Rosé. A beverage generally regarded as a seasonal wine. It is crisp and refreshing without holding you hostage to summers full of strictly Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, or Pinot Grigio. 2016 was the year of Rosé for me, and honestly, I thought it was over. But then, tonight happened.
It took a few days to roll around. I’ll be straight up: it’s been a shitty week. Less than a month until law school finals, and right now, I wish I could just bash my own head in like a Westworld android and escape the torture. But instead, I have to keep fighting on, keep living this miserable existence. What better than to fix this pain than with a bottle of shitty wine?
Enter stage right: Château La Tour Sainte Anne Rosé, 2014. A real mouthful of bullshit French words meant to make us Americans swoon with its European-ness. This bottle rings in at around $11.50. Absolutely nothing fancy; no pretending here. “Taylor, why did you choose this particular wine?” Guys, I’ll let be real with you. I came home from class today and slept for three disgusting hours. When I woke up, I knew I was in no condition to drive to the liquor store to pick up some kind of decent vino. Instead, I opened my fridge, and examined its contents. I wanted to see if we had anything that any of us would find even remotely appetizing.
Months ago, my roommate and I hosted a “house-warming party.” If you haven’t had one, I highly suggest it. People bring food, wine, and gifts, along with other assorted goodies. My favorite of which were the bottles of wine that we were showered with. This party happened in August. It is now over halfway through November. That means we’ve got some seriously aged vintages in our refrigerator. I mean, oh my gosh, guys. We’ve been aging this stuff, waiting for the peak flavor. At least +3 months. Wow. That’s amazing.
So, I open my fridge. What we have inside, is this: two bottles of rosé, each looking equally delicious or not. Then, one bottle of Moscato that I KNOW neither of us will ever drink in our lifetime. (I apologize to you Moscato lovers, but that shit is rank.)
So, after Googling the two bottles of Rosé, I pick the nicer one. Because I’m gonna be the one about to have to drink this. I grabbed the bottle, and an etched wine glass from Mexico that my sweet boyfriend bought me on vacation, and I made my way into the living room.
On the real, drinking at home is all about the atmosphere. You want to relax. Feel comfortable. No pressure. And that’s why I took my bra off and turned on Always Sunny In Philadelphia. That’s a beautiful combination, resulting in nothing but comfort and contentment.
As soon as I laid down, I cracked open this bottle. I poured a small taste into my Mexican wine glass. As any aged and experienced sommelier will do, I stuck my nose right down in the glass and swished this pink liquid around. I inhaled deeply. Simply amazing. It smelled of ripe and juicy…Rosé. Just like any other Rosé I have ever smelled. Delicious.
Now, it’s literally in the middle of November. Rosé is past its seasonal prime. But that doesn’t mean it still can’t get you drunk, baby! Upon first sip, I tasted fruits. Bright fruits, like strawberry, raspberry, maybe even a little bit of grass. A lot of pink and red fruits, maybe. Maybe what they put in the pink Starbursts. The stuff you put in a fruit salad. Very refreshing. Very light. So let us take a look at the description on this beautiful bottle.
Wow. This stuff is hand-harvested, you guys. Somebody literally labored over picking the fruits that went into this particular bottle. Imagine, some innocent and pure-hearted bastard, slaving over picking the strawberries that went into this chalice of alcohol that you are about to get turnt up on, just for the fun of it. It makes you feel like a millennial piece of shit. But, I digress.
Let’s take a look at the description. “Best savored around 12 degrees Celsius.” Ah, okay. 12 degrees Celsius. Sweet. While you’re at it, please go fuck yourself. If you think any of us true, red-blooded Americans actually understand what Celsius means, you are living on a different planet. Work with our wholly inconsiderate Fahrenheit and customary unit system if you want to talk to us about measurements, thank you.
Next, let’s look more at the description. “…[it] is also a perfect companion to soufflés, lamb, spicy dishes, fresh or smoked fish, oriental spiced dishes, different kind of sausages…” and next, the quote cuts off. It gives an ellipsis when describing what this wine should go with. I’m sorry, what? What goes with lamb kabobs and smoked tilapia? What comes next in that list? Is it Krystal Burgers? Whataburger Bacon Taquitos? Cookout Quesadillas? What in the hell am I supposed to sip this booze with? I have to know! It’s obvious that this is not the winery you want to call when you are planning a dinner party, ’cause they’re just gonna tell you, “Yo, fam. Throw a few Lil’ Smokies in there, and maybe some General Tso’s Chicken. That’ll be lit.”
What a terrible, terrible nightmare. I don’t know whether it was the fact that this wine sat in my refrigerator for almost four months or what, but there were literal bright pink clumps of sugar stuck to the walls of this bottle after I was done. Sketchy? Yes. Enough to make me not drink it? No.
All in all, I give it a: 4/10. It didn’t make me gag, but dear God, I hope I don’t have to drink this shit again. It tastes like cold grass, mixed with random sour fruits from the Continental Breakfast at that motel you had to stay at with your high school basketball team. Does it get you drunk? Yes. But so does Mad Dog 20/20. Is it worth $12? That’s gonna be hard no. I would rather ball out at Taco Bell and fill myself up with disgusting bean burritos and double-decker tacos paired with Baja Blast Mountain Dew instead of this bright pink bullshit. Steer clear, my friends…unless someone gives it to you free. Then you should just hold your nose and chug it like I did. .
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