The First Rosés of Spring

I'll let you in on a little secret.  A deep, dark secret, actually-at least for a wine drinker.

That secret?  The first wine I drank-and really enjoyed-was a rosé.  And not just any rosé: a white zinfandel.*  You know, the wine your mother likes to drink.  By the jug.

One may compare this to, say, making out with the ugly kid from high school: no matter how suave and polished we are now, we'll always have that past moment of youthful indiscretion as a source of embarrassment.

And, just like acne-ridden tales of misguided adolescent concupiscence, it is important to explain.  This was the fall of 2000; I was visiting my future alma mater Berkeley and staying with some high school friends.  We were at Cafe Giovanni's, a semi-decent Italian restaurant on Shattuck Avenue, and heck, we wanted something fancy.  We wanted wine with our spaghetti.

For some reason, I was the one who was tasked with picking the wine.  I had no idea what to order.  I didn't start drinking large amounts of alcohol until that spring, and even then I certainly wasn't drinking wine.  So I picked based on the only producer I recognized: Robert Mondavi.  White zinfandel.

From what I remember, it was good, it was quaffable, and-gasp!-I wasn't even carded!  I was thrilled.

Nonetheless, I'm happy and relieved to report that I've graduated from white zinfandel to discover the world of refreshing rosés waiting for my tastebuds.  And liver.

You might think that all rosés are the same.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Even within the broad category of "pink wines" there are many levels of variation.  For instance, which region?  Which grape?  Still or sparkling?  Dry, off-dry, or sweet?

An easy way to start off is to go to Trader Joe's where you'll be able to find two great, inexpensive, and imminently drinkable rosés.  The first is perhaps more complex: the Marqués de Cáceres rosé (approx. $7.99), which is made from 80% tempranillo and 20% grenache.  A Spanish wine, it has clean, bracing acidity and a substantial mouthfeel.  It is refreshing and berry fruity.  It avoids tasting cheap, weak, thin, and/or plasticine, qualities possessed by far too many rosés.

While you're there, you can pick up a few bottles of the La Ferme Julien rosé ($4.99-$5.99, depending on which TJ's you go to) which is from the Côtes du Ventoux region of France.  It consists of 50% grenache, 20% syrah, 15% carignan, and 15% cinsault and is surprisingly good.  It's more refreshing than distinctive, perhaps, but that's more than one could say for any number of rosés.

Those first two wines are on the lighter side of the spectrum.  If you want intense, you could go to Cairo Wine & Liquor in Dupont and pick up the 2007 Maipe "Rosé of Malbec" ($9.99) from Mendoza, Argentina.  This is a deep ruby color, almost as dark as some lighter reds.  It has a bit of a rubber boot nose, but this gives way to some nice berry fruit and ends on notes of raisin.  Again: intense.

If you don't want to get hammered by your rosé but want, say, more austerity, you could go back to the Old World and try the rosé from Domaine Tempier.  It hails from Provence (specifically Bandol), France and is dry, refined, and full of roses and pepper.  It will also set you back about $40-though way back in the day this Kermit Lynch import used to be the house rosé at the world-famous Chez Panisse in Berkeley, CA.

My favorite rosé by far is the "Rosé of Syrah" from the California-based Ampelos Cellars (approximately $17.99).  It's like spring in a glass-well-made, with strawberry bursting forth like some fruit-filled cornucopia.  While I've only been able to find this wine in California, there's a possibility that a few cases will find their way to The Wine Specialist on M Street.  (I'm working on it!)

With so many great rosés to choose from, let loose your scarves, take off your rain boots, and drink to the spring.  And remember: put a chill on your bottle before you do!

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* People might turn up their noses at white zinfandel, but the white zinfandel craze of the 1970s is the reason why California is now a leader in artisanal, absolutely delicious zinfandel: demand for white zinfandel kept the previously unprofitable old-vine zinfandel plots from being torn up and replanted with, say, chardonnay or something.  Next time you're enjoying the 2006 Hartford Family Winery Russian River Valley zinfandel, or the 2006 Ridge "Three Valleys" zinfandel blend (both excellent and both available in DC for approximately $38 and $22, respectively), raise a toast to the pink savior, redeemer of the zinful.