On Chinon and Creative Constraint
How pairing my Loire reds with winter vegetables reminds us of the beauty of artistic restraint.
As you may have noticed, I’ve started off the new year rather quietly. 2025 was tumultuous in so many ways—not all bad, but even the good was tumultuous all the same. Surely I’m not alone in believing that we simply cannot bring the same frenetic energy into 2026. Already, this year feels like it needs to be about moving quietly, vigilantly, reflectively, knowingly. It’s not about big declarations and hype. It’s about doing the work.
Over here, I’ve been cooking at home more, learning a new kitchen after nearly three decades in the old one. Every Thursday, a box of organic produce from our new farm share arrives at the new apartment building. There’s been a calming sameness to the winter vegetables: potatoes, leeks, Brussels sprouts, root vegetables in every box. Honestly, I never realized how many varieties of radishes exist (and yet mostly taste the same). Each week brings new squash (butternut, honeynut, acorn, delicata) and endless chard (Swiss, ruby, rainbow).
Maybe it seems boring, but I’ve been inspired by the constraints of winter produce. It’s forced me to find new go-to recipes for turnips (sliced thin and caramelized like onions, and tossed with caper, lemon, and herbs) and Brussels sprouts (Alison Roman’s honey-harissa roasted sprouts with lemon-shallot relish). And I’ll pat myself on the back for creating, in a fit of chard overload, a roasted-squash-and-chard orecchiette dish that I believe to be a keeper (more on that coming Friday).
Creative restraint feels like a vibe right now. My favorite book of 2025 was the cold, aloof novel, Perfection, by Vincenzo Latronico—a work of fiction that has no dialogue and mostly dispenses with the plot, conflict, and characterization that one generally expects in a novel. Latronico credits Georges Perec’s 1965 novella Things: A Story of the Sixties as his inspiration. Perec was part of the French literary movement, Oulipo, known for its constrained writing experiments (Perec infamously wrote a entire novel without using the letter “e”).
In Nouvelle Vague—Richard Linklater’s new movie that depicts the making of Jean-Luc Godard’s classic Breathless—the main conflict revolves around the low-budget constraints facing Godard in creating his groundbreaking film, which ultimately influenced generations of filmmakers.
Anyone who creates knows that boundaries are so often more powerful than limitless freedom. I hope we can remember this as we slide deeper into our desultory AI era (and ever closer toward the inevitable Singularity), when too many “creatives” are “creating” with AI and playing tennis without a net.
If so, I know the wine to pair with the human beauty of artistic restraint: Chinon.
Chinon is a wine for people who are over the nonsense. It’s just as defined by what it’s not: low in alcohol, often unoaked, and usually less fruity and more savory. Even the best cabernet franc from this Loire Valley appellation retains its signature earthy, rustic note. “You want fruit?” shrugs cab franc. “Olives and tomatoes are fruits, too.” Great Chinon has juicy berry, great acidity, lively tannins, and unique dark minerality, often with notes of black pepper and graphite (some might say “pencil shavings”), and occasionally a ferrous, bloody edge.
There’s a reason Chinon became the go-to everyday red of Paris bistros. It’s the opposite of an oaky, high-alcohol fruit bomb, and pairs with almost every classic French dish.
I have long been an evangelist for Loire Valley’s terminally underrated reds, and I live my truth. If you come to my home on a week night, there is a more than 60 percent chance I will pour you a Loire cabernet franc, likely from Chinon. Sadly, my evangelism, tireless as it is, often feels like a lost cause. The two biggest wine shops in my new neighborhood, for instance, have a grand total of two Loire cabernet franc on their shelves.
I’m surprised by how unloved Loire cab franc is. Some of it reflects a lack of awareness, some of it is bias, and some of it is simple snobbery. “Loire reds are one example of a category that receives little affection no matter how often writers tout their value, versatility and deliciousness,” wrote New York Times critic Eric Asimov a few years ago.
Chinon reds have been mostly ignored by an older generation of American wine people. I once reviewed the Loire as a points-scoring critic, during 2019 and 2020, and one thing I noticed was how woefully those reds are underrated. Wine Spectator reported that less than 1 percent of Loire wines scored more than 95 points in 2019. Compare that to the Rhône, where 11 percent of the wines score more than 95 points. Meanwhile, nearly 90 percent of all Champagnes scored 90 points or higher, compared to only 45 percent of Loire wines. What biased tale do numbers like that tell?
It’s likely generational stubbornness, with Boomers and older Gen X still clinging to their big, oaky, fruity reds. Many are still skeptical—if not antagonistic—toward wines that lean in a “natural” direction. Since Loire Valley is an epicenter of natural wine, you’ll find a lot of critics calling certain Loire wines “reductive,” which for some has become a lazy, dog-whistle term for wines that don’t smell like fruit bombs.
Beyond natty, if you do hear Loire talk in mainstream wine circles, it’s too often centered on the highest-end expressions, such as those from Clos Rougeard. Which are great wines, but they also have crazy price tags on par with top Bordeaux and Burgundy.
Chinon is the largest and best-known of Loire’s red appellations. It encompasses 2,400 hectares and more than 200 producers spread among 18 villages that are situated between the Vienne and Loire rivers. Chinon is known for its hodgepodge of soils, from clay and limestone, with some tuffeau and silex on the slopes, to gravelly and alluvial soils closer to the river. These lower-lying vineyards in the valley, many of which are machine-harvested, are responsible for much of the cheap, thin, too-green wine that gives cab franc a bad name. But on the slopes, the wines display far more minerality from the limestone, and produce more full-bodied, ageworthy wines.
Frankly, though, there’s too much chatter about how Loire reds have “improved” or are “getting more elegant” or how their “image is getting better.” I’m over this kind of talk, because its whole frame of reference is solely in relation to overpriced prestige regions and dated ideas.
The true beauty of Chinon is that you can drink it every day. From $15 to $25, you’ll find dozens of wonderful, gulpable reds that pair wonderfully with the foods people actually eat. These are wines for Tuesday night pizza, sushi, or spicy takeout. They’re for those of us trying to eat more of a plant-based diet, cooking our random winter vegetables from the farm share box.
Chinon is for people who don’t need red wine to be a 15% abv, oaky, raspberry explosion. It’s a wine for people who appreciate root vegetables, squash, swiss chard—and restraint.
Chasing Chinon At $25 And Under
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