctuating temperatures and pollen-induced sneezing fits. Recent surveys of Americans’ seasonal preferences place it a distant second or even third to autumn, the runaway winner.

But now, as crocuses and snowdrops pop up from the ground after months of bitter weather across much of the United States, there are signs that spring may be primed for a cultural comeback.

The article suggests that Spring is in dire need of a rebrand. In fact, they brought in the creative director of a marketing firm, Jamie Falkowski at Day One Agency, and asked what, if Spring were his client, he would to do improve the season’s image:

Mr. Falkowski emphasized that a successful campaign would account for the negatives associated with the season—Tax Day; mud; allergies; the sense that one minute you’re shivering in a puffer coat and the next you’re cursing the heat and humidity. Once that was dealt with, he would try to spin spring’s brevity and unpredictability into a positive.

“The line I would try to build around is: ‘Don’t Sleep on Spring,’” Mr. Falkowski said. “We’d try to build a full 360 campaign. I’d try to find a creative who could capture the essence of the season really well.”…I’d want to bring in someone to build out the dream message: ‘Hey, this season is short — don’t sleep on it!’”

Well, good luck with that, I guess.

I’m not sure this moment is really the right time for a spring rebrand—what with the grim job market and the ongoing affordability crisis and the AI taking over everything—as well as the U.S. government’s insane, deadly flirtation with World War III.

And yet, spring is now most certainly here, a reprieve from what has been an especially cold and snowy winter, at least in the northeast. Baseball season starts tomorrow. It’s sweatshirt-and-shorts weather. People are posting Mary Oliver poems on Instagram (“Well, who doesn’t want the sun after a long winter?”). Perhaps this is not enough to totally forget about the bad things, the world on fire, but at least we can be thankful for some sunny days.

I also know a lot of us are nearly broke. So instead of spending $22 for a single glass at a wine bar, why not take that money, buy a liter of wine, and bring it to the park with some cheese and bread for a boozy picnic.

Last spring, my newsletter about wine in liters was one of my most popular posts of the year. And so, over the past few months, I’ve been on the lookout for liters I love to recommend again this spring.

We’re definitely still in a Liter Renaissance of good, honest, crowd-pleasing wine in larger format bottles. It’s one of the best micro trends happening in wine right now. Even a dummy can understand the appeal: Why spend $15 or $25 on the usual 750 milliliters when you can get a third more wine for basically the same price?

This year, all of my liter picks were under $30, several under $20. What am I looking for in a good liter? Lower alcohol, good acidity, freshness, juiciness, little or no oak. Reds that can be slightly chilled, whites that have some structure. Wines that can move from late afternoon into dinner and pair with a lot of different foods. And that elusive concept: Drinkability.

A Load of Liters To Love This Spring

Eight liters from $15 to $26 that are perfect for your sunny spring picnic.

Normally, I put my bottle recommendations behind the paywall, but today, I guess I’m feeling spring fever vibes and would like to share them. If you appreciate what I do at Everyday Drinking, please consider supporting the work by upgrading.

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Felix R&B NV ($15)

An exciting new collab from importer Winemonger and Stefan Wellanschitz of Kolfok from Burgenland, Austria. This is a blend of blaufränkisch and rotburger (they chose to use the local name of zweigelt to avoid its complicated and controversial associations). But there’s nothing complicated or controversial about this juicy, crunchy, fresh, and delightful wine with a great balance of savory herb, red fruit, and peppery notes. A wonderfully affordable spring red.

Cocchonnet 2023 ($26)

This fun, bright, peppery rendition of gamay comes from Côte Roannaise, which is technically a part of the Loire, but often considered the unofficial “11th Cru of the Beaujolais.” The name means “little piggy,” which is also the name for the tiny ball used as the target in pétanque. It’s a perfect chilled red with lots of zest and energy.

Milan Nestarec ‘Běl’ 2024 ($26)

Milan Nestarec is a natural-wine star from the Moravia region of Czechia. He bottles his least expensive wines in liter bottles with a crown cap—and frankly, I wish more producers did it this way. This is an exciting, fresh blend of grüner veltliner, welschriesling, and müller-thurgau. Like all of Nestarec’s wines, it’s got great acidity and minerality, and

Milan Nestarec ‘Růž’ 2024 ($26)

The name means pink, but is this a rosé or light red? Does it matter? You’re going to chill it either way. This is a delicious blend of blaufränkisch and zweigelt from Moravia, that’s fruity and earthy, a little wild, very fresh, and exactly what you want to drink on a spring day.

Ampeleia ‘Unilitro’ Toscana Rosso 2024 ($19)

Still one of the best-value reds you can find, from anywhere. From Tuscany’s coastal Maremma, it’s a rather non-Tuscan blend of grenache, carignan, mourvèdre, sangiovese and alicante bouschet, aged six months in cement. Bright, popping, slightly tingly, with tart cherry with an underlying earthiness, a touch of natty in the very best way. This is a collaboration with Elisabetta Foradori, one of Italy’s legendary low-intervention, biodynamic producers, whose teroldego wines I have always loved.

Wonderwerk ‘Big Orange’ 2024 ($25)

Yes, the label looks like it’s inspired by 1970s kids television (Schoolhouse Rock?) and this California skin-contact blend is as fun and sunny as it promises. Made with a very untypical California blend of 43% muscat canelli and 15% sauvignon blanc from Clarksburg, and 33% symphony (a weird cross of garnacha cris and muscat of alexandria that you can find in San Joaquin). Notes of orange peel, apricot and citrus blossom, and surprising good structure. A crowd pleaser.

Kiki & Juan Blanco 2024 ($17)

The liters by this Spanish négociant—who sources organic grapes from Utiel Requena DO in Valencia —are getting super popular in the U.S. (I saw it for $22 at Erewhon if you want to overpay). This blend of 90% macabeo and 10% sauvignon blanc is fermented on native yeasts and spends 9 months on the lees in stainless steel. The result is crisp and dry, with notes of orchard fruit and melon, and you’ll be seeing this on the beach all summer.

Ercole Barbera del Monferrato 2024 ($18)

Made by a small, independent co-op in Piedmont from 30- to 50-year-old barbera vines (with most of the growers certified organic), and fermented and aged in concrete. This is the kind of wine that makes think: If I don’t like this, do I really like wine at all?

“Maybe you wine people have a point after all,” says Davit, the rich Georgian businessman, the villain in season two of Drops of God, the popular wine drama on Apple TV. Davit is drinking Château d'Yquem along with Camille and Issei, the internationally famous wine experts who share the same father, whose twisted inheritance tasting competition pitted the two as rivals in season one. As skeptical as Davit is, in this scene he’s got to admit the legendary noble-rot wine tastes pretty damn delicious.

Davit is the villain because he intends (due to some complex family bad blood) to rip out the vineyards of his sister Tamar (whose wine from the rare hybrid herbemont grape is the most exquisite nectar in the world, says everyone who takes a single, near-orgasmic sip) and to build a golf course. Camille and Issei (who by now have made up as brother and sister) are trying to buy the property to save the vines. Davit, with questionable intentions, invites them to a soirée at his mansion where he’s asked the two to dazzle a potential business partner who happens to be a wine snob.

“I’m thinking maybe you could come over tonight,” Davit says. “I don’t know, impress her with wine…sisulele”

“Sisulele?” asks Camille.

“Bullshit,” says Davit.

Villain or not, Davit likely speaks for the many non-wine people who presumably are watching Drops of God. Since the first episode dropped in late January, many of these non-wine people—namely my friends and family—have been asking me what I think about Drops of God.

Well, frankly, Drops of God is a mostly spot-on depiction of the wine world. Uncomfortably so, to be honest. Or at least, what it gets right far outweighs what it gets wrong. Yes, yes, there are certain details that we can nitpick as slightly off, and the show occasionally leans too heavily on certain ideas and themes for dramatic effect (the specialness of pinot noir is talked about too often, for instance). And sure, Camille and Issei at times speak about wine as if they are mystic yoga instructors, and at other times like they’re high school teachers gassing up a class of gifted-and-talented students. But in broad strokes, Drops of God gets at the essence of the wine world’s various pressures, its petty rivalries, its ethical dilemmas, its gatekeeping, its pay-to-play, and how all of that is so often driven by individuals’ insecurities.

The inciting quest of Drops of God season two happens at Camille and Issei’s birthday dinner, when they are presented a mystery wine with no label, along with a letter from their dead father, the famous wine critic Alexandre Léger, a sort of Robert Parker-esque figure whose guides are the lodestar of the wine industry.

Despite his influence in the world of wine, it’s already well established in season one what a terrible father Alexandre was to Camille and Issei (who was his mistress’ child). It’s repeated over and over that Alexandre’s only true love is wine. His terribleness persists after death with his cruel challenges from the grave.

Despite this, their father’s post-mortem challenge to identify the mystery wine (which he claims is the greatest wine he ever tasted) sends the two on a quest to Spain, to Greece, to the grapevine archive at the Domaine de Vassal experimental vineyard in Montpelier, France, and ultimately to the Republic of Georgia—where they get themselves much too deeply involved in the drama of the family who makes the mystery wine.

Drops of God is a fascinating show in that its two main characters, Camille and Issei, are not particularly likeable. In Issei’s case, we can see his deadpan, detached, possibly-on-the-spectrum demeanor as a trauma response. But Camille (though also traumatized) is as an objectively bad person, much like her father. In season two, she’s basically an anti-hero, which is certainly a staple of quality television. But here’s the thing: the public already has a negative view of the shady worlds and industries that Tony Soprano (the mob) or Walter White (meth dealing) or Don Draper (advertising) inhabit. The idea of an anti-hero in wine should be fairly unsettling to those of us who inhabit this world.

Camille and Issei’s quest to find the mystery wine quickly becomes a crusade to save the wine from being destroyed by the villainous Davit. But Camille’s plot to save it is hatched from the worst aspects of wine culture: Namely, attempting to artificially create a coveted demand for a unicorn wine by cutting deals and cheating at a tasting competition. This is when things go off the rails. In her campaign to save the obscure Georgian wine, Camille ends up trashing her reputation, the credibility of her wine guides, her ownership of her winery, and—most of all—her relationship. For what exactly?

Even Issei becomes skeptical of her efforts. “We got involved in a story that’s not ours,” he says. “The wine is beautiful, and it’s going to be lost.”

Camille won’t hear it. “Come on,” she implores. “We saved the wine.”

But is that enough? Is it enough to justify the chaos that Camille causes all the people around her? Even the winemaker who makes this mystical wine, in the end, doesn’t want it saved. Without spoiling too much, even bigger tragedies abound.

“You’re selfish just like your father,” Issei tells her.

“You’re bored to death as soon as you have to stay in the same place for three minutes,” Camille’s fiance Thomas tells her. “You don’t even think about the impact it might have on other people.”

As someone who’s doggedly gone after my own quests for obscure wines and lost causes, often to the detriment of my own loved ones, I have to take a step back from my own viewing of Drops of God, and self-reflect. Not gonna lie, it hits uncomfortably close to home.

The tragic flaw of the characters in this show is that they care about wine too much. And this is what Drops of God gets absolutely right. High-level wine culture attracts obsessive, hyper-sensitive, emotionally stunted people. The characters in this show—like many of us—give wine this power over their lives. Maybe it’s because we don’t know where to put our emotional weight. Or maybe it’s something else. In any case, it eventually starts to feel more important than it is. Or at least that’s how it comes across to people who are not in our world.

This comes across in scenes where wine people are dealing with those who are not wine people. At one point, the unreliable Camille is teaching Davit about how to taste wine, and tells him, “Wine is like music. It connects you to your emotions. It repairs wounds.” He remains deeply skeptical—as he should be—about all this sisulele.

In a scene near the end, over some cheap rosé at the beach, Natasha, the diving instructor and Issei’s love interest, sums up what might be the outsider’s view of all this: “So, you basically betrayed your friends…and your father-in-law…and the love of your life?” What’s left unsaid, in her quiet judgement, is this: Over wine?

Yes, over wine.

Related Everyday Drinking Content

As you know, I’ve been thinking about ‘acquired tastes’ this week. And I’ve been thinking about how many so-called acquired tastes I write about here—whether it’s eaux de vie or aquavit or sherry or whatever—that will never be popular. But then, I’ve already explored the idea that I may be the opposite of an influencer. (I’d love to hear about your acquired tastes by the way.)

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Anyway, I’ve been thinking about goat cheese. There are likely two kinds of people in the world: Those who enjoy goat cheese, and those who don’t. If you’re in the latter group, I feel sorry for you, and would suggest you open your mind to a world of adult pleasures.

I have written in depth about my cheese tour of the Loire Valley, the world capital of goat cheese. But even at home, goat cheese is part of my regular life. When my motivation to cook sags, dinner can often be some kind of homemade dip, a simple salad, and goat cheese slathered on a piece of bread—that dense creaminess, slightly nutty, slightly salty, slightly fruity, slightly tangy, full of nuance, complexity, and deliciousness. And I often pair it with goat cheese’s best friend: sauvignon blanc.

But before we get into that specific pairing: What is it exactly that’s stopping goat cheese haters from loving an ash-covered log of Sainte-Maure de Touraine, or a wheel of Selles-sur-Cher, or a truncated pyramid of Valençay?

Perhaps my personal favorite is the famed Crottin de Chavignol, made in the same place as Sancerre wines. Crottin de Chavignol was originally named in the local dialect for a small clay oil lamp—though since crottin in French also means “dung,” and perhaps because of Crottin de Chavignol’s aroma and resemblance to a pile of . . . well anyway, the name stuck.

So, ok. I guess maybe I can see why some may be squeamish about goat cheese. A cheesemaker in France’s Loire Valley once described the difference between Sainte-Maure de Touraine and Selles-sur-Cher as thus: “Sainte-Maure de Touraine is more fruity. Selles-sur-Cher is more acidic. And you have more of the taste of the goat.”

“And how exactly do you describe the taste of the goat?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Strong,” is all he said. Later, in my tiny hotel room, as I unwrapped his pungent Selles-sur-Cher, I fully appreciated what he was driving at. Regardless, it was still delicious.

Perhaps it’s a matter of language. I have a friend named Madame Fromage who is a sort of cheese sherpa. In her book, Madame Fromage (aka cheese expert and author Tenaya Darlington) has a more colorful way of describing Crottin de Chavignol as “dainty toadstools” that turn “peppery and a little angsty” as they age. Valençay she describes as suggesting “patio parties, spring flings, and magical thinking” and “were Harry Potter to wave his wand and develop a cheese, it would no doubt be black and shaped like a stunted sorcerer’s cap.” All of this is, perhaps, a nicer way to talk about goat cheese.

I see similarities in the way many people react to sauvignon blanc. It’s currently the fastest-growing grape variety in the U.S. (while sales of chardonnay and pinot grigio remain flat). Yet sauvignon blanc will always have its haters. As I said in my piece on Sancerre last year: “Wine people reserve a special sneering attitude for what’s come to be known as Savvy B.”

But a part of that hate—as with goat cheese—comes because of certain telltale aromas. For many newbies, the grassy, herbal notes are a turnoff. And then there’s what Wine People with politesse will describe as “gooseberry” or “boxwood.” But we can smell it for what it is: cat pee. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Which often brings this question: “Why would we want to eat or drink things with weird and stinky tastes?” It’s a reasonable and valid question. Look, I tell people, if you’re happy and content with fruity, pleasurable, glou glou reds redolent of berries and cherries or zippy, easy-to-drink whites with tangy lemon-lime and green apple . . . well, then that’s what you should drink without feeling any need to move beyond that. Wine should be, foremost, about pleasure. Pleasure is personal.

There’s a reason why Netflix dating shows, Carly Rae Jepsen, Kraft mac & cheese, High Noon iced teas, weighted blankets, and soft pajama pants remain popular. But if we think more deeply about pleasure, we realize it isn’t always so straightforward, or even comfortable. After all, why do so many of us love sad poems, disturbing horror films, or intense, subtitled psychological dramas?

With other aspects of culture, we inherently understand that without the darker, more confounding elements, there can be no light. Wine is no different. Just as in novels or films or musical compositions, the more complex and ambitious the wine, the more unique and potentially strange aromas, textures, and flavors we’ll find.

Anyway, folks, that’s my best humanties-student argument for giving stinky goat cheese and sauvignon blanc a try. A good Sancerre works well, and I mention three of my favorites below. But I’m going to take things a step further and offer four other sauvignon blancs a little more off the beaten path—from Austria, Alto Adige, and even Catalonia.

Take the cheese and the bottle outside and enjoy the weather.

Seven Serious Spring Sauvignon Blancs That Stand Up to a Stinky Goat Cheese

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I would love for you to believe that I’ve always been the sort of person who enjoys pastis on a warm spring day, under a Mediterranean sky, sipping and nibbling on tapenade in between games of pétanque and drags of Gauloises cigarettes. But the reality is I’ve only come to appreciate the challenging flavors of pastis as I’ve grown older. But now that I am a pastis convert, there is no going back.

Of all the spirits, the anise-dominated ones seem to be the toughest sell to Americans. Ouzo, arak, absinthe, sambuca—not exactly top of the liquor pop chart. Even in an era when super bitter amari have risen to popularity, booze that reminds people of black jellybeans has yet to crack the zeitgeist.

I admit, I was slow to the anise spirits game, too. More than two decades ago, I dismissed the absinthe revival as a fad, and in Boozehound, I recounted the story of how a mysterious bottle of sambuca sat mostly untouched, for years, in my parent’s liquor cabinet (and how, less mysteriously, it ended up becoming the de facto shot of their teenagers).

My conversion came during research for a column on ouzo. During a tasting at José Andrés' Mediterranean restaurant, Zaytinya, the beverage director told me: “It’s one of the hardest spirits to learn to like. You love it or you hate it. Or, like me, you are learning to appreciate it.” Ouzo, like all anise-flavored spirits, was “an acquired taste.”

Is there a more backhanded compliment, a more passive-aggressive judgment, a more of kiss-of-death phrase, than “Well, I guess that’s an acquired taste”? It’s also rather centering of a certain type of American suburban taste mindset. I mean, if you grew up in another culture, black salty licorice, anchovy, sea urchin, espresso, fish sauce, huitlacoche, kimchi, vegemite, lutefisk, curry and scores of other so-called “acquired tastes” would not be acquired tastes at all. They would be innate. I grew up eating Scrapple, for god’s sake—an “acquired taste” for anyone but a person born in the Philadelphia metro area.

Anyway, my point is this: Try pastis. Open your mind. Grow up. Make peace with your childhood dislike of black jellybeans.

Pastis is amazing. The trick is how you drink it, which is to add a significant amount of cold water (around 4:1 ratio). I’m told ice is not traditional. I’m sure Francophiles will shout me down, but ice is not optional for me. As you add water, the pastis turns cloudy, milky white. In the 19th century, this emulsion of water and oils was called the louche. It is a simple preparation. It does not require housemade bitters or the Japanese hard shake or molecular mixology. I have made a video to demonstrate the louche. (Yes, that is my hairy arm.)

Because the louche was associated with absinthe, the word louche also began to mean something disreputable or sordid in a rakish or appealing way.

The most famous pastis in France are Pernod and Ricard. Pernod is the original, created after absinthe was banned in the early 20th century. Pastis was meant to be a legal alternative to absinthe that has no wormwood and a lower alcohol level. Not that pastis is low in alcohol. Most have over 40 percent alcohol by volume. My favorite is Henri Bardouin, which is 45 percent abv. This is why significant dilution with water is key. Pastis is a drink to sip over a long, lazy afternoon.

Made in Provence, Henri Bardouin is just a litle more complex and delicate than Pernod, blended with 65 herbs, including angelica, cardamom, cornflower, tonka bean, clove, nutmeg, sage, rosemary, and thyme. But honestly, it’s the taste of anise, star anise and licorice that you’re going to experience most vividly.

What I like best about pastis is that it’s a mixed drink with a classic food pairing, rare in the world of distilled spirits. In the south of France, pastis is traditionally served with tapenade, the Provençal spread made with olives, anchovies, and capers. It makes sense: Olives, anchovies, and capers may represent a trifecta of so-called “acquired tastes.” It may seem odd, but the salty, savory, pungent tapenade mingles wonderfully with the anise jolt of the pastis. Honestly, served on a toast with a little herbed goat cheese, it’s one of the most surprising and perfect pairings I know.

For the tapenade, I use David Lebovitz’s recipe that calls for black olives (I use Beldi or Niçoise but Kalamata is fine, too). Capers and anchovies are non-negotiable in tapenade—in fact, the name is derived from the Provençal word for capers, tapenas. In his book, My Paris Kitchen, Lebovitz writes, “Pastis is the classic accompaniment, although I never developed a taste for the anise-scented elixir that mysteriously turns cloudy when water is added to dilute its high-test taste and strength. I opt for chilled rosé.” Since I admire Lebovitz and his work, I’m giving him a pass on that—mainly because I know he’s made a good faith effort to acquire the taste of pastis.

All I’m asking is that you give pastis and this pairing a try. Who knows, maybe you’ll love it so much that you’ll even take up pétanque, like I have. Yes, it’s true. I now actually own a set of authentic metal pétanque balls. Maybe this is also true: I am actually an acquired taste myself.

Black Olive Tapenade

This recipe comes from one of my favorite cookbook authors, David Lebovitz, featured in his book My Paris Kitchen—even if he admits he “never developed a taste for the anise-scented elixir.” (He prefers chilled rosé)

• 1 1/2 cups black olives, pitted

• 2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced

• 1 tablespoon capers

• 2 anchovy filets

• 1 teaspoon fresh thyme, chopped

• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

• Juice of half a lemon

• 1/3 cup olive oil

In a food processor, pulse the olives, garlic, capers, anchovies, thyme, mustard, lemon to break them down. Drizzle in the olive oil and run the processer until the mixture forms a slightly chunky paste. It’s pretty salty, but if you like saltier, add salt to taste. Serve on toasts with a little herbed goat cheese. The tapenade will keep in the fridge for up to a week.

More Dips on Everyday Drinking

In Catalonia, it’s calçotada time. The calçotada is the beloved winter tradition of eating calçots, the local variety of tender green onions that are grilled over open flames until charred, then peeled and dipped them into a rich, smokey, nutty pepper-tomato-garlic sauce called romesco (recipe below).

Calçots are always a bit mystifying to Americans. “So that’s some sort of big onion?” replied one friend when I mentioned I was going to be enjoying calçots. “Didn’t Anthony Bourdain eat them?”

Suffice to say that it’s much more cultural significant than that. But it’s a messy, homely ritual, one you’ll want to wear a bib for.

Normally, these are outdoor affairs out in rural areas of Catalonia, but when I was in Barcelona last month, my friends Mike and Julia (he Catalan, she American) took me to a calçotada at a restaurant in El Clot called Casa Pepi. Mike gave us the basic demonstration on how to eat calçots in the video below. also, scroll down for my (Americanized romesco) recipe.

What I’ve Been Drinking From: The Porrón

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Today’s piece comes from Charlotte Cook—a writer, traveler, and brewer who publishes the Drinking in Strange Places newsletter. Charlotte has written for Everyday Drinking about Kazakhstan cider, Asturias cider, and Bavaria’s Zoigl beer culture.

Czechia (aka the Czech Republic) is known for its big flavors. Lukr-poured beers with sturdy heads, pork knuckles that seem more like half a leg, and spicy pickled cheese all truly lead to sensory overload. Yet the Czechs also do delicate very well, and whilst the region of Moravia is the best-known Czech wine area, there are small and ancient vineyards within the city of Prague, including the botanical garden and Prague Castle itself.

A modern capital city isn’t the first place you’d think of to discover a flourishing wine industry, but Prague has 180 square meters of green space per resident, making it one of the greenest cities in Europe. The vineyards ingeniously use space that few other crops could thrive in (and would be unsuitable for recreation ) by snaking up the steep and rocky slopes leading to Prague Castle, turning what was once a defensive feature into something that can be used to bring people together.

The vines at Prague Castle were allegedly planted by St. Wenceslas himself, the very same Good King to whom the carol alludes. Although this origin story is likely apocryphal, the vineyard still bears his name. Historians now date the vineyard to the 14th century, nearly half a millennia after Wenceslas’ tenure, but the grapes were likely planted to play a role in the liturgical life of the castle.

Christianity came to central Europe with the Byzantine missionaries Cyril and Methodius (the so called Apostles of the Slavs) in the 9th century, about the same time a defensive fort was constructed where the castle now stands, and Christianity really took hold in the region. Although the vines came much later, along with development of the medieval castle, it is thought they were grown in order to make sacramental wine, to be used in the ritual of the Holy Communion.

From its medieval origins the vineyard passed through the hands of several church orders, before being sold to the wealthy Richter family in the 19th century, who both tended the vines and built a spectacular classicist-style villa above them, where today you can sample the output.

The Wenceslas vineyard has had a turbulent history. As in many parts of Europe under Communist control, the 20th century was especially unkind to the vines. Immediately following the war, the villa was taken over by the Association of Worker’s Universities, and the vines began to fall into neglect. In 1956, the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic took control of the villa and the vineyard, at a time when matters of state were of greater importance than the harvest. The regime would have seen little value in the small vineyard, where collectivisation would have been impossible and its output unworthy of consideration, and so no one cared for it.

The fall of socialism, which came to Czechoslovakia in 1989 with the Velvet Revolution, allowed a return to winemaking that was not wholly controlled by the state. In 1990, the vineyard began to be tentatively restored along with Villa Richter, but it was not until 2005 that full restoration took place, to coincide with the 1,100th birthday of its namesake saint.

The restoration was overseen by Jaroslav Hykl, a Czech wine expert and now the owner of the villa and vineyard. Hykl took care to select varieties of grapes that would survive in the harsh and changeable Czech weather. Having traveled to pretty much every wine-growing region, yet having a great interest in Czech agronomy, Hykl was easily able to settle two varieties. Today the vineyard is comprised of riesling rynsky (aka Rhine riesling) from slightly further south than Prague in Slovakia, and rulandské modré (aka pinot noir) reportedly brought to Bohemia by Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV around the same time the original vines were planted.

Today the 2,000 vines produce about 2,500 bottles annually. The output is so small that the only place to try wine is from the restaurant in the restored Villa Richter. From the wine pergola, overlooking the red roof tiles of the city below, you can sample the refreshing riesling, with gooseberry notes underlined by an uncommon acidity.

But the views and the wine combine to create something more complex than sampling in isolation. Here, you can drink and savor history in a city where —both inspiring and horrifying—is as much a denizen as any other inhabitant.

That said, the vineyard is very much a summer experience, as trekking up the many steps in the gloomy Czech winter doesn’t hold much appeal. There are, however, other equally as fascinating wines made within the city limits that can be enjoyed in much cozier surroundings.

Continuing the theme, the Wenceslas Wine Cooperative produces a small number of bottles in their collective vineyard, made by amateur oenologists with the support of nearby professionals at the Wilomenna Winery. Located in Prague 9 district (a trek from the city center), the small vineyard and tasting room is open throughout the winter, and produces wines using local grapes such as Moravian muscat and blauer portugieser (a red variety grown throughout central Europe).

Prague is a city that sets itself up well for winter, and with a cold wind blowing along the Vltava there plenty of warm and welcoming bars for when the fairy-tale surroundings threaten to take a slightly Brothers Grimm turn. Wine Not, a stone’s throw from the Dancing House, specializes in Czech and central European wines and has wooden beds to sprawl out on whilst you work your way through the by-the-glass menu. Similarly, Vinograf near the Charles Bridge has a grotto-like atmosphere and extensive bottle list with many Bohemian wines to choose from.

There’s something magical about drinking wine in a place like Prague. The Czech wines use the same ancient local grapes that were nearly lost to history when the Soviet-style system of agriculture took over much of central Europe. Although there is little that can be done to prise the foamy beer from the grasp of many visitors to Prague, do take a little time to seek out the less well-known wines from the city, and taste a little bit of the Czech revival alongside it.

So I’ve been looking at what concerts are coming to Philadelphia over the next few months. Seems like a roundup of usual suspects: Tame Impala, Morgan Wallen, Bruno Mars, Waxahatchee & MJ Lenderman, Cardi B, Noah Kahan. I’m certain this is …

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I’m finally getting around to processing my last few weeks in Barcelona, both the wine fair and my time in the city. I’ll start first with Barcelona Wine Week, and its numerous side events.

Though it only started in 2020, BWW already has established itself as Spain’s premier wine trade sh…

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This is a rare Saturday morning post from me, but I want to update readers. I’ve been traveling in Spain over the past couple of weeks, filling up the ol’ content tank with fresh reporting and tasting. Last week, I was inside the chaotic bubble of Barcelona Wine Week, and this past week I’ve been visiting winemakers in Catalonia. Look for several upcoming posts on my latest Spanish wine adventures and discoveries. Also, paid subscribers, look for the next (slightly delayed) installment of Thinking & Drinking on Wednesday, which will be Spanish themed.

Last Sunday, a sunny Barcelona afternoon, I attended a lovely, surprising tasting at a feminist bookstore hosted by Sarah Sioli, who writes the newsletter Next Tasting and is one of my favorite Barcelona wine people. The cheeky theme: Verdejo Haters.

There is an ocean of cheap verdejo in Spain, undoubtedly the country’s most popular white wine. Most of it comes from Rueda, the appellation in Castilla y León that is synonymous with the grape. This ocean of verdejo is mostly middling, inoffensive, and uninspiring. Too often, it can be worse. I wouldn’t say I am a “verdejo hater.” Hate would imply having strong feelings about verdejo. I mostly just shrug and ignore it.

My first inkling that verdejo could be something more happened at last year’s Barcelona Wine Week, when I tasted the wines of Barco del Corneta, which releases its wines as Tierra de Castilla y León, outside the Rueda appellation. “We must remember that verdejo is a local grape,” said Barco del Corneta’s winemaker Félix Crespo Álvarez. “People think of it like sauvignon blanc—but it’s not. It’s local. Verdejo has great potential and is a great grape, but it’s been in bad hands.”

The bottles Sarah poured for ‘Verdejo Haters,’ more natural-leaning examples from Esmeralda García and Microbio (as well as a wild-card bottling made in Sicily by Badalucco de la Iglesia Garcia) showed that the grape has even another level.

The thing with verdejo (similar to other high-yield grapes like carignan) is that it demands old vines. Like, very old vines, 80 to 100 years or more. One bottle we tasted, from Esmeralda García, came from 200-year-old vines.

I came away thinking differently about verdejo. But it was just one of many surprises from my travels. More to come!

Verdejo For People Who Hate Verdejo

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Back in late 2024, at a tasting of Polaner’s Champagne portfolio in New York, one bottle in particular really surprised me, but it wasn’t Champagne. Winemaker Quentin Paillard was pouring samples from a bottle of Cidrerie de Verzy, the inaugural vintage of a traditional-method cider made by Paillard and four other Champagne vignerons: Flavien Nowack, Adrien Renoir, Antoine Bouvet, and Bertrand Lapie.

As a lover of both Champagne and cider, I found the idea of a méthode champenoise cider made by actual Champenois intriguing. U.S. cider drinkers are familiar with the Champagne (or traditional) method as the technique preferred by makers of “heritage” ciders, especially in the Northeast. The 2021 Cidrerie de Verzy that Paillard poured was captivating: bone-dry, clean and bright, it was vinous and complex. Its Champagne bonafides were evident. My curiosity was piqued.

As I came to learn, the five vignerons behind Cidrerie de Verzy are not the only Champagne producers trying their hand at cider. There’s a small but growing group making artisanal cider from local fruit, using both the traditional method and méthode ancestrale: Marianne Gamet and her brother Jean-François of Champagne Gamet; Clémence Egly (daughter of Francis Egly at famed Champagne Egly-Ouriet) and her partner Victor Bouvy; and new-wave winemaker Romain Henin, in collaboration with his brother Thomas under the name Korrigans.

It turns out that cider is not exactly new territory for Champagne; it’s actually a traditional product in the region. And while these vignerons are reviving a bit of history, it might also be a way for them to stake an early claim in the low-alcohol market—before sugary, commercial ciders gain a foothold in France.

In Champagne last summer, I drove to the grand opening of La Cidrerie de la Maison Gamet, Champagne Gamet’s new cidery in Fleury-la-Rivière, a commune located about 7 miles northwest of Épernay. On a warm Sunday afternoon in June, the cidery opened its doors to the public for a casual party. A DJ spun records on an outdoor patio while locals and other cider makers (including Paillard and Bouvy) chatted, ate savory crêpes, drank cider, and shopped from local artisans at tables set up inside the two-story building.

I read through an exhibit on the construction of the cidery, an undertaking that involved the renovation of a building, once owned by the Gamet siblings’ great-grandfather, that sits atop 19th-century tunnels dug into the tuffeau soils of this part of the Marne Valley. In the rubble of the building, the Gamets found an old press that was once used to make cider for the family’s personal consumption.

The region of Champagne is, of course, synonymous with the traditional-method sparkling wine that completely dominates its economy. There was once a time when the region produced many agricultural products, and orchards were a significant part of the region’s farming. But post-World War II, as the popularity of sparkling wine exploded, orchard fruits and other crops were abandoned as growers focused all their time and investment onto grape growing. The result is a vast monoculture of more than 34,000 hectares of vines.

The day after the cidery opened, I met with Marianne and Jean-François at the Gamet domaine in Mardeuil, on the left bank in the Marne Valley. The siblings are the fourth generation to lead their family’s estate. At the tasting-room table, Marianne showed me pictures of an antique book about the region that she found at a flea market. The volume included detailed maps with a list of all the cideries that had once existed in the area. “We had a history of cider here, but it just disappeared,” Marianne said.

Some producers, including the Gamets and Victor Bouvy, are now rehabilitating and planting orchards in Champagne. For Champagne Gamet, it began as an opportunity to increase agricultural diversity on the farm, much like the estate’s apiary. But apple farming has since taken on another dimension for the domaine.

Marianne’s brother, Jean-François, studied cider making while working in wine in the U.K. and he now leads the Gamet cider project. For the first cider he made, the apples were sourced from an orchard in the Marne that once belonged to his grandfather, with trees that are about 50 years old. Jean-François now farms that orchard and planted more trees in Mardeuil and Fleury-la-Rivière.

After experimenting with different European apple varieties, Jean-François settled on Avrolle, a bittersweet cider apple. It’s 80 percent of the blend in the Gamet assemblage cider (the rest is Dabinett, Harry Master, and Chanteline) and Jean-François makes it into a single-varietal bottling, too. “I like the freshness, the sourness, and it’s not too aromatic,” he said of the variety.

Jean-François experimented with using the Champagne method for his ciders, but the results were unsatisfactory, so he settled on the méthode ancestrale, a pét-nat cider bottled with natural yeasts and no disgorgement. His ciders are off-dry, balanced with concentrated fruit, sharp acidity, and pleasing tannins. This method also allows Maison Gamet to bottle for a range of sizes, from 330 mL to 20-liter draft pours—an advantage for introducing the product to new consumers.

Jean-François allowed me to try a quince, or coing, cider he was finishing, before its official release. It was made with a Portuguese variety grown in Narbonne in southeastern France. It was generous on the nose and palate, but dry, with grippy tannins. He has more cider experiments planned, including some with citrus fruits.

A few days later, I headed to Bouzy, to meet with Quentin Paillard. Quentin and his brother Antoine are the eighth generation to head their family’s historic domaine, Champagne Pierre Paillard. When I arrived, the domaine was a hive of activity, with staff cleaning barrels and readying for the work of late summer.

Paillard led me through a tasting of the domaine’s Champagnes and then we turned to cider. Cidrerie de Verzy began when winemaker Antoine Bouvet obtained some juice from Normandy and was experimenting with making cider, asking his friends for their thoughts—“just for fun,” Paillard explained. The five winemakers decided to make cider together, a project between friends. They are reviving a traditional product in the region, but not with traditional cider methods. “Our mindset is more like a wine mindset,” Paillard said.

“We always liked cider, we never liked it very sweet, and we have all the experience of making sparkling wine, making Champagne,” he explained. “We’re utilizing all of the same equipment. The handling and the vinification, everything is the same.”

The fruit (a mix of six apple varieties) is pressed in a traditional basket press before fermenting for nearly a year in barrel—a long, slow natural fermentation that adds complexity. Natural sugar from apples, in the form of must, is added to the bottle to initiate the second fermentation, and the cider rests on the lees for at least a year before disgorgement. The cider gains alcohol from a second fermentation, giving the wine body and balance. The result is bone-dry, structured, and complex, with laser-like acidity and elegant tannins.

The apples for the 2022 vintage were sourced from Champagne, from an organic rehabilitated orchard near Côte de Sézanne. (Apples from Normandy were mixed in for the 2023 bottling because there was no local crop, a problem with growing apples in Europe as in the U.S.)

The 2022 vintage had ripe red apple and golden apple aromas. The first vintage of the apple cider was the 2021 that I tried in New York, and I mentioned that I remembered it having more green apple and citrus notes. “There was less fruit that year because it was harvested in December,” Paillard explained. “The 2022 was harvested in late September. Just like the grapes, the season was insanely warm so they peaked much sooner. There’s less acidity and more fruit.”

Vintage variation can also be explained by the fact that the group is learning and tweaking the process every year. “We’re adding reserves to it now,” Paillard said. “The latest vintage that we bottled, we added 2021 and 2022 to it, just like wine.”

Cidrerie de Verzy now makes a poiré sec, too, a pear cider (or perry, as it’s called in the U.K.) that is vinified exactly the same way as the apple cider. The pears are sourced from Domfront in Normandy, the “grand cru” of pears, where some of the trees are 100 to 300 years old. “I think it’s even more interesting than the apple cider. It has a lot of aromatics, a lot of texture,” Paillard confided. “I think it’s much closer to wine than apples.”

Ranging from about 5 to 8 percent abv, ciders like those from Champagne Gamet and Cidrerie de Verzy are well positioned to satisfy demand for high-quality low-alcohol offerings in bars and for home consumption, especially in France, given that sweet ciders made on an industrial scale (like Angry Orchard in the U.S., or Kopparberg in Sweden) have yet to gain traction in France.

“In France we still have an old-school image for cider,” Marianne told me. “But it will be the role of the growers, the winemakers to ensure that the low-alcohol market is quality and well made.”

“If they don’t invest in this market, it will be industrial,” she warned.

Champagne knows a thing or two about the perils of industrialization; the rise of grower-producers was a reaction to it. So while these producers bring their knowledge and experience to cider (in particular, a priority on quality fruit), maybe they can also transfer some Champagne cachet to cider for the American consumer, a market that perennially sees apple wine as a second-rate product.

Beyond seizing on opportunities in the low-alc market, rehabilitating orchards or planting new ones for cider (no matter how small in scale) is a way to increase biodiversity in a region that is dominated, both economically and visually, by a single crop. “We’re entering the time of year that I really hate, because it looks like a sea of vines and there is nothing else,” Paillard lamented when I spoke with him in midsummer.

Before I met with Paillard, I made an early-morning visit to les Faux de Verzy, a stand of several hundred rare dwarf beech trees—some up to 500 years old—within a protected national forest on the Montagne de Reims. In the midst of summer, with full foliage, each tree formed a perfect green umbrella above twisted, gnarled trunks. There are all kinds of theories and legends as to why the trees grow this way, but the exact cause is unknown. It seemed remarkable that these ancient trees had survived for hundreds of years. I was only slightly less amazed at the thought of decades-old apple trees surviving somewhere out in that sea of vines beyond the forest.

The new wave of cider making in Champagne is a revival, but it’s also preservation, both environmental and cultural. Whether it’s five vignerons coming together to make a cider, or friends sharing a moment—un moment de partage, as the French call it—over a bottle of that cider, there is something more at stake here than just what’s in the glass.

Below are my recommendations, both for ciders from Champagne and Champagne from those vignerons that make cider.

15 Ciders and Champagnes

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No one really tells you what to do when you first arrive at a sagardotegi, or traditional Basque cider house, especially if you don’t speak Basque. You’re simply given a glass, led to one of the long wooden tables in a vast room, and immediately served a plate of chorizo, followed by a cod omelet. It’s left up to you to figure out how to get a drink.

My …

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