The Grape You Probably Know But Don't Know That You Know

My Aunt (of blessed memory) in her house in Orange.

I grew up spending summers in Orange, France, in the Southern Rhône. When I think about those summers, I don’t immediately think about wine. I think about the sound of gravel crunching beneath my feet in my aunt’s courtyard. I think about chasing chickens with my sister and climbing my aunt’s fig and apricot trees.

There was always something to do.

I would climb the fig and apricot trees as high as I dared, reaching for the fruit and filling buckets. One summer, I managed to fill two whole buckets with figs. I was so proud of myself that I decided to be helpful and rinse them off because of the bugs and whatever else might have been on them.

My aunt was not pleased.

As it turns out, once you wash freshly picked figs, they begin to ripen quickly. Now, we had two buckets of figs that needed to be eaten immediately. Always the overachiever.

Those are the kinds of memories that stay with you.

My children playing in the same courtyard where I played with my sister.

I didn’t know it then, but I was learning something about food, family and gathering that would follow me for the rest of my life. Wine was simply part of the landscape.

Orange sits in the Southern Rhône, surrounded by vineyards. Châteauneuf-du-Pape is a few minutes away and you can climb to the top of the hill, stand among the ruins of the old fortress and look out over the vineyards below. If you’ve ever been there, you know how beautiful and fragrant it is.

Lavender. Rosemary. Mint. Olive trees. Herbs growing everywhere. You could smell them as you walked into town to the boulangerie or drove through the countryside, passing vineyards, olive groves and fields of lavender.

And every time I return, it smells the same.

I believe a place can find its way into a wine.

I don’t mean that in a way that I can explain scientifically. I simply mean that there are wines that smell and taste like somewhere to me. Maybe that’s part of why Grenache has always felt familiar.

Grenache is one of those grapes you may already know without realizing you know it. In France, it is Grenache. In Spain, where the grape originated, it is Garnacha. It is an important grape in the Southern Rhône, including Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and it has a long history across Spain.

I love Grenache for its generosity. It can be full of ripe red fruit, warm and soft, with a little spice. It can be juicy and fresh, or richer and more powerful. And then there are those savory, herbal qualities that I find so compelling.

Grenache is wonderful at the table.

Think grilled lamb, roast chicken, roasted vegetables, tomatoes, garlic, olives, herbs and charcuterie. It has enough fruit and warmth to stand up to flavorful foods without overpowering them. It can move easily from a casual dinner to a long meal with friends.

That matters to me because I don’t think of wine as something that exists separately from the rest of the experience.

Wine belongs with food. It belongs with conversation. And perhaps that is the real connection between the little girl climbing a fig tree in Southern France and the woman I am today, teaching people about wine.

I wasn’t thinking about terroir while I was climbing those trees.

I wasn’t analyzing aromas of rosemary and lavender while walking to the boulangerie. I wasn’t thinking about wine education while chasing chickens around my aunt’s courtyard. I was just having fun.

But those experiences shaped what I love. That is what I try to bring into Grapeful Moments. My wine tastings are, in some ways, a grown-up version of those family gatherings. A group of people sitting around a table, tasting something together, sharing stories, discovering something new and hopefully laughing a lot along the way.

Wine doesn’t have to be complicated to be meaningful.

This week, I’m thinking about Grenache more than usual because Thursday happens to be International Grenache Day, and I’ll be gathering a group of people to taste Grenache from France and Spain side by side.

But even after Thursday is over, Grenache will still be the grape that makes me think of a stone house in Orange, chasing the chickens in the courtyard and two buckets of figs that my aunt needed us to eat.

A bottle can hold more than a grape. Sometimes, it holds a place and a memory.

Somewhere in the south of France. Just beyond this cluster of trees starts the vineyard.

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