Rosés by definition should be crisp, dry and quite literally mouthwatering. Ask your retailer for wines that are every bit as good for less money. So if you’re paying more than $25 a bottle, you’re almost certainly paying too much more than $30, you’re being gouged, plain and simple, especially on overhyped lifestyle brands such as Domaines Ott, d’Esclans Rock Angel, and not least Miraval, the Brangelina Rosé from Cotes du Provence. Owing to demand, to pedigree, to consistency and excellence in winemaking, some wines are absolutely worth springing for, like some Bandol, some older Riojas, some Txakoli Rosés, the occasional California coastal pink.īut it’s worth remembering that a pink wine’s main function is simple refreshment, and that can be done on the cheap. Rosé is usually cheap to make, spends almost no time in the cellar, and is released early: the cost of production is among the lowest of all categories of wine. You owe it to yourself to check out the nervy Agiorgitikos from Greece, Blauburgunders from Germany, Blaufränkisches from Austria and Cab Francs from the Loire. If that’s your thing, have at it.)īut some lesser-known regions are taking advantage of demand, in places with almost no rosé tradition at all - and some of them are astonishingly good. There are more pink wines from classic places than ever before, and generally the quality has suffered, despite marketing that seems almost desperate (unless you’re fond of “Digression,” the Provencal pink from “Secret Indulgence” winery. The Pink Tsunami has set off unprecedented demand for rosés from traditional locales such as Provence, Rioja, Tavel, the Côtes du Rhône and so on. All I’m asking is that you pay attention to three things: place, price and texture. Feel free to pound the occasional can of plonk if you have to - even a can of Bud tastes good in the right circumstances. So let this column serve as a reset button for your rosé habits. And that leaves every serious producer of pink wine practically drowning in a market they took pains to establish. It is the lubricant of the would-be leisure class. brosé), a poolside accessory, an excuse for all-day day-drinking, a thing to pound, to pose with, to signify on social media how much fun you’re having. It’s a lifestyle ornament, a Cosmo made from grapes, a catchphrase, a punch line (rosé o’clock, rosé all day. People just want something cold and pretty and Instagrammable in their glass. A “five-case drop” (60 bottles) will barely get your average alfresco restaurant through the weekend.ĭemand is such that practically every winery in California is obliged to make one, whether or not they have the grapes, the proper site or the aptitude. Sommeliers offered cheap glass pours and unabashed promotions, and even then couldn’t give the stuff away. Ten years ago wine writers, myself included, were begging people to try the dry, refreshing rosés of France, Spain and elsewhere, to stop painting all pink wine with the white Zinfandel brush. Rosé has not just jumped the shark, it’s jumped the whale next to the shark and the cruise ship bearing down on the whale. Demand is as riotous as a Black Friday toy sale at Walmart, and a towering tsunami of pink mediocrity has flooded the market to meet it. I’m right, right? Because come on, we’re drinking rosé!Īs we enter pink wine season, we find ourselves in a category run amok. When? Whenever, all the time, I mean, it’s rosé o’clock somewhere, right? When you’ve got on your rosé colored glasses it’s rosé all day. at least, that it’s officially rosé season, that time of year when everyone, but everyone, is starting to think pink.ĭid I say think pink? Sorry, I meant drink pink.
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