Arras Tasmania Methode
Traditionelle Rosé 2006 ($80; 12.5% alcohol; cork)
This won't be a long review.
I'm in the pink. Or it's probly a bit more pheasant eye, toward the brown onion
skin, which is risky territory for a colourblind lad.
Remi Krug had a theory
about the wave-like popularity of pink champagne relying on the odd significant
royal taking a fondness, but that was back when Princess Diana was on it. This
wine reminds me of his. It's not as fine - missing out by by a few microns -
and a tiny bit sweeter methinks, not having the Big K at hand for a compo. But
I remember. One doesn't forget. Maybe the Austral CO2, and I mean the gas
itself, is sweeter than the stuff they get in the bubbles in Old Yurp, as
George W Bush called France, Italy, Germany and probably Britain.
This Arras
has that wheatfield-after-drizzle pastorale feeling about it, well-whipped in
with the white pulp of forest strawberries. It's ravishing. Best Australian
rosé fizz I know. By miles. It's swoony more than prickly; moody more than
bright, although if you mean IQ by bright, it's very very that. But it's not
like aggro or smartypants in your face. You can simply put this in your mouth
and swallow it. And it will make you happy. All its hyper-intelligent focus is
on you, and how it can pleasure you. How it can warm your soul and help you
think everything's much better than it is. Fuck sense of place. What we have
here is sense of purpose.
Don't go out there. Pawn the big screen. Get one of
these and stay inside with it. Play some Nancy Wilson. Get some inside of you.
Spend a few hours together. In moderation.
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