Regional wine styles which have moved from their own character to pale ‘Provence style’, contribute to a decline in the diversity of styles. Chiaretto di Bardolino and Bordeaux rosés being classic examples of wines which are going down the Provence-style path.

The problem comes back to colour. Always. Often, I’ve tasted rosé with professionals or consumers who cannot move from the colour question. But I would suggest that – while much rosé produced is merely a puff of pink hype – this wine style also has an intellectual and artistic beauty that is ignored by too many wine aficionados.

Stepping back from the focus on pinkness, seeing rosé as a wine reveals a different world. There are red flags – high yields, overly early harvesting, minimal skin-contact for minimal colour, and cold fermentation, which creates the palest of delicate rosés in a relatively uniform style. 

Critics who condemn rosé as being all hype and no substance will often claim their preferred exceptions to be Tavel (appellation generically), Domaine Tempier from Bandol – always Tempier with no knowledge of other Bandol estates – Tondonia from Rioja, Gar-rus from Chateau d’Esclans in Provence and a range of oddments. Interestingly, these are all quite powerful rosés, many of which have been in oak, generally with ageing potential and mostly not pale. These critics do not limit their experience of an appellation’s reds or whites to one wine before forming an assessment.
The hype around colour obfuscates the search for these more complex rosés. Try googling “interesting rosé”, “complex rosé”, “different rosé”, “natural rosé”, “darker rosé” – or any adjective other than “pale rosé.” All largely give a similar listing of the same rosés which dominate the market. No wonder it is difficult to expand the market for more diverse styles.

It is important to define what a rosé is. If defined by colour alone – meaning the wine should be pink – many are so pale they could be defined as blanc de noir or white wine. At the other extreme, the copper onion-skin tones of some oaked or aged rosés closely resemble orange wines. And a few rosés are dark enough to appear a light red. L’Irréductible from Domaine de la Bégude in Bandol is dark cherry pink with lots of intense fruit, the complete antithesis of pale pink, but backed by the conviction of the winemaker that this is the best expression of Mourvedre rosé, succeeds. 
My definition of rosé is based on two questions: Does the pro-ducer call it rosé? Is it made from a blend that includes red/black/gris grapes that do not finish fermentation in contact with their skins? (Rosé des Riceys is a prime example of a rosé which includes a partial fermentation on the skins). 

Good winemakers of all styles of wine are a creative crowd. They are busy exploring the possibilities of rosé, by playing with varieties, site selection, harvest dates, length of maceration, indigenous yeast (or at least very neutral yeast), temperature, vessels, ageing on lees, aged rosés.

Enter rosé. It’s simple to assess. The main criterion for its quality is color—and everyone can identify and describe colors. Moreover, the pretty pink against most any background makes it Instagram-ready.
In North America, much, perhaps most, wine is consumed as an aperitif, without food. That pattern of consumption requires a low-acid, round wine. The acidity in wine is critical to keep it fresh and lively through the entire meal. In contrast, without food, people gravitate to low acid wines that don’t scratch the palate. These “aperitif wines” also need to lack power or concentration.

Enter rosé. It’s simple to drink. Even if not subtly sweet, most rosé are round so there’s none of the aggressive acidity to deal with. And rosé is the antithesis of power.
In short, rosé is popular because it is easy. It’s easy to order. It’s easy to drink. It’s easy to assess. There are no bitter tannins, there’s no mouth-cleansing acidity. Mostly, there’s little taste, another plus for consumers who don’t like strong flavors. Rosé is uncomplicated, unlike many wines.

An added attraction is that rosé is always served cold, and we Americans like cold drinks. A big complaint from Americans traveling to Europe in the summer is the lack of ice in drinks!

To me, rosé is akin to mindless television after a long, stressful day at work. Sometimes you just don’t want to think—you want to relax. Rosé is perfect in that setting because it doesn’t require any effort. Rosé provides everything consumers love about wine: social lubrication, the alcohol-induced buzz, and the relaxation it induces. All without straining the brain.
Now, when I say why bother with rosé, I’m speaking to the small, but ever-increasing, fraction of wine drinkers who enjoy wine for everything it has to offer—its complexities, its subtleties, its history, its story, its expressiveness, and how it changes with age or even in an hour as it sits in the glass.

Those captivated by wine love its near magical qualities, like the magic of terroir—why do two wines made from the same grape by the same winemaker taste different? Why does Tempranillo taste so different when planted in the Rioja compared to Ribera del Duero? What accounts for the flavor development as it sits in the glass or rests in the cellar? Fruity flavors morph into something else—earthy or leafy ones. Call them what you like, but where did they come from? I’m not speaking only of rarified Bordeaux, or Premier, or Grand Cru Burgundy.

The same magic is true for Muscadet or Beaujolais, not prestigious appellations by any stretch. The variation of Muscadet depending on locale, Clisson versus Le Pallet, for example, is extraordinary. The range of the variation is equally dramatic in Beaujolais. Wines from each of the ten crus made by the same producer are unique because of where the Gamay grape was grown. Even within a single cru, wines from the different lieux-dits of Moulin-à-Vent that Château des Jacques or Château des Moulin-à-Vent bottle are unique.

Cirque de Grives from Chateau la Gordonne in Provence, a non-oaked premium rosé fermented in concrete eggs, is powerful, intense, extracted, and extremely well made, full of ripe fruit and vibrant acidity. Pinot Grigio ramato, with its copper pink colour, can have texture and complexity but is accredited with orange wine trendiness while wines labelled Pinot Grigio Blush are relegated to being rosé. The off -dry rosés of Anjou are damned for the twin horrors of being pink and sweet, ignoring amazing examples of finely balanced fruit, sugar and acidity and their excellent food pairing ability. Producers struggle knowing that those who dismiss their rosés are quick to praise their sweet Coteaux du Layon.

Start exploring rosé like this and there is a world of exceptional wines worthy of hype. 

This is where I find rosé really exciting. The sense of exploration and discovery. The more rosé is dismissed as over-hyped with no substance, the more I am delighted to discover a wine which intrigues and surprises. Not all of the experiments work, and they are far from rivalling the grand crus of the world, but there is something vibrantly exciting about the exploration of a wine style no one else is considering, of being made to think how a wine is defined. 

The ‘hype’ may be nothing more than a successful marketing campaign which created and fed into a fashion trend, but it would not have succeeded without the quality of wine behind it. Is there substance and validity to the category? Definitely! Those who dismiss rosé based on their marketing image need to see rosé not through pink tinted glasses, but with the eyes of a wine lover, and explore beyond the obvious. Rosé is more than just a wine with too much marketing.

But appreciating those magical qualities takes effort and study. Most people who drink wine don’t want to make that investment. They just want a glass of wine. I get it. Enter rosé.

Certainly, on a hot day in the sun-drenched south of France a cool rosé is a welcome addition to a salad Niçoise. And sometimes, as noted West Coast wine writer Blake Gray points out, even wine enthusiasts occasionally want an “uncomplicated” wine—a rosé—when having BBQ in the summer. I understand that, but I argue that there are a bunch of other wines that are far more interesting and deliver more character than rosé. How about chilling a light red, such as a simple Beaujolais or Beaujolais-Villages (wines from the crus don’t take a chill so well)? How about a Valpolicella or Bardolino, or a Côtes du Ventoux? Why not a Côtes du Rhone or a light Barbera from Piedmont?

And what’s wrong with white wines? How about a Pinot de Picpoul? Possibly a Vermentino from Sardinia or from Liguria? There are also a bevy of Greek whites, such as Assyrtiko, Malagouzia, or Moschofilero that will do the trick, as well as an Albariño from Rías Baixas or a Verdejo from Rueda. Maybe take a look at a German Kabinett from the Mosel-Saar-Ruwer. As a group, these are all refreshing wines that deliver more pleasure than a rosé whether enjoyed at the table or as a stand-alone aperitive.

True, you need to have spent some energy to learn about these hard-to-pronounce, less well-known grapes or areas, which is why, “I’ll have a glass of rosé” is so popular.