Rosé—why bother?
Most rosé is innocuous, which explains its popularity.
I emphasize the word most in that sweeping statement and, of course, I am excluding rosé Champagne. Certainly, there is some high-quality still rosé on the market, such as those from Domaine Tempier or Château Pradeaux, to name just two. Indeed, the high-quality rosé category has grown over the years, as Elizabeth Gabay MW, will, I’m sure, point out as producers have moved away from the saignée method of making rosé. But fundamentally, rosé, as in “I’ll have a glass of rosé,” has replaced “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay” as shorthand for “I want a glass of wine—I don’t care to know anything else about it” in North America.
Let me be clear, I don’t have anything against rosé. In general, they are soundly made. However, when given the opportunity to drink rosé, I’d almost always prefer to drink something else—more on that later. So, in this debate, I’m not trying to bash rosé, I’m just attempting to explain why I think it’s popular.
Wine is complicated. Rosé is not.
In a nutshell, that’s why rosé is so popular. People want to drink wine because it’s au courant and seems sophisticated, but most people don’t want to expend the energy to learn about wine. Wine, in general, is complex and intimidating. Knowing about vintages, aging requirements, geographic names, producers, labels with foreign words are just a few of the things that make wine complicated. Ordering wine in a restaurant can be a nightmare. Is it from a good vintage? Is it ready to drink? Is it made by a good producer? Not to mention, how do you pronounce Vacqueryas? Most people are just not that interested in spending the requisite time to learn about wine, they simply want a “glass of wine.” Enter rosé.
Rosé is simple. It’s easy to order—I’ll have a glaass of rosé. No vintages to worry about, and it’s a word everyone can pronounce.
Assessing wine can be intimidating, and the reaction of people when you ask them what they think of a wine reminds me of seeing a deer in your headlights. It’s odd that people should be frightened to assess a wine; people easily critique movies or restaurants, but they’re scared to comment on wine for fear of “saying the wrong thing.” People can’t adequately articulate smells and tastes, so describing a wine is problematic for most. Furthermore, is that tannin-induced bitterness a good thing or a fault?
Enter rosé. It’s simple to assess. The main criterion for its quality is color—and everyone can identify and describe colors. Moreover, the pretty pink against most any background makes it Instagram-ready.
In North America, much, perhaps most, wine is consumed as an aperitif, without food. That pattern of consumption requires a low-acid, round wine. The acidity in wine is critical to keep it fresh and lively through the entire meal. In contrast, without food, people gravitate to low acid wines that don’t scratch the palate. These “aperitif wines” also need to lack power or concentration.
Enter rosé. It’s simple to drink. Even if not subtly sweet, most rosé are round so there’s none of the aggressive acidity to deal with. And rosé is the antithesis of power.
In short, rosé is popular because it is easy. It’s easy to order. It’s easy to drink. It’s easy to assess. There are no bitter tannins, there’s no mouth-cleansing acidity. Mostly, there’s little taste, another plus for consumers who don’t like strong avors. Rosé is uncomplicated, unlike many wines.
An added attraction is that rosé is always served cold, and we Americans like cold drinks. A big complaint from Americans traveling to Europe in the summer is the lack of ice in drinks!
To me, rosé is akin to mindless television after a long, stressful day at work. Sometimes you just don’t want to think—you want to relax. Rosé is perfect in that setting because it doesn’t require any eort. Rosé provides everything consumers love about wine: social lubrication, the alcohol-induced buzz, and the relaxation it induces. All without straining the brain.
Now, when I say why bother with rosé, I’m speaking to the small, but ever-increasing, fraction of wine drinkers who enjoy wine for everything it has to oer—its complexities, its subtleties, its history, its story, its expressiveness, and how it changes with age or even in an hour as it sits in the glass.
Those captivated by wine love its near magical qualities, like the magic of terroir—why do two wines made from the same grape by the same winemaker taste dierent? Why does Tempranillo taste so dierent when planted in the Rioja compared to Ribera del Duero? What accounts for the avor development as it sits in the glass or rests in the cellar? Fruity avors morph into something else—earthy or leafy ones. Call them what you like, but where did they come from? I’m not speaking only of raried Bordeaux, or Premier, or Grand Cru Burgundy.
The same magic is true for Muscadet or Beaujolais, not prestigious appellations by any stretch. The variation of Muscadet depending on locale, Clisson versus Le Pallet, for example, is extraordinary. The range of the variation is equally dramatic in Beaujolais. Wines from each of the ten crus made by the same producer are unique because of where the Gamay grape was grown. Even within a single cru, wines from the dierent lieux-dits of Moulin-àVent that Château des Jacques or Château des Moulin-à-Vent bottle are unique. But appreciating those magical qualities takes eort
and study. Most people who drink wine don’t want to make that investment. They just want a glass of wine. I get it. Enter rosé.
Certainly, on a hot day in the sun-drenched south of France a cool rosé is a welcome addition to a salad Niçoise. And sometimes, as noted West Coast wine writer Blake Gray points out, even wine enthusiasts occasionally want an “uncomplicated” wine—a rosé— when having BBQ in the summer. I understand that, but I argue that there are a bunch of other wines that are far more interesting and deliver more character than rosé. How about chilling a light red, such as a simple Beaujolais or Beaujolais-Villages (wines from the crus don’t take a chill so well)? How about a Valpolicella or Bardolino, or a Côtes du Ventoux? Why not a Côtes du Rhone or a light Barbera from Piedmont?
And what’s wrong with white wines? How about a Pinot de Picpoul? Possibly a Vermentino from Sardinia or from Liguria? There are also a bevy of Greek whites, such as Assyrtiko, Malagouzia, or Moscholero that will do the trick, as well as an Albariño from Rías Baixas or a Verdejo from Rueda. Maybe take a look at a German Kabinett from the Mosel-Saar-Ruwer. As a group, these are all refreshing wines that deliver more pleasure than a rosé whether enjoyed at the table or as a stand-alone aperitive.
True, you need to have spent some energy to learn about these hard-to-pronounce, less well-known grapes or areas, which is why, “I’ll have a glass of rosé” is so popular.