By Anthony Peregrine, Telegraph.co.uk. Source.
If and when I become a proper alcoholic, it won’t be the whisky, though that will have contributed. It will be the rosé wine. I am growing infatuated with it. I have become yet more besotted this summer. Last night, with friends, we had a couple of bottles to accompany barbecued lamb. I couldn’t have been happier.
This is not easy to admit. I am of a generation in which a man should no more pour something pink into his glass than he should slip a work by Liberace onto the turntable. I remember ordering a glass of rosé in an English bar some time ago. “You want peanuts with that,” asked a friend, “or candyfloss?” Today such idiocy has disappeared (except, obviously, wherever men gather) but sneers remain. They come now from wine buffs who are reluctant to admit that rosé wines can be serious wines.
There was one on French radio last week. With the great distaste, he allowed that rosé just about qualified as wine, though was scarcely the real thing – in other words, wasn’t red – as one might allow that Jeffrey Archer was readable, but wasn’t Flaubert. “Fun and frivolous” was his conclusion. Ignore him and his ilk. In England as in France, wine buffs wear bow-ties, use words like “gluggable” and are mainly insane. You have to be to go on the radio to talk about wine. No-one goes on the radio to talk about lemonade or garden peas.
Anyway, after long study, I’m convinced that frivolous and fun wine drinking is the most rewarding sort. What’s the point in any other, especially after the first three glasses? (The notion of “serious wines” sounds to me as suspicious as that of “important sausages” or “significant myrtle berries”.) And with rosé – crucially – there’s not just fun and frivolity. There’s a vital veneer of sensuality. Certainly, one may indeed look forward to red or white wines. But rosé is something else. it’s a rush. On a sunny day on a shady Provençal terrace, a bottle reflecting grey pink and beaded with condensation exerts an altogether more lascivious appeal. After a sip or two, you lust for more. Or you do if you’re me. You can’t keep your hands off it.
As a fellow at Provence’s Rosé Wine Institute (certainly it exists) once told me: “With rosé, there’s no need for long discussion. It’s an immediate physical pleasure.” Men of my generation have no time for any other. No wonder I’m hooked. Especially if it’s from Provence or Languedoc where, alongside sun, burgeoning fertility and perky ripeness, rosé quite fits the seductive frame. And so what if it’s pink? As my friend said, so is the Financial Times. Um. Yes. Well. That sounds about right. Cheers.