My Rosé Glow Up
My Rosé Glow Up
We suggested some bargain rosé picks last week. This week, it's time to level up.
There was a distinct moment when I was convinced I had officially outgrown rosé. I was sitting on a bench in Sutton Place park at dusk, facing out towards the East River, when my friend offered me a pour of a $45 rosé from Provence. There was something about the seashell pink color in the bottle that made me hesitate, but I accepted nonetheless. I took a sip and instantly felt the elements of cold, acid, and faint melon flavor pull in three different directions. As I swished unhappily I stared straight ahead at the sky, which was the same color as the wine in my mouth, a fact that was neither poetic nor reassuring. Then the nausea kicked in, and in a moment of panic I thought, I will not get this down.
I did. And to be clear, there was nothing objectively wrong with this particular grenache-cinsault-mourvèdre blend. It was the type of wine I could easily swig in college, thinking it put me a notch above my PBR-crushing peers in terms of sophistication. But now, after spending a year parsing through layers upon layers of Burgundy aromas, the basic, function-only aspect of this wine didn’t sit well. There may have been nothing wrong with the bottle, but there didn’t seem to be a whole lot right with it, either.
As students of wine learn, rosé is high on the list of Things That Have Scared Americans, up there with microwaves, Mad Cow, riesling and Sherry. The rationale: the Eighties and Nineties were dominated by inexpensive, icky-sweet “blush” that nearly destroyed rosé’s reputation for anyone who felt like they had halfway discerning taste. The rosé resurrection was owed to Provencal-style blends that were described with words like “dry,” “mineral,” and most importantly, “not sweet.” Yet in repositioning rosé in terms of what it is not, it seems the wine world largely neglected to define what rosé even is, beyond just a color. Hence the neutral, inoffensive, dare I say invisible rosé wine that reigns today (“Alcohol water,” my boss once sneered, placing a Hamptons-friendly clear pink bottle on the shelf).
Indeed, once I started working in wine, I found that many other people in the business were quick to profess their general dislike of rosé. But the access I had gained also led me to start tasting rosés that actually resonated with me again, many of which were made many miles from Provence. After watching Bernard Baudry Chinon Rosé from the Loire Valley sell out in a flash, I was quick to grab a bottle for myself the next time it was available. There I discovered a rosé that finally had some personality; it was like being served fresh strawberries on the edge of a steel blade. Then I brought a bottle of Nervi-Conterno Il Rosato from Piedmont to an outdoor pizza gathering, prompting several of the wine newbies in the group to excitedly photograph the label, declaring the wine the best rosé they had ever tasted.
The rosés I landed on came from different grapes and even different countries, but one common feature seems to be that there were steps taken in the winemaking process to make the wine feel a bit heftier and more purposeful. For Baudry’s rosé, this was allowing malolactic fermentation to occur, which gives wine a creamier texture. Meanwhile, Nervi-Conterno Il Rosato spent several months aged on lees, creating a touch of the savory, bready qualities that one often finds in Champagne. The most obvious similarity among my current favorite rosés, however, is that they’re all single-varietal wines. This has meant cabernet franc from the Loire Valley, nebbiolo from Piedmont, spätburgunder from Baden, and more.
When an estate makes a rosé from the same type of grape they use to make their red wine, it’s a chance to express something different about the grape, and for the wine-drinker to reflect on the grape’s inherent and less inherent qualities. For instance, the Baudry rosé retains the gritty, metallic signature of cabernet franc, while the Nervi Conterno rosato features the strawberry-licorice flavor of nebbiolo without the strong tannins, typically off putting to some. Enderle & Moll’s rosé makes spätburgunder (German for pinot noir) a little less austere, but it’s still earthy and deep enough to pair with real food, and not just aperitif cheese and crackers.
Meanwhile, I recently tasted a 100 percent merlot rosé that my sister brought home from Valle d’Aosta in Italy, and amazingly it seemed a world removed from the plummy merlot present in everything from top Bordeaux blends to airplane bottles. Instead, it tasted of clementine, orange blossom and grapefruit—probably the least “red fruit” rosé I have ever had.
I’m still open to blended rosés, and Lopez de Heredia’s well-aged Viña Tondonia Rosé Gran Reserva (garnacho, tempranillo, and viura) is certainly on my hit list, if I can ever find/afford a bottle. I’ve also been exploring the wines of Tavel, France’s proudly rosé-only appellation, and was lucky to enjoy a bottle of Eric Pfifferling’s l’Anglore at a restaurant in Paris last fall. I’m even game to try some cabernet d’Anjou, the kind of semi-sweet rosé that almost killed off rosé in the first place (because who’s afraid of residual sugar? Certainly not this riesling fan).
Ultimately I’ve found that I don’t have to do away with rosé entirely, just that I needed a framework for finding the kind of deliberately-made, thought-provoking rosés that merit some real estate in my wine fridge. It’s a bit like how growing up entails letting go of the friendships that are just there, and instead honing in on the ones that actually serve you. I turn thirty next month, so maybe it’s about time.
Picks For Your Own Rosé Glow Up
2022 Bernard Baudry Chinon “Le Rosé”, $24
Con’t let the ballerina pink color deceive you; this rosé has some serious grit (not unlike actual ballet dancers). Strawberry is the dominant flavor here, but farmstand fresh strawberries versus anything overripe or cloyingly sweet, and there’s a grip to the finish thanks to cab franc’s metallic edge.
2020 Francois Cotat Sancerre Chavignol Rosé, $49
After a French sommelier described this wine to me as a “bombe atomique,” I knew I had to try it. The nose is red currant, rose petal, and that signature Sancerre flintiness, while the palate moves though tangerine, raspberry and handfuls of salt. I know this rosé is built to go the distance, but even without much aging, it’s easy to see why the wine is known as one of the great rosés of the world.
2021 Enderle & Moll Spätburgunder Rosé, $32
A breath of fresh air in the world of rosé, in that it tastes like an actual wine. To be honest, it drinks more like a light red, and there’s an earthiness to it that tames the otherwise bright strawberry and red cherry notes. If I could pair it with anything, it would probably be a salad with shredded duck confit.
2021 Nervi-Conterno Il Rosato, $34
Blood orange and strawberry licorice mingle for a voluptuous rosé that’s refreshing enough for a heatwave but sturdy enough to serve with dinner. Pizza is a good pairing, especially those artisanal pizzas that bear little resemblance to the traditional pies, but are basically vehicles for hot honey.
Maison Anselmet “Les Deux Petits Coeurs”
It looks like an orange wine, and tastes like orange fruits, but it’s still a rosé—I guess merlot does some crazy things in Valle d’Aosta. The acidity gives the wine great energy without lessening the distinctive flavors, and it’s a happily surprising choice for aperitif. It’s currently not available in the US, but you can always plan a wine trip to Valle d’Aosta.
Love this! And you’re welcome for the Aosta bottle ;)
I would try the “bombe atomique” in a minute ! Great piece, thank you 🙏🏻