Le Rosbif Writes: Forget "serious" wines and opt for the immediate rewards of rosé, advises Anthony Peregrine
If and when I become a proper alcoholic, it won't be the whisky, though that will have contributed. It will be the rosé wine. I am growing infatuated with it. I have become yet more besotted this summer. Last night, with friends, we had a couple of bottles to accompany barbecued lamb. I couldn't have been happier.
This is not easy to admit. I am of a generation in which a man should no more pour something pink into his glass than he should slip a work by Liberace onto the turntable. I remember ordering a glass of rosé in an English bar some time ago. "You want peanuts with that," asked a friend, "or candyfloss?" Today such idiocy has disappeared (except, obviously, wherever men gather) but sneers remain. They come now from wine buffs who are reluctant to admit that rosé wines can be serious wines.
This is not easy to admit. I am of a generation in which a man should no more pour something pink into his glass than he should slip a work by Liberace onto the turntable. I remember ordering a glass of rosé in an English bar some time ago. "You want peanuts with that," asked a friend, "or candyfloss?" Today such idiocy has disappeared (except, obviously, wherever men gather) but sneers remain. They come now from wine buffs who are reluctant to admit that rosé wines can be serious wines.
