EVERYDAY DRINKING: Culture & Food

What a Lost Wine Book From 1978 Can Tell Us About Our Current Moment

Caroline Lamb — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 13:15:35 GMT

A bite from the wine bug is exactly the type of infection that will drive an otherwise normal person to spend hours scouring the dusty, creaking old shelves of an eight-story used book store, hoping she might discover a new wine book. That’s where I was when I spotted Joyous Anarchy: The Search for Great American Wines, by William E. Massee. Joyous Anarchy, published in 1978, is a peculiar example of 20th-century wine writing that comes at a very particular time in American wine history. It might offer us an interesting perspective on our own cultural moment.

Massee’s writing veers toward the quirky and oversaturated, depicting lots of dialogue between the author as his industry colleagues. He loves long lists for a variety of occasions: An American Wine Sampler; America’s Ten Best Wines; Top American Jug Wines; Good Wines, Good Buys. “A list plunges you right into the middle of things, but when there are a dozen Chardonnays on the shelf, a score of Rieslings, where do you begin?” he asks. “Be sure that when you have tried one you have not tried them all. Variety in excellence is the joy of wine.”

My favorite chapter is on Salad Wines. “It was a great leap to freedom when Californians decided wine was fine with salad,” Massee writes. “Salad wines help to loosen us up about eating and drinking.” His list of American salad wines feels fairly esoteric, even for today: Chasselas? Colombard? Sauvignon Vert? Sylvaner? Pinot St. George?

Above all, Joyous Anarchy takes on the American wine scene as it was in the late seventies. Massee depicts a Europhile world that is totally skeptical of American wine, and Joyous Anarchy is his attempt to debunk these anti-American-wine biases. Many Americans like to believe that, after the Judgement of Paris in 1976, everyone just suddenly fell in love with California wine. But Massee’s book shows that wasn’t true; there was still work to be done.

Massee quotes fellow wine lovers asking, “Are there really any good wines in California?” Oregon and Washington were promising but not major players yet. Eastern regions that would soon slide into obscurity—such as Pennsylvania and the Midwest—were, in Massee’s telling, simply part of the country’s wine geography. Massee explores wine places we might now consider strange, such as Ohio, New Hampshire, the Ozarks, and Egg Harbor, New Jersey.

Massee’s friends and colleagues in the world of wine play the role of skeptics. In a chapter called “The Best Bottles: High, Sloping and Slender,” he recounts a meeting with a retailer at a small wine shop who’s despondent because he can’t sell American wine:

“Nobody knows anything about American wines and nobody wants to admit it,” said the retailer. “A few read about a wine, usually a six-dollar bottle and when they say that’s too much and I suggest another, they think it’s a con. The kids don’t trust me because I’m gray; women don’t trust me because I’m male; and men don’t trust me because they don’t trust anybody.”

In his chapter on California wines, Massee recounts a conversation with his seatmate on an airplane. After he’s ordered a glass of California wine, she asks, suspiciously, “Why are you so hot on American wines?” Massee responds:

Because they are exciting; there are new wines coming on the market all the time; there’s experiment everywhere, and change. Besides, I’m going to write about them. “I see,” she said, snuffing out her cigarette in my armrest. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Obviously, I had to get my axe well ground before we landed and she was leaving me to do it. “Didn’t you like your wine?” asked the stewardess as she took my tray. It was fine, fine, I answered. Seatmate smiled. But she didn’t open her eyes.”

Massee begins the third chapter, “America’s Ten Best Wines,” in dialogue with someone he calls The Professional Wine Buyer. Over a snifter of Cognac, the buyer vents his frustration with American wine. First, he compares California to Burgundy in the “old days when Frank Schoonmaker used to bustle around the peasants,” adding: “Burgundy was easy. All you had to know was French, and how to select the right piece, and how to talk a peasant out of his wine.” When the wine buyer continues ranting against California wine, Massee tries and fails to intervene:

“But they make lots of good wines, it was necessary to interject. This was a mistake. The wine buyer thumped his snifter. ‘So what? It’s anarchy up there. People making all kinds of wines, all different ways. I can’t buy just Chardonnay. They want me to buy Cabernet, too, and Zinfandel, maybe the whole line. And they keep changing the way they make the wines—one year full, the next year light, one year lots of wood, the next year none. They drive you crazy.’”

“Joyous anarchy,” is Massee’s response. “Wine lovers will find the wines, somehow. They’ll get marketed, somehow.”

Let’s just say that Joyous Anarchy is a strange, obscure book to discover. But it made me curious about exactly who Willam E. Massee was. Though he’s mostly forgotten, it turns out that Massee was one of wine’s most important mid-20th century figures. He is remembered as “one of the first American wine writers in the post-World War II era,” according to his 2006 obituary in the New York Times. “Massee was a prolific writer, and much of his work in the 1950’s, 60’s and 70’s coincided with the beginning of America’s postwar preoccupation with good living. His books championed American wines at a time when connoisseurs dismissed them as inconsequential.” The author of other books such as The Art of Comfort, Wines of France, Pasta Pronto, and Eating and Drinking in Europe, Massee was one of mid-century America’s professional bon vivants (a man after my own heart). We can see him as an influencer of his era.

In 1955, John Updike actually profiled Massee in a New Yorker Talk of the Town piece. Updike tailed him through a sherry tasting arranged by the Spanish Sherry Information Bureau, describing Massee as “a sandy gentleman whose collegiate exterior is lit from within by a devout and evangelical epicureanism.” While they taste, Massee’s pitch to Updike is refreshingly inclusive: “Anybody can be a wine expert… it’s just a matter of drinking wine.” But then he narrates three glasses of fino to Updike using descriptors like “breed,” “masculine,” “flabby, even vapid.” Updike doesn’t editorialize, but also doesn’t miss a snarky beat. He just lets Massee talk and quotes him—eleven unbroken sentences—and trusts the volume of wine talk to do the mocking. It’s a classic Talk of the Town move: fidelity as satire. Transcribe the expert at full length, with perfect courtesy, until the expertise sounds like unctuous performance. A paragraph later, Updike writes: “We whistled in our two finos, one on top of the other, and pretended to notice a difference.”

When Joyous Anarchy was published in 1978, wine culture in the United States was fraught with confusion and institutional mistrust. Something was clearly in the air, since ten major wine books were published that year. William Rice, then the Washington Post’s food editor, wrote a very critical review of these books, including Joyous Anarchy, warning readers that many of the wine writers are “boosters” of the industry. “Don’t look for harsh appraisals of wines, scandal, or criticism of the industry,” he writes. It’s unclear whether Massee ever took money from the industry. But unfairly or fairly, he was lumped in with writers who did.

The defining post-war preoccupation with “good living” and the subsequent birth of the “American Dream” meant hosting at home in the suburbs. In Joyous Anarchy, it’s clear that Massee is writing for a certain type of affluent wine drinker, one who he believed needed prescriptive directions on how to buy, enjoy, and share wine with friends. But, in 1978, Massee’s book feels backwards-looking. By the end of the 1970s, the public’s post-Vietnam, post-Watergate distrust, along with severe economic stagflation, made Massee’s epicurean, joy-of-living philosophy a hard sell. In Joyous Anarchy, Massee’s retailer friend clearly states how people saw wine: “They think it’s a con.”

Which is why it’s interesting to note the work of another wine writer in 1978—one Robert Parker, who launched his Wine Advocate newsletter the same year. By now, we’ve all internalized the negative talk about “Parkerization,” Parker’s preference for high-alcohol, heavily oaked fruit bombs, and the outsized influence that he wielded on wine culture by the end of the 20th century. But it can be shocking to remember what an outsider that Parker was in the beginning. The Wine Advocate’s (self-told) origin story is nothing if not revolutionary:

“In the early 1970s, when Parker was conceiving of writing his own wine guide, he was taken with the work of Ralph Nader, an American political activist who sought to ‘out’ corporate and political corruption by challenging compromised propaganda. Parker recognized that much of what was then being written about wine was compromised by the financial agendas of many of the famous wine writers of the day. He dreamt of a publication that could be free of financial ties to wineries and merchants, a guide that would produce wholly unbiased views on wines and that served only the interests of wine consumers. This would be a magazine that would be funded purely by subscribers—the people that buy, read and use it. And so, The Wine Advocate started and remains true to this day.”

Whatever we think, in 2026, about the bankrupt nature of the 100-point scale, when Parker first started scoring wines in 1978, wine culture desperately wanted it. Writers like Massee found themselves on the wrong side of that cultural moment.

Today, we find ourselves in a similar moment of institutional distrust, confusion, and crisis—not just in wine culture, but in society at large. Is it too simplistic to say we have come full circle? Perhaps the difference today is that both writer/influencers like Massee, as well as many of the so-called “independent” points-scoring critics, are equally compromised by industry ties. So where does that leave us? Maybe it’s time once again for a little Joyous Anarchy.

On Tomatoes, Both Thrown and Served With Wine

Jason Wilson — Fri, 10 Jul 2026 15:41:10 GMT

(Photo: Philippe Desmazes/AFP/Getty Images)

It’s been nine days since Caroline and I posted “The Sysco-ification of Wine,” our call-to-arms dealing with shady corporate distribution, wine culture’s lazy “drink what you like” ethos, and why it’s time to break out the pitchforks. Clearly, we struck a lil chord. The comments, both here and on social media, keep coming in hot. I’ve been called a “snob,” a “wanker,” an “asshole,” among other things. “You two argue like evangelical Christians,” whined one wine writer. Prominent Men In Wine have been sliding into my co-author’s DMs (though not mine lol) to mansplain how they disagree with our points. The whole thing has made me slightly worried about Americans’ reading comprehension abilities, but here we are.

Yet here’s the thing. Ever since I hit the publish button, I’ve felt lighter, as though I’ve gotten something heavy off my chest. Like I can finally start my relaxing deep summer beach life. I haven’t worn shoes very much since that post. I’ve been going for long walks on the beach, and watching soccer and tennis and the Phillies when it gets too hot. I’ve been drinking Mexican beer, and listening to the old reggae songs in praise of Jah and sensimilla. My friend Bryan has been making a beach happy hour drink with bourbon, Lillet, and Aperol called the Golden Hour (“not to be confused with a golden shower,” is the groaner dad-joke he makes when mixing them). The Golden Hour has become the cocktail of the summer.

Perhaps the most tangible sign that we’re moving into deep summer is the debut of ripe, juicy local tomatoes in the farm markets. Yes, the corn and the melons and the blueberries and the peaches around here are all wonderful. But it’s the tomatoes that mark the season when I can finally turn my brain off a little bit. The other day the only thing I ate was a tomato-and-pork roll sandwich (mayo and white bread, thank you) and then a tomato risotto that I adapted from David Tanis’ vegetarian recipe (sorry veg friends, I used chicken stock because I am not using…*checks notes*…boiling water…in a risotto). Anyway, stirring tomato risotto is as close to zen as I may get.

Of course, since this is a twice-weekly newsletter, I can’t turn off my brain entirely, and so my summer-addled thoughts inevitably turn to…what wine do I pair with tomatoes.

(Photo: Getty Images)

Yes, I know, wine-and-food pairings can be such a banal topic. A while back I asked, “Are Food & Drink Pairings Ridiculous?” Spoiler alert: They are not more ridiculous than life itself.

Tomatoes are always highlighted as one of the most “challenging” wine pairings, right up there with artichokes, asparagus, and spicy dishes. A lot of ink has been spilled on how to pair tomatoes with wine. The common advice is to match the acidity of the tomatoes with a higher-acid wine, and that seems sound. Dry rosé, and sauvignon blanc pop up. Because of the Italy-tomato connection, barbera and sangiovese are inevitably mentioned. Sometimes a wine with earthy or herbal notes is suggested, syrah or cabernet franc. I’ve even seen off-dry riesling suggested.

For me, when I think about tomatoes and wine, I think about the ones I ate a few years ago at a restaurant in Madrid, called Angelita. I had lunch there with my friend François after visiting the Prado. I wrote about that lunch in my essay “Still Life With Wine.” I had been looking at Juan Sánchez Cotán’s austere bodegón “Still Life With Game, Vegetables and Fruit,” a strange still life from 1602. The objects in the painting, according to the audio tour on my headphones, were “precise and sober, and at the same time, poetic and strange. They highlight everyday simplicity.” About 17th-century still life, the audio tour narrator suggested, in full sincerity and with zero irony, that “one could see the creative hand of God in even the most trivial of objects.”

As for the tomatoes I ate afterwards:

François insisted we order tomatoes as our first course. “These are the best tomatoes you will ever eat in your life,” he insisted. There are not many times in life where someone says something so hyperbolic and it turns out to be true. That two-hour lunch was among the most memorable meals I have eaten. And those tomatoes! They were a variety called Corazón de Buey that were grown in Zamora at the family farm of Angelita’s owners. They were so red, so meaty, so juicy, that one bite nearly brought tears to my eyes. Is it ridiculous to say that one of the most exciting, inspiring things I’ve done in Spain was eat that tomato? In any case, Cotán still life and that tomato are somehow intertwined in my memory.

Once I think about that, I’m off and running thinking about Spain and tomatoes. I think about gazpacho or pisto, or about the simple pan amb tomàquet that’s served first at every Catalan restaurant—the small ripe tomatoes you rub vigorously on bread with garlic, a drizzle of oil, and a pinch of salt.

And so any pairing recommendations from me, regarding tomatoes, begins in Spain. I would point you toward Catalonia’s whites from grapes like xarel·lo, malvasia de Sitges, or garnacha blanca. I will even steer you toward albariño and verdejo, though much more carefully. For rosé, I will swing toward Italian grapes, such as montepulciano, or earthy mourvèdre-driven Bandol rosé, as well as some mashup blends of white and red grapes.

The reds are always trickier, but I do like the brighter, juicier, more savory examples of Chianti Classico, as well as ciliegiolo, the local grape of the coastal Tuscany. And then, of course, there is always Chinon, among my dearest wine loves. You see the tasting note descriptor “tomato” more with Chinon than another wine. After all, tomato—as I always point out in talking about Chinon—is a fruit. And so matching fruit on fruit always seems like a sound pairing way to go.

Let us know what you pair with tomatoes!

The Tomato Pairings

The Pa Amb Tomàquet Pairing: Catalan Whites

Celler Pardas Pur Xarel·lo 2022 ($30)

Xarel·lo is swiftly becoming Catalonia’s world-class white grape. From two vineyards that are more than 50 years old and aged half in concrete and half in oak, this is serious xarel·lo, precise, full of tension, with layers of minerality. Aromas of blossom, cut flower, and hints of spice, and a core of saltiness leading to a long finish. An amazing value for an age-worthy white wine of this caliber.

Celler Frisach ‘La Foradada’ 2023 ($28)

‘La Foradada’ is a wonderful example of skin-contact garnacha blanca—herbal, citrusy, tropical. In Catalonia, skin-contact or “orange” wine is not trendy, but rather a traditional style dating back centuries, called brisat. Celler Frisach is in Terra Alta, just over 2 hours from Barcelona. “The most important region in the world for garnacha blanca,” says winemaker Francesc Frisach.

Celler Pardas Blau Cru 2022 ($24)

Malvasia de Sitges (not to be confused with other varieties of Malvasia) is an ancient white grape variety in Catalonia that nearly went extinct—by the 1970s, there was only vineyard remaining. It’s been painstakingly revived by Ramon Parera and Jodri Annan of Celler Pardas, who have shared cuttings with numerous other wineries in Penedès. “Malvasia de Sitges is a difficult grape. That’s why our grandfathers preferred to plant something else,” says Parera. Vibrant, crisp, and intense, with notes of stone fruit and bright citrus with underlying saline and smoke, and a chalky texture and electric acidity.

Pepe Raventos ‘Vinya la Plana’ Malvasia de Sitges ($36)

Another great example of malvasia di Sitges. Delicate, textured, full of herbs, bright lemon, and sea salt. From a tiny single vineyard (1.4 ha) of young vines, with 15 days of skin contact, and aged in foudre for 8 months.

The Gazpacho Pairing: Verdejo and Albariño

Tomato love. (Photo: Lluis Gene/ AFP/Getty Images)

Barco del Corneta ‘Cucu’ ($25)

“Verdejo has great potential and is a great grape, but it’s been in bad hands,” Barco del Corneta’s winemaker Félix Crespo Álvarez told me. This bottle is a good (and good value) intro to a vibrant, higher-level of verdejo—zesty, floral, and fresh, with racy acidity.

Esmeralda García SantYuste 2023 ($37)

This is verdejo like you’ve never tasted. A beautiful natural wine from 200-year-old vines at an elevation of more than 2,600 feet, aged in amphora and steel tank, slight skin contact. It’s complex, floral, tropical, with great acidity, notes of nectarine and warm citrus, and an attractive salty backbone.

Granbazán ‘Etiqueta Ambar’ 2024 ($30)

A classic expression of albariño from this benchmark Rias Baixas producer. Made with free-run juice, aged on the lees for five months, ripe and complex, with deep warm citrus, herbal and floral, cut grass, talc with underlying salinity.

Zárate ‘El Palomar’ Albariño 2024 ($59)

A more complex side of albariño, from half-hectare vineyard named after the large granite dovecote that overlooks it. The oldest of Zárate’s plots, with vines dating to around 1850 and grown on their own rootstocks. Fermented in large oak foudre. Slightly tropical, with grapefruit pith and a hint of honeycomb.

Rosato con Pomodoro

Broc Cellars Rosato 2024 ($30)

The only non-Abruzzo bottle here is from Broc Cellars, one of my favorite California wineries. Made from 100% montepulciano, this rosato is savory, floral and herbal on the nose, with rose, sage, and a hint of forest floor. On the palate it’s deep cherry, maraschino, and even a hit of cherry Coke, with a crisp, dry finish. My friend who I tasted this with called it “a boy’s rosé. It’s giving handlebar mustache.” Broc Cellars gets its montepulciano grapes from Fox Hill, an organic vineyard above the Russian River in Mendocino County, known for its Italian varieties.

Tiberio Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo 2024 ($25)

Sibling winemakers Cristiana and Antonio Tiberio make this lovely rosato from the free-run juice of destemmed, massal selection montepulciano grapes. Ripe strawberry, cherry, and pomegranate, with fresh rose petals and fragrant herbs, a little earthy and spicy. It’s crisp and juicy, but structured, with a nice mineral-driven finish. Good value, and great with all kinds of food.

Château Pradeaux Bandol Rosé 2024 ($32)

Château Pradeaux is a benchmark Bandol winery. This is their flagship rosé blend of 70% mourvèdre, 27% cinsault, and 3% grenache, from the domaine’s younger vines. After a direct pressing of 24 hours, it’s fermented by native yeasts in cement or enameled stainless steel tanks, with no malolactic fermentation to preserve acidity, before it spends some time on the fine lees. Moreish, with concentrated fruit: strawberries on the vine, peaches, ruby red grapefruit, raspberries, dried herbs, salt. A gastronomic rosé, and an incredible value for such an ageworthy wine. —Sarah Parker Jang

Stirm ‘Neptunite’ Rosé 2024 ($25)

One of the best rosés I’ve tasted over the past year or so, from a crazy blend of riesling, chenin blanc, cabernet pfeffer from San Benito County—tart, fruity, earthy, and savory. The chenin comes from 30-year-old vines and the riesling comes from 60-year-old vines.

Christian Tschida Birdscape Pink 2025 ($44)

Anyone who follows my work knows how much I love the wines of Christian Tschida. I had this bottle on numerous occasions, and its quickly become a favorite. So, is this a rosé or a light red? Honestly, who cares? Tschida’s “pink maceration” wine—a mashup blend of blaufränkisch, pinot noir, and a few white varieties—is the dictionary definition of the wine term “crunchy.” Savory, spicy, with notes of dill, tarragon, forest floor, cranberry, pomegranate, and rhubarb. Simply delightful.

Tinto, Rosso, To-may-to, To-mah-to

Raúl Moreno 'La Esencia' 2024 ($36)

This field blend from Andalusian experimentalist Raul Moreno presents as a red wine, and drinks like a white wine. A mix of palomino, Pedro Ximénez, and arinto, along with the local red grape tintilla, it’s fermented whole cluster and then aged in amphora.Perfumed and lifted, fresh and vibrant, dense and salty, with notes of blood orange, sour cherry, and a hint of Campari.

Tenuta di Lilliano Chianti Classico 2022 ($20)

How can we have a tomato pairing article without a Chianti Classico? This is one of my favorites from the major Tuscan tasting report I did last year. 90% sangiovese, 5% colorino, 5% merlot, aged in large casks for 12 months. Nose of wild berries, dried herbs, and rose, flavors of black cherry and cherry tomato, and an underlying spice note, and supple tannins.

Castello di Volpaia Chianti Classico 2023 ($28)

A fantastic Chianti that’s fresh, savory, with bright fruit and fragrant flowers on the nose, great energy on the palate, juicy red fruit, and an underlying savory note of cherry tomato and herb. 90% sangiovese, 10% merlot.

Alberto Motta Ciliegiolo Rosso Toscana 2022 ($23)

Ciliegiolo (which takes its name from the Italian word for “cherry”) was once just a grape to blend with sangiovese. Now, one of the most exciting trends in Tuscany is the emergence of red wines in Maremma made from 100 percent ciliegiolo. This delightful, of-the-moment wine from organic producer Alberto Motta is cool, savory, and mineral, but also bursting with juicy cherry (of course), great acidity and balance and a hint of amaro on the finish.

Bernard Baudry ‘Les Granges’ 2024 ($23)

When I think of “tomato” wines, I always think of Chinon. Expressive aromas of dried herb and pepper, with swirling fruity-savory notes of blackberry, grilled tomato, black olive, tobacco, and a spicy finish.Organic, spontaneous fermentation with native yeasts, and aged seven to 10 months in concrete. Amazing value for such a complex wine.

Domaine de la Noblaie ‘Les Chiens-Chiens’ 2022 ($33)

From 30-year-old vines of a vineyard that translates to “The Dogs-Dogs.” An example of understated oak aging in Chinon (this spends 12 months in 400-liter neutral barrels). Textured, serious, dark, and chewy with dried herb, plum, black olive, blistered tomato, and even a hint of espresso. Super complex, and spectacular wine for the price.

And One Tomato Spirit

Cazottes Tomates ($70/375 ml)

Cazottes includes more than 280 varieties of tomatoes in this liqueur (18% abv). 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. It’s also the basis for the best martini in New York. —Sarah Parker Jang

The Umpire Strikes Back

Caroline Lamb — Tue, 19 May 2026 19:07:11 GMT

Umps drinking on the job. (Photo: Paul Chinn/SF Chronicle/Getty Images)

I approached the mustached wine steward in the camo hat at the German wine bar. Pouring wine from the window of a 19th century gothic-style mansion, he informed me—without asking what I’d like—that he was about to open something special. Blindly, I agreed. He gleefully revealed a sim…

Gen Z to Wine: Please Stop Condescending to Us

Caroline Lamb — Thu, 07 May 2026 16:02:19 GMT

How the industry views Gen Z. (Photo: Stefano Guidi/Getty Images)

Today, we’re introducing Caroline Lamb as a new contributor to Everyday Drinking. Caroline is a wine professional based in Detroit, who works in distribution, contributes regularly to the Business of Drinks podcast, and writes about wine and culture at The Enjoyer.

So Now There's An Oyster Crisis, Too?

Jason Wilson — Sun, 12 Apr 2026 11:58:19 GMT

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…

'Drops of God' Asks a Great Question: Are Wine People Good People?

Jason Wilson — Thu, 19 Mar 2026 14:48:34 GMT

Camille and Issei finding the rare grape they’re seeking…at the expense of ruining pretty much everything else in their lives. (Photo: Apple TV)

“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 w…

On Acquiring the So-Called 'Acquired Taste,' Partie Deux

Jason Wilson — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 13:30:26 GMT

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.)

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

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Winter, and Wine, In France

Jason Wilson — Fri, 16 Jan 2026 21:03:30 GMT

On the January evening in 2020 when Chinese authorities first shut down Wuhan due to the coronavirus, I wandered the ancient streets of Chinon, in the Loire Valley. I’d spent all day with winemakers touring their 15th-century limestone caves, then tasting dozens of wines I was supposed to review on assignment. I had to get up early and do it all over again in the morning, but I was restless.

My Airbnb rental stood just down the winding cobblestone path to Chinon’s 11th-century castle, about a hundred meters from where a 17-year-old Joan of Arc arrived in 1429, after hearing heavenly voices. She’d traveled to meet future king Charles VII, who would give her an army to fight the English in the Hundred Years’ War; two years later, she’d be captured and burned at the stake in Rouen, then declared a martyr, then canonized.

My own visit to Chinon wasn’t as noble or epic as Joan’s. That night, I ended up at a bar in the town square, where a local guy bet me that I couldn’t identify, blind, the very bitter herbal spirit he set before me. He lost that bet, but it was still more like the rake’s progress than the hero’s journey. It started to flurry on the cold walk back home.

All of which is to say that I have a deep relationship with France during the cold months. While France is certainly beautiful in spring and summer, my own travels there have, more often than not, happened during the winter or late autumn. Whether I’ve been barrel hunting in Cognac in February or chasing a boar hunt in the Ardennes forest in November, it’s rarely swimsuit season. I’ve watched my Eagles in the Super Bowl starting at midnight on French television, celebrated La Flamme de l'Armagnac, the annual winter distilling season in Gascony, met the goats responsible for Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine cheese on foggy, damp mornings, and seen my breath countless times in chilly cellars from Bourgueil to Alsace to Gaillac.

Due to this odd tendency toward off-season travel, I tend to associate certain elemental French things with winter. The richer dishes I cook at this time of year tend to be French in origin. And so, as I posted about early this week, I generally start my new year with Loire cabernet franc on the mind.

If you don’t believe me, why don’t you try cabernet franc with the winter veggie recipe below and get back to me? I’ve also included recommendations for a few more great Loire bottles.

Barrel hunting (Photo: PM Spirits)

Meanhwile, for today’s newsletter, I’ve decided to liberate several of my cold-weather French dispatches from the paywall so all my readers, free and paid, can enjoy them.

Four French Stories From the Colder Months

More Loire Cab Franc Recs + A Winter Recipe To Pair Them With

All recipes and tasting notes for paid subscribers only. Please consider upgrading today.

My Merry Miami Holiday Vibes

Anna Maria Arriaga — Tue, 09 Dec 2025 18:08:57 GMT

For many Americans, December is full of joyous memories of magical snowfall, warm drinks, and gathering around a cozy fireplace with loved ones. My version of the holidays is spent in the glorious warmth of Miami, Florida where we might get lucky if the temperature dips below 70 degrees Fahrenheit.

It takes a certain amount of commitment and dedication t…

Rosalía and the Meaning of Sauvignon Blanc

Jason Wilson — Tue, 25 Nov 2025 13:19:47 GMT

You are likely already aware of this, but Rosalía’s new album, LUX, is pretty amazing: majestic, avant-garde, genre-bending, recorded with the London Symphony Orchestra, including a cameo by Björk, and with lyrics sung in 13 different languages. The Catalan superstar’s latest is “an operatic lament for a new generation, an exquisite oratorio for the messy heart,” as ol’ Pitchfork calls it (8.6 lol).

Perhaps you also know that one of the most popular songs on LUX is “Sauvignon Blanc.”

My immediate thought upon first hearing “Sauvignon Blanc” was…uh oh. I figured we’d soon be seeing facile wine commentary on how Rosalía’s lyrics about Savvy B showed “how to make wine cool and fun again for Gen Z.” The album’s only been out for a little over two weeks, and I’ve already heard this sentiment floated casually by a number of middle-aged observers.

A friend in Spain sent me a popular food-and-drink podcast, with Spanish wine critic Santi Rivas mentioning that sauvignon blanc sales are up since LUX was released. However, much of the podcast is the middle-aged critic mansplaining to Rosalía how she should pronounce “sauvignon blanc.” He also insists sauvignon blanc is one of his least favorite grapes, singling out Spanish versions of the grape as “low quality” and New Zealand’s sauvignon blanc “quite awful.”

Apparently, it is widely known among Rosalía fans that she loves Sancerre (allegedly introduced to her by Pharrell Williams). “I love this wine,” she said in a viral video back in 2023. “Anyone who likes white wine probably already knows it. And for those who like white wine but don’t know it, well, it’s the only one I’ve tried and liked.”

Which is very interesting, and telling, because that means Rosalía came to her sauvignon blanc love the way so many other wine drinkers have. As I wrote about earlier this year in my piece “Savvy B, 4 Eva”:

How do people discover the wines they like, anyway? Deep in the wine bubble, we pretend to believe that critics or sommeliers or wine educators are the ones who stimulate the drinking public’s desires to try something new. But we know that’s not true, and Sancerre is a classic example.
No one in the wine bubble ever evangelized for Sancerre. It’s not a darling of the natural wine movement, or collectors, or influencers. Nor, to be fair, has it become a caricature or gained a vaguely trashy reputation, like pinot grigio or Prosecco. Sancerre just sort of exists. It’s generally crisp and refreshing and—as French words go—it’s relatively easy for Americans to pronounce. Normal people just like it.

The public’s love for sauvignon blanc has always driven Wine People a little crazy with sneering disdain. More than a decade ago, Sancerre blew up because it was among the favorite wines of Christian Grey—the notorious main character of the steamy, erotic, wildly best-selling romance novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. A certain type of wine gatekeeper simply hates it when people find the wines they like on their own—via pop culture—without needing a sommelier or critic’s help.

Rosalía greeting fans in Madrid. (Photo: Jose Ruiz/Europa Press/Getty Images)

Which brings us to Rosalía’s lovely song “Sauvignon Blanc.” Which, if you listen to the lyrics, is very clearly about renouncing worldly luxuries for some kind of ascetic, quasi-religious existence with her beloved. She sings that she’ll burn her Rolls-Royce and that she doesn’t want pearls or caviar anymore. To my God, I’ll listen / My Jimmy Choo’s, I’ll throw them away / My porcelain, I’ll let it fall / And I’ll give away my upright piano. As Spencer Kornhaber says in The Atlantic, “Rosalía, like many of us, is asking herself what she’d be willing to give up to save her soul and thereby, in some small way, the world. Her autonomy? Her convenience? Her Jimmy Choos?”

You know what Rosalía is not willing to give up? Yep, her sauvignon blanc. I don’t need anything else / sauvignon blanc / at your side / my future / it will be golden.

In interviews, Rosalía has cited the influence of Saint Teresa of Ávila, the 16th century Carmelite nun and mystic who renounced her wealth for the convent. Teresa of Ávila wrote of “divine intoxication,” or spiritual ecstasy, and used the metaphor of a “wine cellar,” where God invites the soul to drink deeply of “divine love.”

Whatever Rosalía means by bringing sauvignon blanc and a 16th century mystic nun into all this, it’s very different than Drake mentioning moscato or Jay-Z name-checking Cristal or even Taylor Swift (also a Sancerre fan) and her many lyrical wine references.

In Rosalía’s operatic world of LUX, sauvignon blanc is not a luxury to be bragged about, but rather a fundamental, everyday metaphor for a humbler, less material, more spiritual, more loving life. Sauvignon blanc isn’t a wine poured for status, but rather, plentifully, for the soul.

I don’t believe we’ve seen or heard wine presented this way before in popular culture. And I hope the wine industry doesn’t take away the wrong message, as it usually does. It’s not about “making wine cool and fun again” like I’ve seen suggested recently. I’m not saying wine doesn’t need to be fun, but people also want something more right now. We’ve already been influenced, memed, brain-rotted, and overwhelmed into an algorithm-induced digital coma of “fun.”

What Rosalía is driving at transcends generational marketing. In her interview with the New York Times, she was challenged: “Are you asking a lot of your audience to absorb a work like this?” Her response:

ROSALÍA: Absolutely, I am. The more we are in the era of dopamine, the more I want the opposite. That’s what I’m craving. Sometimes I’m able to make the exercise of just shutting everything down and watching a movie in a dark space in my room.
NYT: Even that can be hard without looking at your phone.
ROSALÍA: It’s so hard. But that’s why I’m like, there has to be something that pulls us there. I don’t know if this is going to be that, but at least there’s the desire of being something that pulls you to be focused for hopefully an hour where you’re just there. You’re just here. I know it’s a lot to ask, but that’s what I want.

We can ask the same thing of our wine audience, even of the youngest wine drinkers, who are also craving that escape from the dopamine cycle. I’ve written before about how wine can offer that escape, how taking the time to enjoy a wine can be a small act of resistance. Wine can pull us there.

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Life is a combination of magic and pasta. In food circles, this oft-quoted line by Federico Fellini has achieved nearly “Live Laugh Love” status. Perhaps it is hanging in your kitchen? Well, just because the sentiment is framed and sold on Etsy doesn’t make it any less true.

As you may be aware, my obsession with pasta nearly matches my obsession for obscure grapes or niche spirits. Earlier this summer, for instance, I wrote a very long memoir about my three-decade relationship with marubini.

Still, my love affair with pasta is rather polyamorous, and I regularly have infatuations with other dishes. The other day I wrote about my love of pasta al limone, the traditional lemon pasta of Sicily. The past few summers, as eggplant season arrives, I’ve been chasing another sultry, sensual Sicilian dish, pasta alla norma (recipe below).

Yet my eye still wanders. Every year, when I see broccoli rabe in the farm market, I have a fling with orecchiette con cime di rapa. I’ve talked at length about my turbulent relationship with pesto in my essay “God and Pesto are Dead.” For a while, I was also obsessed with perfecting another traditional Ligurian dish, salsa di noci , a walnut sauce that should honestly be just as famous as pesto (that recipe is also below).

Then there are kinkier dalliances. A few years ago, when I was working as a clickbait chronicler of food trends, I became briefly infatuated with a dish called called Dirty Martini Pasta, which had gone somewhat viral on TikTok at the time. As I explained in my article:

Just like everything bagel seasoning or bourbon-flavored stuff, “dirty martini” has become a super popular flavor descriptor for food beyond cocktails. We’ve seen the rise of dirty martini salads and dirty martini deviled eggs, for instance. So dirty martini pasta just makes sense.

Despite a catchy name, Dirty Martini Pasta (recipe below) at least has its basis in classic pasta flavors—olive, lemon, garlic, parsley, oil, butter. The only element that might make an Italian mad is the optional crumbling of blue cheese—or perhaps the de-glazing of the saucepan with gin.

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During that period of my life, I was writing about all sorts of mashups or hacks that had several millions views on TikTok: crispy sushi rice waffles, vodka butter, cowboy butter, Dr. Pepper cupcakes, olive-cream cheese sandwiches, cheese-wrapped pickles, kimchi grilled cheese. There were plenty of viral pasta mashups, some good (creamy miso pasta) and some not so good (lasagna soup). One mashup from that era, which I actually really enjoyed, was One-Pot French Onion Pasta (recipe below).

I have a thing for onion pastas in general. For example, I am obsessed with a very simple recipe for bucatini alle cipolle. Well, it isn’t really much of a recipe:

Thinly slice six yellow onions. In a saucepan or pot, cover them in olive oil, and cook gently over low heat, being sure to keep an eye on them and stirring often. Be patient. After about 35-45 minutes (or more), when the onions are very soft but still hold their shape, you cook the bucatini, drain, and then toss the pasta with butter, a “generous amount” of Parmigiano, and then add onions. Serve with a “generous amount” of ground black pepper.

I got this recipe for bucatini with onions from Vincenzo Buonassisi’s The Pasta Codex, his 1974 masterwork, finally translated into English in 2020. “Obviously this is a sauce for onion lovers only,” Buonassisi writes. “This dish takes rustic and simple ingredients and elevates them into a dish fit for royalty. It is truly fantastic.” I completely agree.

If you’re a pasta lover and you don’t know The Pasta Codex, you should get to know it. “Is it a vicious lie that pasta makes you fat?” Buonassisi asks in his introduction. He delves into who invented pasta (likely “primitive man”), explicates the Roman poet Horace’s beloved “tagliatelle” with leeks and chickpeas, dismisses the myth of Marco Polo bringing spaghetti from China, muses on the taste for sweet pastas during the Renaissance, and notes a document from 1041 in which the word maccherone is used to insult someone as “a bit of a dope.” We learn that the first forks were brought to Italy—to make pasta eating easier—from Byzantium in the late 11th century, that a 1792 American cookbook erroneously suggested pasta be cooked in water for three hours, and that Lord Byron “connected pasta with erotic themes” offering, in his Don Juan, an aphrodisiac of vermicelli, oysters, and eggs. As to whether pasta is unhealthy, Buonassisi dismisses the notion, insisting instead that pasta is “a way to rebel at the table against a lifestyle that oppresses humanity at every turn,” that a dish of spaghetti “can provide a pure and simple boost of optimism,” and that “pasta remains a good friend to all.”

And this is all just in the first dozen pages. What follows then are 1,001 recipes, beginning with a simple spaghetti aglio e olio and ending with maccheroncini col ragu di cammello (“Camel is featured on the table frequently in Africa, but you must seek out a young camel—no more than three years old”). There are historic recipes, such as the 18th century Neopolitan dish thought to be the first pasta recipe that calls for tomatoes, a pasta with honey dating to the Middle Ages called sucamele (“honey-suckers”), and an ancient Florentine chickpea pasta dish, strisce con i ceci. There are curious regional variations, such as buckwheat noodles from Valtellina in the Alps, gnocchi from Trieste stuffed with plums or apricots, and knödel from German-speaking Alto Adige. There are even appearances by non-Italian “pastas” such as spätzle, pierogi, kreplach, and tagliatelle cinesi (ie. Chinese noodles).

All of which is to say that The Pasta Codex might be one of the most delightful cookbooks I’ve ever come across. It was a labor of love for Buonassisi and the capstone of a career that includes many years as a food and wine correspondent for Corriere della Sera and La Stampa, as well as the host of numerous cooking shows on Italian television. He died in 2004, long before seeing his work translated into English.

Given the context of this post, perhaps we can call Buonassisi’s The Pasta Codex what it really is: the Kama Sutra of pasta.

Recipes: Four Pastas of Passion

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