Beaujolais All Day aka How About Some Bojo Novo

I used to call rosé the ¾ sleeves of wine—fit for when you cannot make up your mind about what the weather calls for. But let's be real, most of the time rosé is a warm weather wine. But a chilled Gamay…that is a ¾ sleeves red juice! It suits the Goldilocks none-too-hot-nor-chilled autumn air. And it just so happens that it has its very own holiday in November too. Gamay had a troubled youth. In 1395 it was banished from Burgundy by Duke Philippe the Bold on counts of being “a very bad and disloyal variety.” I am not sure what Gamay did to him. Cheat on Burgundy with the Jura? Get Philippe drunk and have its way with him? I mean, I’d let Gamay ravage me any day, but prejudiced Philippe did not have a grape-positive attitude. The rebel persevered. It did not quite leave Burgundy, instead hanging out in the southern realms of Bourgogne known as Beaujolais. It could have become an upstanding citizen. It could have got an education. Instead it got a reputation. A good one. And a bad one. I’m here to talk about both. More recently, Gamay got a rep as a party monster. But it’s not Gamay’s fault! It was his friend, George Duboeuf who put Beaujolais on the street every third Thursday of November in the name of Beaujolais Day. It probably began as a way to have a quickly made wine to celebrate the end of harvest, but it was Duboeuf who realized he could market the holiday. The wines released for this fête come from grapes just barely harvested and vinified. The fermentation usually begins with a process called carbonic maceration. Grape clusters are blanketed in carbon dioxide and, starved for air, start fermenting intracellularly. I know when I need a breathe of fresh air I totally liquefy my innards, so I get it. The inner fermentation causes the grapes to burst, and from there they are fermented in the usual yeast-y manner of your everyday wine. There is also partial carbonic maceration where whole clusters of grapes are put in a container and the pressure of the grapes on top breaks the grapes on the bottom. They start to ferment traditionally, releasing carbon dioxide that surrounds the unbroken grapes above that then begin the intracellular fermentation. The classic flavors associated with carbonic maceration are bubble gum, bananas and cotton candy. They can be good and they can be icky. Sadly Beaujolais Nouveau is associated with the latter. But the best are light flirty fun. And the rest of the Beaujolais region also creates some stellar wines that may or may not even use carbonic maceration! I’ll begin with the fanciest: The northern realms Beaujolais are home to soils granitic and poor. And poor soil equals rich wines! There are ten cru vineyards, and will be labeled by which cru they came from. North to south the ten crus are: St. Amour, Juliénas, Chénas, Moulin-à-Vent, Fleurie, Morgon, Chiroubles, Régnié, Côte de Brouilly and Brouilly. They all have their own personalities, and depending on the winemakers will can range from light and floral, like Fleurie, or bigger, bolder more structured wine such as Juliénas or Morgon. Carbonic maceration is not the norm here but I imagine there are vignerons dabbling. Winemakers might even use some new French oak. I don’t have a favorite cru, but if I did I’d pick Régnié. Or Juliénas. Or…yeah I have no favorite. Just south of the crus, there is still some granite in the soil and some sand which is important for drainage. Here you will find the Beaujolais-Village level wines. They are likely to have undergone partial or full carbonic maceration. They have some complexity and are, in my opinion, the most obviously Beaujolais whilst retaining a more serious structure. They are the ¾ sleeves of Gamay, which if my math is correct, makes them the 9/16th sleeves of wine. Very good on a 55 degree day. South of the Beaujolais Villages you find work-a-day Beaujolais. Typically made with carbonic or semi-carbonic maceration. Totally solid light fun. But with a smidge more je ne sais quoi than a lot of Beaujolais Nouveau. Then we have the dreaded (or not!) Beaujolais Nouveau, or as I like to call it, Bojo Novo. I’ve had good ones. I’ve had bad ones. My main advice is to get them from an importer you trust and drink them by Christmas. If you for some reason find yourself with an abundance of them and the new year is looming close, they are a great cranberry sauce addition. I plan on an honorary sip of Beaujolais Nouveau next Thursday. While I am suspect of the holiday’s capitalist intentions, I am always happy for a reason to celebrate wine. Get into the Gamay!