Or so wrote Gertrude Stein. If you change the “e” for and “é”, I pretty much agree. The trouble and strife is away and I am trying not to drink, at least not profusely. With the girls there have been barbecues, and so inevitably rosé (with a half bottle of 2012 Charvin Chateauneuf du Pape thrown in for good measure).
My decision is not finite, but I find little to excite me in rosé wine; in the ten years I worked with him, about the only thing I ever agreed upon with my erstwhile colleague Anders was that the two essential qualities of a “great rosé” were that it be pink, and very, very cold.
Sure, there are certainly rosés with an elegant, fruit laced bouquet and a filigree style in the mouth. But mostly it’s just pink wine, the runt of the litter and a lowly expression of the capacity of reds or whites. I challenge anyone to show me a rosé that really excites, sends the palate into overdrive and challenges the senses.
A rosé seems nothing more than an occasional(ly) pleasant partner to summer food; it’s interesting that in Marseilles it is systematically served with ice.
I have had chateau owners offer me their “grand cru” rosés for me to discover; discoveries which, alas, have never been transformed into orders. The discovery has never been more thant just another rosé. Thirty quid or more for a rosé? Frankly, I’ll buy something else.
The old American term for rosé just about somes it up: Blush.