Beaujolais. Nouveau. Let us fill our glasses and sing its praises. Really. No, not the Beaujolais - like product that the corporate wine factories foist on the world. Unh-uh, not that.
Think instead in terms of the sheer loveliness of real, honest Beaujolais, married with the heady, virtually carnal energy of harvest. Pour that in your glass. You’ll see. Yep, voilà.
Beaujolais. “… bright, perfectly ripe red fruit, walking a taut tightrope of exuberant freshness. Lush, generous, muscular berry flavors with a lazer, razor edge of tartness. Not voluptuous in its richness, not “big.” Supple, lean, muscular, flexible. A ballet dancer of a wine… Think of the joyful, bursting-with-sunshine, meaty, satisfying sweetness and texture of perfectly ripe cherries and raspberries, with a crystalline edge of tanginess and the firmness of cool granite.”
Harvest. How do you even come close to adequately describing the pure, heady, racy excitement of harvest? Take a year’s worth of energy, the alliance of earth and sun stored in juicy ripe berries, add the sweat of human brows, hope and desire – unleash it all in the intoxicating alchemy of fermentation, and well…yeah, carnal kind of sums it up.
If real Beaujolais is essentially exuberant beauty without pretention or veneer of sophistication, then real Beaujolais Nouveau is naked beauty, pure, unadorned loveliness with the racy energy of unbridled passion and the reckless abandon of the harvest.
(Surfing that riff all the way to the beach--if honest Beaujolais is the vinous equivalent of impassioned lovemaking, then the industrial-grade sham perpetrated by certain corporate types is essentially little more than wine pornography.)
Alors, I can’t describe it any better than that, there just aren’t adjectives enough. But you can pick up a bottle of Pierre Chermette “Primeur” or Domaine Dupeuble Nouveau at your friendly neighborhood PCC wine department. Then you’ll see.
Fill your glass. Give thanks.