The Perfect Rosé in Provence

I ask Quiot why he would sacrifice usable land for a little area of found nature, expecting an explanation about sustainable agriculture and the need to maintain unplanted areas for the good of the vines. Instead, he draws me this picture: "In the summer, I come here with my son, a pizza, and a couple of bottles of rosé. That is why we keep it. Sometimes we bring saucisson. Doesn’t matter." Quiot and his son, Jean-Baptiste, sit together having lunch on an old bench surrounded by rosemary, thyme, and lavender, real-life herbes de Provence. I can imagine the wood-handled pocket-knife Quiot the elder uses to cut the saucisson. I smell all the herbs in full bloom. Yes, I’d keep a petit bois too, if it meant having picnics on the grass with my daughter every summer. I like that this man is making my wine.

We arrive at the winery, a concrete-floored room so simple, it makes you feel as if you could become a winemaker yourself. There are two presses for harvested grapes ("They cost $200,000 and we use them a few days a year, but what can you do?" Quiot asks, in that charmingly defeated French way); some stainless-steel tanks where the juice and skins are subsequently held (this 10-hour maceration is what makes rosé pink) and some larger sealed cement tanks; a cooling system; and a massive, cathedral-ceilinged storage room, where, incidentally, Quiot’s son’s wedding reception was held.

It’s time to taste my wine. We mount a narrow metal staircase to a small yellow-walled tasting room with 360-degree views. After our 30-minute walk through the vineyard, the cool of the winery felt good, but up here the air is stifling. The room is filled with sunlight. Out the north window, there’s the petit bois, and beyond that, Mont Sainte-Victoire, best known as Cézanne’s favorite subject. To the west is Aix-en-Provence. To the east, just outside the window, are the vineyards of Domaine Houchart. In the room, there’s just Quiot; my boyfriend, Daniel Phillip Kim, a member of the Oxford Wine Circle’s winning 1999 Varsity Wine-Tasting team (an ’83 Margaux decided their fate in the final match against Cambridge); me; and a bottle of Real Life Rosé—my wine, my actual wine, not ready until now—sitting on the table surrounded by three glasses. The moment of truth.

Quiot pours a little wine into each of our glasses, and we hold them up to the Provençal light. Pink, but not too pink: perfect. We swirl the wine and put our noses in the glasses: strawberries, wildflowers, light cherries. Nice. Now, a sip each. Into the mouth, then a gurgle to aerate the wine. Quiot spits into the silver tasting spittoon; Daniel and I swallow. My first instinct is to take another sip. I’m overheated from our trek through the vineyard and the climb up to this aerie. I’m embarrassed to tell Quiot that this wine just simply hits the spot—no wine-tasting lingo comes to mind. Fortunately, Daniel pipes up: "Garden strawberries," he says, "And good acidity." I’m off the hook. But then Quiot looks at me, expectantly.

"It tastes like summer," I say, as I drink some more.

And there it is. This is, in fact, the wine I’d wanted all along. It’s fresh, bright, and easy to drink—especially on a hot day. It doesn’t have the complexity of a great Bordeaux or Burgundy, but you don’t want it to. It reveals itself quickly—berries, flowers, acidity, one, two, three—and then goes down easily. It is indeed a great wine for a picnic (Bring on the saucisson!) or a barbecue.

After the rosé tasting, we head to the nearby Relais de Saint Ser, a favorite lunch spot for local winemakers. At a few of the tables on the stone-walled terrace—including our own—people are passing around not-yet-labeled bottles of rosé they brought with them. After Quiot shakes a few hands, we sit down. A pile of croutons and some green-olive tapenade appear. The waitress brings us goat-cheese salads. I order the lamb chops. The food is simple, homemade. Mont Sainte-Victoire is behind us, and the view ahead, with Domaine Houchart in the distance to the left, is extraordinary. We drink my rosé. And it’s perfect.