Heard it Through The Grapevine

Welcome back to the table, friends. This week, the air in my kitchen has been thick with the scent of Meyer lemons and rosemary, a sure sign that the seasons are shifting their weight. I found myself reaching for a bottle of 2021 Arnot-Roberts Old Vine White—a blend of Sylvaner and Riesling that feels like drinking a cold mountain stream—and it reminded me that the best hospitality isn't about the grand gesture, but the cold glass offered the moment a guest walks through the door.

My sisters and I have been debating the merits of the 'house wine' lately. Is it a steady reliable friend or a crutch for the uninspired? I lean toward the former, provided the friend in question is as vibrant as a crisp Etna Bianco. As we move into the heart of autumn, I am thinking less about perfection and more about presence. Let the tablecloth be wrinkled and the candles be mismatched, so long as the corks are pulled and the conversation is lively.

I am writing to you from a sun-drenched terrace in Savennières, where the Loire River glints like a silver ribbon under a sky the color of a robin's egg. This tiny appellation is the spiritual home of Chenin Blanc, grown on steep slopes of purple schist and volcanic rock that lend the wines a haunting, flinty electricity. There is a tension here—a tug-of-war between honeyed richness and a bracing, saline snap that leaves the tongue tingling for more.

To understand this place, one must taste the wines of Domaine du Closel or the legendary Coulée de Serrant. They are not shy; they demand your full attention and perhaps a bit of air to wake up from their stony slumber. If you find yourself with a bottle of Savennières, please do not overthink the food. A simple piece of roasted monkfish with a beurre blanc sauce or a wedge of aged Comté is all you need to let the terroir sing its ancient, mineral song.

While everyone is currently clamoring for the 2021s, I have spent the week quietly revisiting the 2016 reds from the Northern Rhône. It was a vintage defined by balance rather than brawn, and eight years on, the Syrah from Côte-Rôtie and Saint-Joseph is beginning to shed its youthful primary fruit to reveal something far more seductive. Think of smoked meat, dried violets, and that specific scent of a forest floor after a heavy rain—what the French call sous-bois.

If you are looking to add to your cellar, seek out E. Guigal’s Brune et Blonde or anything from Domaine Faury. These wines are currently in a beautiful window where the tannins have softened into velvet, yet the acidity remains bright enough to keep them dancing. It is a vintage for the patient drinker, a reminder that the best things in the cellar cannot be rushed, only monitored with a gentle, watchful eye.

Tuesday nights deserve a small victory, and this week’s triumph was a skillet of crispy-skinned chicken thighs nestled in a bed of leeks and Castelvetrano olives. It is a salty, fatty, aromatic mess that cries out for a wine with enough acidity to cut through the grease and enough personality to match the brine of the olives. I tested three different paths, and each offered a distinct pleasure for the palate.

For the Everyday choice, I turned to the 2022 A.A. Badenhorst 'Secateurs' Chenin Blanc from South Africa, which at eighteen dollars offers a zingy, peachy brightness that elevates the leeks beautifully. For a true Occasion, I pulled a 2019 Walter Scott 'X Novo' Chardonnay from the Eola-Amity Hills; its flinty reduction and citrus core turned a simple dinner into a masterclass in elegance. Finally, the Oracle’s Pick is a bottle of Tissot 'En Barberon' Savagnin from the Jura—a wild, nutty, slightly oxidized choice that made the green olives sing like a choir.

Thursday’s dinner party for six began with the best of intentions and a meticulously timed schedule scribbled on the back of a receipt. The menu was centered around a slow-braised lamb shanks in red wine and prunes, which I had planned to serve at precisely eight o'clock. By six, I was elegantly sipping a glass of Manzanilla sherry while the lamb hummed in the oven. By seven, however, the neighbor’s golden retriever had managed to nudge open the back door and, in a moment of canine brilliance, knocked a full bowl of gremolata across the kitchen floor.

I spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing parsley and lemon zest out of the grout while my guests arrived. I didn't panic; I simply handed the first arrival a bottle of Billecart-Salmon Rosé and told them they were in charge of the music. We ate at eight-thirty, the lamb was perhaps a touch darker than intended, and the floor was still slightly sticky, but no one noticed because the candlelight was low and the wine was plentiful. The lesson, as always, is that a host who is laughing is infinitely more charming than a host who is perfect.

Darlings, the dining room at L’Avenue was a theater of the absurd last Wednesday night. A certain young tech mogul, who shall remain nameless but whose initials rhyme with 'bankrupt', ordered a 1990 Château Latour and then proceeded to ask the sommelier for a side of ice cubes. The collective gasp from the neighboring tables was audible over the jazz—I personally saw a venerable countess nearly choke on her gougère. The sommelier, a saint in a charcoal suit, delivered the ice in a silver bowl without so much as a twitch of his eyebrow.

In other news, a certain boutique hotel in the Hamptons is currently reeling after a midnight delivery of what was supposed to be vintage Krug turned out to be cases of sparkling apple juice due to a shipping label mix-up. The guests were reportedly so deep into the festivities that half of them didn't notice the difference until the following morning. It goes to show that in the world of high hospitality, it isn't always the label that matters, but the conviction with which you pour the liquid.

A reader writes: 'Dear Romy, I’ve been invited to a housewarming party for a friend who claims to hate wine but loves expensive tequila. I refuse to arrive with a bottle of agave. Is there a gateway wine that can convert even the most stubborn skeptic without looking like I’m trying too hard?' My dear, this is a classic challenge, and the answer lies in wines that bridge the gap between spirits and the vine through texture and intensity.

Your first option is a high-end, bone-dry Riesling like the F.E. Trimbach 'Cuvée Frédéric Emile'; its piercing acidity and petrol notes offer a structural complexity that tequila drinkers often admire. Alternatively, try a skin-contact 'orange' wine like Radikon’s 'Slatnik'—it has a tannic grip and dried apricot funk that feels more like a cocktail than a traditional white. Finally, if you want to be truly bold, bring a bottle of Henriques & Henriques 15-Year-Old Bual Madeira. It is rich, nutty, and sophisticated, and I guarantee they will be asking for a second glass before the night is through.