A Fine Rosé

Six or seven years ago our friend, a bartender, used to come down to the city on weekends from Sonoma to hang out, always with a bottle of tasty dry rosé. He also, for the record, once told us he usually had a cooler with oysters and champagne in the trunk of his car – if no romantic situation arose in a day, he just had a really nice dinner at the ready. If it did, well then, he had it made.

Since those afternoons of sitting in the park drinking the salmon-colored wine, I’ve had a soft spot for, as he called it, a fine rosé. I am apparently not alone. Now, all these years later, we’re getting married at his sister’s restaurant, and I got to do a fabulous rose tasting with her to make a selection for the reception. It was tough, but I persevered. 


It’s funny to think of a wine as trendy. If something is delicious, and becomes more readily available, and people therefore drink it, is that a trend? I guess so. In which case, I am a rosé-colored sheep.

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