Thinking & Drinking: Dry Towns, The Whitney Biennial, and Ways to Rosé
How wine and contemporary art face similar problems. A word in praise of dry towns. What to pair with asparagus. And 9 picks for pink sipping this spring.
In my recent cultural readings, I really enjoyed Hilton Als’ delightfully bitchy review of the 2026 Whitney Biennial in The New Yorker. Als goes for the jugular from the very first paragraph. Of this 82nd edition of the Biennial, the bellwether of contemporary American art, he says:
“[It] introduces viewers to what I call ChatGPT art—facsimiles of facsimiles by makers who have little if any relationship to what they’re putting out there, aside from its being a product in service of a career. Indeed, it’s difficult to think of the people who grew up with and apparently condone the use of A.I. sources in the creation of “art” as artists themselves, especially if you define art as a creative expression of thoughts or feelings that have changed, and contributed to the vision of, the artists who made it.”
The main thrust of Als’ argument is that too many of the 56 featured artists offer derivative, unoriginal work, with little “acknowledgement of the artists who paved the way.” He sees an exhibition full of “received ideas” and “appropriating aspects” and artists who avoid the “labyrinth of perception and history—if they’re aware of it at all. What replaces it is a garbled rhetoric that is supposed to further substantiate the work, but what if the work just isn’t there?”
Most damning, Als speaks of “the vast divide between the artists who had worked to find a new vocabulary and those who were centered squarely in a language that was not their own.”
Now…why would all of this make me think of the current state of wine?
Well, partly because I am always seeing a lot of crossover between the worlds of art and wine.
And partly because of the piece we published this week, “Gen Z to Wine: Please Stop Condescending to Us” by Caroline Lamb, in response to Wine Spectator’s handwringing over young wine drinkers. Caroline goes after several of the received ideas and unoriginal, clichéd ways of thinking that happen in the wine world. Namely the lame populist argument against wine “elitism,” the empty straw man argument about “demystifying” wine and the bogeyman of the dreaded “wine snob.”
“Frankly,” she writes, “the elitism framing is just lazy—a tired recitation of wine culture’s snobby past. The real barrier is economic.” She continues:
let’s note the rich irony of Wine Spectator complaining about wine’s “elitism,” considering its own role in whatever wine culture exists today. But more than that, I’d argue this idea that wine needs to be dumbed down is more condescending than any of the exclusivity it claims to be fighting. Embedded in the entire demystification agenda is an unspoken assumption: That young people need wine to be easier because they can’t handle complexity, aspiration, or even a simple conversation with a sommelier, that the only way to engage young people is to meet them at the bottom rather than invite them up.
But beyond Caroline’s article, the wine world faces a similar problem to that plaguing the contemporary art world. There are too many people in wine who, in Hilton Als’ words, avoid the “labyrinth of perception and history—if they’re aware of it at all.” If, in art, there’s a lack of historical knowledge that’s been replaced by “garbled rhetoric,” in wine there’s been a push away from the idea of terroir or place and other complex knowledge, and toward a sort of facile populism and “demystification.”
I’ve written about this before, in a piece last spring entitled “Does Place Matter Anymore for Wine Drinkers?”
These days, in the middle of a worldwide wine crisis, it’s never been tougher to sell wine based on place. In fact, over the past couple of years, 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 focused on, say, wine in cans or alternative packaging. 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.
While so many people blame “elitism” or “hierarchy” for wine’s problems, you could also just as easily blame the received ideas, derivative winemaking, and garbled rhetoric of so much of what became “the natural wine movement.” An earlier generation complained about an “international style,” championed by critics like Robert Parker, that negated place. Yet by the late 2010s, the new international style of natural wine was similarly flattening.
Certainly, many of the original natural winemakers made and still make amazing wines that are a testament to terroir. But so much of the current natural-wine chatter and marketing eschews place and history and knowledge, framing it as “gatekeeping.” When place and history—and wine’s inherent complexity—are presented as a negative, you lose something fundamental.
Where I’ve Been Drinking: A Dry Island
After a busy winter spent in Spain and California (look for more upcoming pieces from both places) it’s been a quiet spring for travel. I’ve mostly been spending time in the beach town at the Jersey Shore where I spent my youth. What is perhaps ironic is that Ocean City, New Jersey, has prohibited booze since 1909. It is a dry island.
A while back, I wrote an essay about living in dry towns for Wine Enthusiast. Because for many years, I doubled down on living in dry towns, residing in the historic town of Haddonfield, New Jersey, which has has been dry since 1873.
Summer on a dry island has little effect on my life. After all, a prohibition on the local sale of alcohol does not mean drinkers can’t imbibe out-of-town booze at home. Indeed, in Ocean City, I have a well-stocked bar. I meet friends for happy hour on the public beach and we pour wine, beer or cocktails—concealed in a plastic cup. No one hassles us. I can also take a 10-minute Uber ride to the next island south, which has two bayside bars.
Clearly, I’m not the only one dedicated to workarounds. In 2017, USA Today voted Ocean City as New Jersey’s “drunkest city.” Since the town was originally founded in the 19th century by four Methodist ministers as a Christian resort, Ocean City’s old guard wasn’t very happy with this designation.
The main negative effect of local Prohibition is a rather poor restaurant scene on the island, compounded because Ocean City bans a bring-your-own-bottle option. Some private clubs have popped up, but by and large, you must leave the island to legally drink. I’ve always thought it was irresponsible of Ocean City—a city of more than 150,000 on a summer weekend—to compel residents who desire wine with dinner to hop into their cars. Yet the old laws aren’t changing any time soon. A decade ago, the town voted 2-1 against allowing the BYOB option.
What will I be drinking on the beach in my dry town this summer? Likely something cheap and portable that comes in a liter.
What I’m Drinking, Part 1: Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo
One style of wine I’ve been loving lately has been Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo, a robust style of rosato wine with direct-pressed montepulciano grapes from Italy’s Abruzzo region. These rosés are bold and dark enough to be confused as light reds.
“Rosé was the everyday wine of the farmers, and it’s the wines that best represent our region,” says Iole Rabasco, whose Vino Rabasco wines are amazing and worth seeking out. “I always say that montepulciano shows well in rosé wines.”
I’ve started to believe that montepulciano consistently produces some of the best rosé wines in the world. Here are my picks, including one from California made in the cerasuolo style.
Cora Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo 2025 ($12)
Private label wine made for importer Bowler Wine. Crazy good value and a great example of rosé made from montepulciano grapes. Lives up to its “cherry red” name, bursting with fresh cherry, but also notes of watermelon rind, blood orange, and citrus zest.
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.
Caprera ‘Le Vasche’ Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo 2023 ($34)
Caprera is a relatively new winery in Pietranico, Abruzzo. Luca Paolo’s Cerasuolo captures the pulsating energy of their mountain-meets-sea terrain with a nimble confidence. Floral, earthy, savory aromas, with bright, intense cherry and blood orange on the palate, joyful acidity, and a pleasant saline finish.
Vini Rabasco ‘Cancelli’ Rosato 2025 ($30)
A light and lively rosato with vibrant acidity from this highly-regarded natural producer in Abruzzo. Bursting with red fruit—cherry, strawberry, cranberry—with hints of herb, thrilling acidity, and underlying salinity.
Vini Rabasco ‘Damigiana’ Rosato 2024 ($40)
Direct pressed and aged in demijohn for 54 months, this is another level up of montepulciano rosé from Iole Rabasco. There’s all the bright red fruit, but something also deeper here—earthy, tannic, complex.
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.
What I’m Drinking, Part 2: Bandol Rosé
My colleague, Sarah Parker Jang, might make the case that mourvèdre, particularly from Bandol in Provence, is even better then montepulciano. As she wrote in her recent piece about Provence, “Bandol rosés, with a high percentage of mourvèdre, are often deep in color, complex, structured, and ageworthy—a far cry from the pale, dull examples found throughout much of the region.”
I don’t disagree. So here are three mourvèdre-based rosés From Bandol from Sarah:
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
Domaine Tempier Bandol Rosé 2024 ($60)
Domaine Tempier is another benchmark Bandol rosé. Composed of about 55% mourvèdre, 25% grenache, and 20% cinsault, this wine is aged on the lees for 6 months in steel. Salmon-pink in the glass, with detailed and complex aromas and flavors: melon, strawberries and cream, grapefruit, roses and white blossoms, guava paste, thyme. Weighty, but with snappy, refreshing acidity and a long, mineral finish. A benchmark rosé. This can age for decades. —Sarah Parker Jang
Domaine de Terrebrune Bandol Rosé 2024 ($40)
An organically grown, ageworthy rosé with 60% mourvèdre, the rest equally split between grenache and cinsault. Mouthwatering melon, juicy blood orange, raspberry, and oyster shell. Weighty on the palate but never heavy, this is another traditional-style Bandol rosé with serious aging potential of 15 years or more. —Sarah Parker Jang
What I’ve Been Eating While Drinking: Asparagus
Asparagus season is serious business at Everyday Drinking. A few springs back, I even went to Schwetzingen, Germany’s famed white asparagus festival, where I ate white asparagus in more ways than I ever imagined, watched a thrilling asparagus-peeling competition, and harvested fresh spears with the local asparagus queen.
While I love asparagus, white or green, it’s also one of those foods that’s notoriously tricky to pair with wine.
The day after we debated montepulciano versus mourvèdre, Sarah Parker Jang and I actually got into another heated debate over text message about asparagus and pairing:
Me: What’s your feeling on pairing asparagus with wine? Would you agree it’s one of those ‘difficult’ pairings?’
Sarah: Yeah but I think a lot of it is because people don’t know how to cook asparagus properly. Even restaurants. Everyone cooks asparagus to death.
Me: You steam it for two minutes
Sarah: Exactly
Me: And then hit it with a little salt and a dash of balsamic vinegar. I feel like you’ve got to be an idiot for overcooking asparagus
Sarah: People don’t do it on purpose though. They just don’t know any better, they think cooking it for longer will make it less bitter or woody. People roast it to hell or they saute it for too long and put it in something where it doesn’t belong. Like pasta. Get your asparagus out of my f***ing pasta.
Me: Asparagus belongs in risotto not pasta
Sarah: Asparagus needs to be on it’s own
Me: You know you’re gonna be quoted in Thinking & Drinking now.
Sarah: I think if it’s cooked properly, something high acid and kind of herbal. Alpine whites are a surprisingly good pairing. I mean gruner and sauv b are the classic answers, right? I think that’s fine. With like a vinaigrette on it, something like you were saying. If you grill it you could do a volcanic white like listan blanco or something from Sicily.
The only thing Sarah and I disagree on is whether asparagus belongs in risotto. I made a delicious asparagus and mushroom risotto this weekend. And while I agree that grüner veltliner and sauvignon blanc pairs well with asparagus, I wanted something red. So, I paired my asparagus risotto with Langhe nebbiolo and it was perfect. Almost as good as pairing Langhe nebbiolo with radicchio:
We’d love to hear your pairing ideas for asparagus, too!
As far as I am concerned, nothing pairs better with white asparagus than a Franconcian Sylvaner, and as for green asparagus, I'll go for a Xarel.lo from the Penedès any time.
I am making that risotto this weekend! I think I can see that langhe nebbiolo should work well, but I think I’ll try some Jura red, a poulsard or trousseau. Can’t wait!