In case you haven’t heard Rosé is back. Just like silver stereo components or flooded jeans, you can always expect this varietal to become hip again every five to ten years. I’m not buying the hype. Just like I will never, ever buy boxed wine (not that I have anything against value, mind you!)
Normally I prefer to write about the good, the things I like – no one wants to hear about the cantankerous, unless, of course, it’s draped in clever satire a la Colbert. But something must’ve got in my craw — craw, no claw! — this week, and so it goes.
First, if you’re a fan of Rosé, I say power to you. I really should keep an open mind. Wine is personal, and if you like something and I don’t then we should celebrate and learn from the differences just as much as when we savor our shared favorites.
However, I take exception to those who afford the pinky superstar status.
I’m talking Mila Kunis levels here. Everyone is saying you need to get your hands on it.
The argument goes something like this:
— to truly understand wine, and perhaps be considered among the elite oenophiles, you need to “get” Rosé
— by getting in touch with your effeminate side and drinking vino that would be right at home in the House of Barbie, Rosé helps the avante garde sophisticate feel at one with the world
— if everyone’s drinking Chardonnay, and Sauvignon Blanc, then you need to drink something different, if only because the perception will be that you are a serious oenophile (lunch darling, you, me Spago)
To which I respond: bullocks, bonkers, bullocks.
Then again, I could be wrong. How about this, then: why not suggest that you need to understand and drink Napa Cabernets to truly understand fine wines? Or more apropos, the great Bordeauxs?
Let’s not stop there.
I declare that to be considered really worldly when it comes to wine, you need to spend five years digging trenches next to Russian vineyards, wearing a bow tie and greeting passerby’s with a scowl and a half-hearted Queen wave.
