More than forty years in the wine business have taught me that I don’t know as much as I once thought I did, especially when it comes to consumers. I am always surprised at what they like and what they don’t. I can recall a spirited argument three decades ago in which I prophesized that Americans were about to embrace Riesling as a grape, led by chefs and sommeliers. Years later, I’m still waiting, alongside a lot of Riesling producers.
The so-called natural wine movement has caught me by surprise too, particularly as no one knows or agrees upon what a “natural” wine is. Interestingly, the government has recently jumped into the argument surrounding organic wines, but that’s a confusing mess for another column.
My inability to predict wine preferences is lifelong. I remember in the 80s being convinced that wine coolers were a flash in the pan, and I suppose they were—if you consider a decade or so and tens of millions of cases sold to be a flash.
So too has the category of rosé wines been a mystery. Back in my early days, rosés were sweet and usually labeled as White Zinfandel. They usually were based upon Zinfandel, even though there was a scandal with a large wine company that bottled their Grenache as White Zin. Connoisseurs sniffed at the wine even while consumers lapped them up. So it seemed that the rosé category would forever be tainted, and then one day (it seemed like one day) about a decade ago, everybody started drinking dry rosé.
I swear I have no idea why things changed; it’s as if everyone gathered around the water cooler and decided that from here on rosé could be sweet or dry and could be made from any sort of grape, and everybody stopped being judgmental about it. It’s like when you walk by the grocery counters and the clerks are talking to each other, bored and idle, and when you arrive back there with your cart full, every line is slammed with shoppers. It’s a mystery.
But with regards to rosé, it’s a beautiful mystery. Where once rosé was one overwhelming style and dominant grape, now diversity is blooming. Any red grape is fair game because all but a few grapes have clear juice despite their red color (it resides in the skins). Only by steeping the grape skins with the juice does the wine gain color, and by limiting that steeping time to an hour or two, the color is pale, pink, and pretty.
Missouri wine drinkers are enjoying this transformation as much as anyone. Our red grapes, especially Chambourcin and St. Vincent, are great for rosés. Even Norton (or Cynthiana, if you prefer) can be made as a rosé, although it is one of those rare types that actually has color in its juice. Like all rosés now, they can be sweet or bone dry. Ask your tasting room server or your wine store clerk which one is which. But chill it down, and you will have a refreshing experience.
I still don’t understand how this happened, but like all wine drinkers, I’m grateful.
This article originally ran in the July/August 2024 edition of the Missouri Life magazine.
