Dining Features Article |
The French Evolution
France woos wine lovers with bargain buys.
By Anthony Giglio
The first glass of wine I poured for the woman who would become my wife was from a bottle of Louis Jadot Mâcon-Villages, a nutty, minerally chardonnay with just a kiss of oak that was one of the least-expensive vins on the wine list. I’d like to think Antonia and I fell in love over that bottle, but that would be revisionist history—she waited seven years to marry me. What did bloom back then was my love affair with French wines, thanks to the bargains on that long-ago list.
Naturally, my taste has evolved. Though I’ve revisited those formative French wines, I’ve largely pursued bigger, more complex concoctions that, naturally, are more expensive. But recently, all that has changed. More and more, I’m finding tempting French deals competing with New World “best buys.”
Why? In part it’s the result of the utterly embarrassing and useless U.S. embargo of all things French—which I liken to Prohibition in both logic and effectiveness—after the two governments locked horns for the gazillionth time over Middle East politics and “freedom fries.” It’s also part of a longer decline in popularity, thanks to straight-talking Americans’ practical impatience with all those fussy French wine laws that render many labels indecipherable.
Things got bad. Really bad. And last year, France, le vin capital du monde, revealed that, for the first time in its history producers would begin distilling some higher-pedigree wines into fuel by way of ethanol. That’s right: With winemakers taking to the streets to protest how low prices had fallen—in some stores wine was cheaper than water—France asked the European Union to allow winemakers to distill 40 million gallons of the revered Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée wine. By the end of last year, wine that would have filled 133 million bottles had been turned into clear ethanol, sold to oil refineries, and used as an additive in gasoline. That means, the New York Times reported, that “by sometime [this] year, some Americans may be pumping their cars full of gas that includes a bit of chardonnay or pinot noir.”
Mon Dieu! It was time to take action—and here’s where we get to the good (and very reasonably priced) stuff. The Gallo family, of California fame, partnered with French wine cooperative Sieur d’Arques in the Languedoc region, home to France’s vin ordinaire, and introduced three types of Red Bicyclette (chardonnay, merlot, and syrah), with a charming label featuring a beret-sporting Frenchman riding his red bike, and a little dog with a baguette in its mouth. Within six months of its debut in the summer of 2004, Red Bicyclette had sold nearly 1.7 million bottles of the stuff, slowing an eight-year decline in French wine sales in the United States.
The action is taking place in satellite regions such as Languedoc in the south and the Jura in the western Pyrenees. While we were watching California cabernet and big-pedigree Bordeaux prices go through the roof, winemakers like Robert Mondavi and the Rothschilds were sniffing around the relatively unknown south of France to polish their rustic wines at bargain prices. Mondavi got blocked (by anti-American locals), but the Rothschilds succeeded and restored Châteaux d’Aussières, now making magnificent, juicy reds from Corbières. What’s different about these wines is their flavor profile: Because the southern climate is warmer, the wines tend to be fruitier, juicier, a tad rustic (spicy, chewy, inky), and ready to drink now. In short, they have New World characteristics, making them far more competitive than their highfalutin brethren. Many also list the grape on the label (thank you!), and most are priced between $10 and $20.
Spots in the north, too, are benefiting. The Loire Valley, for example, home to magnificent Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé (a.k.a. sauvignon blanc), is (finalement) emerging as a competitor to New Zealand for mouth-watering sauvignon blancs. At Newbury Street’s Bauer Wine & Spirits, there’s a Célestin Blondeau for $8 that tastes like melon and apricot, and a minerally, crisp Henri Bourgeois “Petit Bourgeois” for $10. “People drink these as entry-level wines, then move up,” says owner Howie Rubin.
So this year, buy your valentine a case for about the same money you’d waste on roses. I know Antonia won’t mind. That’s why she married me.
Naturally, my taste has evolved. Though I’ve revisited those formative French wines, I’ve largely pursued bigger, more complex concoctions that, naturally, are more expensive. But recently, all that has changed. More and more, I’m finding tempting French deals competing with New World “best buys.”
Why? In part it’s the result of the utterly embarrassing and useless U.S. embargo of all things French—which I liken to Prohibition in both logic and effectiveness—after the two governments locked horns for the gazillionth time over Middle East politics and “freedom fries.” It’s also part of a longer decline in popularity, thanks to straight-talking Americans’ practical impatience with all those fussy French wine laws that render many labels indecipherable.
Things got bad. Really bad. And last year, France, le vin capital du monde, revealed that, for the first time in its history producers would begin distilling some higher-pedigree wines into fuel by way of ethanol. That’s right: With winemakers taking to the streets to protest how low prices had fallen—in some stores wine was cheaper than water—France asked the European Union to allow winemakers to distill 40 million gallons of the revered Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée wine. By the end of last year, wine that would have filled 133 million bottles had been turned into clear ethanol, sold to oil refineries, and used as an additive in gasoline. That means, the New York Times reported, that “by sometime [this] year, some Americans may be pumping their cars full of gas that includes a bit of chardonnay or pinot noir.”
Mon Dieu! It was time to take action—and here’s where we get to the good (and very reasonably priced) stuff. The Gallo family, of California fame, partnered with French wine cooperative Sieur d’Arques in the Languedoc region, home to France’s vin ordinaire, and introduced three types of Red Bicyclette (chardonnay, merlot, and syrah), with a charming label featuring a beret-sporting Frenchman riding his red bike, and a little dog with a baguette in its mouth. Within six months of its debut in the summer of 2004, Red Bicyclette had sold nearly 1.7 million bottles of the stuff, slowing an eight-year decline in French wine sales in the United States.
The action is taking place in satellite regions such as Languedoc in the south and the Jura in the western Pyrenees. While we were watching California cabernet and big-pedigree Bordeaux prices go through the roof, winemakers like Robert Mondavi and the Rothschilds were sniffing around the relatively unknown south of France to polish their rustic wines at bargain prices. Mondavi got blocked (by anti-American locals), but the Rothschilds succeeded and restored Châteaux d’Aussières, now making magnificent, juicy reds from Corbières. What’s different about these wines is their flavor profile: Because the southern climate is warmer, the wines tend to be fruitier, juicier, a tad rustic (spicy, chewy, inky), and ready to drink now. In short, they have New World characteristics, making them far more competitive than their highfalutin brethren. Many also list the grape on the label (thank you!), and most are priced between $10 and $20.
Spots in the north, too, are benefiting. The Loire Valley, for example, home to magnificent Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé (a.k.a. sauvignon blanc), is (finalement) emerging as a competitor to New Zealand for mouth-watering sauvignon blancs. At Newbury Street’s Bauer Wine & Spirits, there’s a Célestin Blondeau for $8 that tastes like melon and apricot, and a minerally, crisp Henri Bourgeois “Petit Bourgeois” for $10. “People drink these as entry-level wines, then move up,” says owner Howie Rubin.
So this year, buy your valentine a case for about the same money you’d waste on roses. I know Antonia won’t mind. That’s why she married me.
Originally published in Boston magazine, February 2006
 |
Change text size |
 |
Print |
 |
Email |
 |
Write a comment |
User comments
- No users have posted comments on this article.
