The French used to consider rosé a wine fit only for tourists and peasants. Today, however, they’re even drinking it in Paris words: jamie ivey IT WAS MY own fault. Two summers ago, at the end of a blissful holiday in Provence, I’d successfully revived my GCSE-level French and mastered the basic linguistics, such as ordering a beer in a bar and asking for directions. Overconfidence soon got the better of me, however, and one afternoon I attempted a conversation with a local vigneron (vineyard owner), Madame Etienne, the owner of Château Etienne. I held my glass of rosé wine up to the sun and mumbled a few compliments about it. My comments were met with a smile and a torrent of unintelligible words. We chatted for a couple of minutes and I happily punctuated the discussion with knowing nods and Gallic shrugs to pretend I understood. As I said farewell, another large smile spread across Madame’s face. It was only when my wife, Tanya, a fluent French speaker who’d overheard everything, started laughing that I became worried. What had I agreed to? Amid the tangle of French words I’d discerned some sort of challenge and, bereft of understanding, had nodded dumbly in agreement. ”Do you know what you’ve just done?” asked Tanya, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’ve only bet you can find the palest rosé in France.” At the time, we had no idea that the subject of pale rosé vehemently divided Provençal vignerons. Some viewed it as flavourless water, while others insisted that it was far more refined than the darker, fruitier pink wines, making it the perfect homage to summer. In the hazy romantic heat of the Mediterranean the idea seemed exciting, but back in London the quest faded from our minds. Until, at the beginning of the following summer, a lavender-scented reminder letter arrived from the vigneron. Tanya had recently left her job in television marketing and my legal career was in freefall, so what did we have to lose? We rented out our flat and headed for France. We started in Paris, and plotted our route with the help of restaurateur and general bon viveur, Tim Johnston, who in between serving plates of steaming food in his bistro, Juveniles, gave us all his contacts in the wine trade. Then, relying on Tim’s list, and the local knowledge which we garnered from bars, boulangeries and boucheries en route, we headed south. Our quest took us from the immaculately trimmed and trained vines of the Champagne region to haphazard Provençal domaines, where the grapes took a wash every time a wave crashed over the rocks. Along the way there were plenty of wild goose chases. We heard of a rare rosé which was made to the south of Paris in the Champenois village of Ricey. The colour of Rosé de Ricey was supposed to be the same as the setting sun and it was drunk by Louis XIV’s stonemasons when they built Versailles. We quickly discovered just why it was so popular with the King’s stonemasons: it was as potent as any port. Unfortunately, its colour was like no setting sun I’d ever seen – it was an appropriately regal purple. Having learnt that the French described extremely pale rosé as gris, or grey, wine, we headed to the Jura mountains, a region which, according to our wine encyclopaedia, specialised in the wine. There, we discovered all sorts of peculiar wines – vin jaune, a yellow wine that was sealed in oak barrels for years until a layer of yeast formed across the top, vin de paille, where the grapes were dried on straw – but not a drop of rosé. We came to realise that France was in the grip of a rosé revolution. Traditionally, pink wine had been made as little more than an afterthought. Vignerons could concentrate the flavour in their red wine by bleeding off a little of the juice at an early stage. These off-takes became the vineyard’s rosé and in France, pink wine became notorious for causing hangovers. It was fine for tourists, was the attitude, but the educated drinker stayed clear. A Parisian wine connoisseur we met epitomised this attitude. H e described drinking his favourite red wine as ”making love”. But when we mentioned rosé he went quiet and finally conceded he would only drink some with a hot curry. After all, it wouldn’t matter which wine he was drinking if his mouth was on fire. However, in the last decade vignerons have begun to concentrate more on their rosé. Production standards improved, and in France today, although sales of red and white wine are falling, rosé sales are rising. While the average old man in the street will rub his stomach suspiciously and announce: “Je bois pas le rosé” (I don’t drink rosé), it has, in fact, become the aperitif of choice for the young. Female consumers are also driving the trend. While men might see pink wine as effeminate, women are attracted by the colour. This reasoning might seem spurious. But when Gilles Masson, the handsome director of France’s national centre for rosé, looked my wife straight in the eye and told her that “pink was the colour of love,” it was hard to dispute. Eventually, after six months of searching, we thought we’d succeeded in finding France’s palest rosé. But would Madame Etienne agree? As the heavy sun dipped beneath the hills, we poured our palest wine – the special cru from Château St Marguerite, near La Londe – and watched with delight as Madame Etienne shook her head in disbelief. Had we indeed found the palest rosé in France? Well, that would be telling. Extremely Pale Rosé: The Quest for the Palest Rosé in France by Jamie Ivey (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, £12.99)

Five of the Best

Some of the rosés Ivey encountered in France and some to try in the UK France Champagne – Vilmart & Cie, 4 Rue de La République, 51500 Rilly La Montagne; +33 (0)3 26 03 40 01 Bordeaux – Château Lauduc, Maison Grandeau Lauduc, 5 Avenue de Lauduc, F33370 Tresses; +33 (0)5 57 34 11 82 Loire – Domaine Pascal and Nicolas Reverdy, Maimbray, 18300, Sury-en-Vaux; +33 (0)2 48 79 37 31 Provence –Château La Dorgonne, Domaine De La Dorgonne, 84280, La Tour d’Aigues; +33 (0)4 90 07 50 18 Rhone – Domaine de La Mordorée, 30126 Tavel; +33 (0)4 66 50 00 75 Britain Campo Viejo Rosé 2005 – Made in Spain’s La Rioja from 100% Tempranillo grapes Lindauer Rosé – A sparkling rosé produced from Chardonnay and Pinot Noir grapes Montana East Coast Rosé – A deep pink rosé from New Zealand, made from Pinotage and Merlot grapes Chamarré Signature Blend RR1 – A blend of different French varietals, including Grenache and Shiraz Torres San Medin Cabernet Sauvignon Rosé – A dry rosé made from 100% Cabernet Sauvignon grapes grown in Chile

How rosé is made

It’s a common misconception that rosé is made by mixing red and white wines. Although this method is used in the production of most pink Champagnes, it’s forbidden throughout the rest of France. Instead, rosés take their colour from the skin of the grapes. The longer the juice stays in contact with the skin, the darker the colour of the rosé. The palest rosés are made by pressing the grapes the moment they arrive from the fields. The time between picking and pressing is enough for the wine to take on a gentle pink hue.

From Jamie’s journal…

TRICKS OF THE TRADE IT WAS AN UNUSUAL choice – a cramped open kitchen blazed heat into the room, old posters were pinned haphazardly to the wall, and the battered mismatched tables and chairs would have been more appropriate around a swimming pool. The only thing missing from the floor was some sawdust. But it was packed. We managed to squeeze on the end of a long table and sat down to look at the menu. It was a little strange. Alongside French classics were dishes such as Spanish omelette and Aberdeen Angus Steak. The wine list was even more surprising. Spanish cava was offered alongside Champagne, Australian Semillion and a German Riesling were the alternatives to a white burgundy from Marsannay. And Italian Montalcino, Spanish Rioja and Californian Zinfandel outnumbered the two French reds. A slightly dishevelled, red-faced man emerged from the kitchen. His shirt had escaped from his trousers and his glasses were bent out of shape. “Welcome to Juveniles. Can I get you a drink?” The French was too understandable for him to be French. Taking a chance, I asked in English for some rosé and a broad grin spread across the man’s face. “Of course, le pink pour le printemps.” Leaning over us, he plucked a bottle of pale rosé from the rack behind our heads. “I was wondering if you could help us,” I continued. “This might seem a bit strange but we’re trying to win a bet and find the palest rosé in France.” He pulled up a chair, introduced himself as Tim, and signalled to the waitress to bring another glass. Rather than leave us to look at the menu, Tim topped up all the glasses and called for his address book – most of the pages were bent backward, Post-It notes protruded at irregular angles and wine stains smudged the ink at various points. But Tim didn’t let this put him off, and while we ordered, he searched for contacts. If a number was lost in a merlot stain, he reached for his mobile and called three or four friends until one of them was able to produce it. We moved from rosé to white to red as Tim chose a new wine to go with each course, pouring us all large glasses as he talked. “There’s not a great wine maker in France who hasn’t learnt his trade by producing a good rosé. It’s the hardest wine to make, much more complex than red or white. France is making some fantastic rosé now, and it’s real wine that can accompany food. Anyone who is still snobbish about it is plain wrong.” Juveniles, 4 Rue de Richelieu, Paris; +33 (0)1 4297 4649 A SHADE CONFUSED TOULOUSE: THE SEARCH was on for Bordeaux rosé. We met Sophie two hours later just outside the village of Quinsac and she took us to see a local producer of clairet, Hervé Grandeau. We were both a little jittery with excitement. To begin with, it seemed promising. Hervé spent the first 20 minutes explaining in technical detail how important colour was in a wine. Before harvesting, vignerons apparently measured the anthocyiane in the skin of the grapes. This chemical and its extractability directly affected the colour of the resulting wine. It was paramount that the vignerons got their calculations right because a delegation from the Bordeaux appellation committee actually inspected the wine at the vineyard. If the colour wasn’t right, it couldn’t be called a clairet. Everything seemed auspicious. I couldn’t help but think that ‘clairet’ must describe a nearly clear wine, and I was excited that a committee of experts was prepared to judge a wine solely by its colour. “On tasting you should detect wild strawberries and raspberries, and a very slight bubble,” said Hervé. “At meals there is no need to order separate bottles of red and white, clairet fulfils both purposes. It is much more than a rosé,” he continued. It was at this stage my first doubts began to creep in. The language Hervé was using to describe clairet was similar to that employed by Christophe Delorme at Domaine Mordorée. And Tavel was one of the darkest rosés we’d encountered. As Hervé poured us each a glass, I had a real sense of déj� vu. It was Rosé de Ricey all over again – a rosé that could have been sold as a port. This time rather than drive 50 kilometres south from Reims to Ricey, we’d travelled over five times that distance, but the result was the same. We were luckless and had undoubtedly discovered France’s darkest rosé. Château Lauduc, Maison Grandeau Lauduc, 5 Avenue de Lauduc, F33370 Tresse; +33 (0)5 57 34 11 82 Reader offer Readers of voyager may order copies of Extremely Pale Rosé for the special price of £10.99 (rrp £12.99), including free postage & packing (UK only; for overseas add £1.60). Call +44 (0)1903 828 503 and quote reference JA75.