Paean to the Pink Stuff

Once again we are being told that rosé is making a comeback.  It is a refrain that has been repeated over much of the past decade.  And I continue to wonder why.  I was certainly never aware that the pink stuff, in all its variations, had gone into retirement.
And while there has certainly been a fair amount of sugary and occasionally barely palatable pink plonk around, there have also always been rosé wines — whether labelled as such or as “blanc de noir” — that have been pure quaffing pleasure. 
The specialists and winemakers may argue about the best — even the “right” — way to produce a wine that is neither red nor white;  they may even join the marketers in a quibble about what to call it.  I’m happy to stick with the generic, rosé.  This French term has long been adopted into English and other languages.
That many people still regard rosé as — in the words of Cape wine master Allan Mullins — “the lightweight stepchild of the wine family” amazes me.  Surely no serious wine lover could hold such a view?
Mind you, I too once turned up my nose at the mere mention of rosé.  But that was a long time ago and when I had only just graduated to appreciate a good Cab.   Full of youthful ignorance I developed pretentions about my palate and newly proclaimed sophistication as a true wine lover.
This was perhaps unsurprisingly since I had reached that stage via an earlier proclaimed sophistication which saw me order and drink nothing but that sweet Portuguese import, Mateus Rosé.  It was certainly a cut above student days guzzling (the only appropriate term to use in the circumstances) the then ubiquitous “Liebies”. 
More senior readers may recall the days when — horror of horrors — Lieberstein dispensers sat on the counters of men-only bars, the contents sprayed against the top of a clear plastic container.  Today, such delivery systems are reserved for the likes of Slush Puppies and fruit juices.
My awakening to the wonders of rosé came in the south of France, in the ancient town of St Gilles on the eastern fringe of the Camargue.  My wife and I had been paddling our five-metre long kayak through the canals and waterways of France (another, and much longer tale), when we eventually went ashore in St Gilles.
It was a hot day and one that had been extremely fraught as we battled to avoid ships on the River Rhone, fearful that we would miss the entrance to the canal system at Beaucaire and be swept downstream to Marseilles.  But we made the canal entrance and entered the ancient wooden doors of the lock, only to have to battle with our paddles a large water rat that seemed obsessed with boarding our low-lying vessel. We finally emerged into the calm canal system badly in need of  some R & R.  St Gilles beckoned.
On our way through France, from the Pas de Calais and through some of the great wine producing regions we sampled  when and wherever possible, the vin ordinaire of various districts (our budget did not run to anything more exotic).  The price and the quality varied greatly, but no thought was spared for wine of any complexion other than red.  After all, white was Liebies and rose, Mateus.
And then we struck St Gilles, with its magnificent 12th Century church overlooking the town square.  There we met a writer researching a feature on “Roman architecture — the style, not the period” of which the Romanesque church of St Gilles is a classic example.  Our new-found friend was intrigued by our kayak expedition, and appalled by my disdain for rosé wine in this, one of the centuries-old centres for producing the pink stuff.
So began a delightful, educational and lazy afternoon sampling frosted glasses of the crisp pink nectar that had once been reserved for kings and popes.   I do not know whether the wine we drank that day was produced by saignée — the “bleeding” of juice from the skins of red grapes soon after pressing — or by blends of red and white or by another method.  Nor did I care — and still don’t.
A great or good wine qualifies whatever its complexion.  And, so far as I am concerned, there can be little better on a hot summer’s day than to relax with a goblet of chilled, crisp, yet mouthy rosé.  That seems to me to be as true now as it was on that afternoon in St Gilles or any similar afternoon over the centuries since rosé first made its appearance. 

Terry Bell is a free lance writer and columnist for business report