In the pink
For a few days in Advent I was drinking Provencal rosés. An odd choice in December, I admit, but if you were to take the pre-Christmas fast seriously, this would be the perfect drink. Rosé suits fish (obviously) in a variety of guises, cheese and vegetables, and because it is actually a red wine pretending to be white, it has the power to deal with other things. It also has no objection to pork or chicken. The only foods it really can’t stomach are dark red meats like lamb and beef or the higher, furrier sorts of game.
Provence makes some very good reds and whites. Its association with rosé was almost certainly borne of tourism both before and just after the Second World War when the south coast projected a life-style image of al fresco meals, grilled fish or bouillabaisse on the Canebière in Marseilles or in the old ports of Bandol or Cassis. It was above all the wine producer Ott that popularised rosé for the chic, moneyed travellers who frequented the Côte d’Azur, driving down from Paris in their sleek limousines and stopping at Michelin-starred restaurants along the Autoroute du Soleil for well lubricated lunches and dinners.
There were salades niçoises then, but there was little talk of the “Mediterranean Diet”. Long after the war and away from the coast at least, Provence ate pork and most cooking was still water-based. The olive trees were blighted by the cruel frost of 1956 and the only concentration of olive production to survive was in Nyons. The stress on Mediterranean food came with chefs like Roger Vergé, who opened his Moulin des Mougins near Cannes in 1969. The menu emphasised fresh flavours, flowers and vegetables. A huge transformation was effected by the introduction of the TGV. It used to take me eight hours to reach coastal Fréjus from the Gare de Lyon. From the mid-90s the journey to Marseille took just four hours (it’s now down to three). A quarter of a century ago it became feasible for ordinary people to flock to the sun.
France fell in love with the southern lifestyle. In the ‘80s you were hard-pressed (sic) to find decent olive oil in Paris beyond a few commercial brands like Puget. Good salads were made with walnut or hazelnut oil, bad ones with sunflower oil. Provencal/Mediterranean food meant a lighter, healthier diet that was more in keeping with “la nouvelle cuisine”. You were no longer required to eat three-hour lunches or subscribe to the formality of la cuisine bourgeoise. Provence didn’t have a monopoly on pink wine, mind you: there were famous pockets of production in Anjou, and there was Tavel in the southern Rhône; but Provence had a sophisticated image they couldn’t aspire to.
Pink wines are fashionable now, and they are made everywhere in the wine world, but Provence remains the benchmark. The Domaine du Grand Cros in the Massif des Maures behind Saint Tropez is owned by the Canadian Faulkner family. The wines are now made by the son of the house, Julian Faulkner. The basic 2019 Le Grand Clos rosé (£17.95 from Berry Brothers) is darker than many rosés now, which opt for the palest of salmon pinks. I found it worked very well with a hunk of parmesan cheese: there were aromas of pears, orange peel, but above all quinces.
Its big brother is ‘Jules’ which has well concealed power with a taste of strawberries and pears which impressed me mightily.
The Château de Saint Maur is also close to Saint Tropez, and one of the 23 Provencal estates classified like Bordeaux châteaux in 1947. The 2017 rosé is a nice big wine smelling of ground almonds and herbs with a playfulness about it on the palate. It develops well in the glass – so not one for immoderate swigging.
The 2019 Château Paradis Terre des Anges comes from further inland up by Aix. Again it is a big wine, made from Syrah and Mourvèdre and a bit of the green grape Rolle. The nose reminded me of boiled sweets and it was ever so slightly peppery on the palate but with a gorgeous, long, lemony acidity that performed wonders with a baked sea bass.
The Domaine la Sanglière comes from near the cute village perché of Bormes-les-Mimosas a few miles behind the coast at Le Lavandou. The 2019 Cuvée Spéciale has a nose and mouthful of mandarin oranges, making it somehow Christmassy. I once spent a fraught few days alone with my children in Bormes. Every small purchase for lunch or dinner required frogmarching them through burning heat across a disused football pitch and along a rock path littered with boar dung. When we finished our shopping, we’d sit down in the village square and have a well-merited aperitif. Had I only known about this wine, all my troubles would have been far away.
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