Lately, as happens so often this time of year, the majority of my Sundays (and some weekdays too) have been defined by that specific form of seasonal inertia that makes the couch seem like the only tolerable destination. After a whole lot of sitting, and reading, and sitting some more, I'll glance at my watch— only to discover that, although the window has been opaque for hours, the "little hand" still hasn't passed six or seven o'clock.
At this point, it's entirely natural to crave a bit of liquid diversion. By this, you might assume I’m talking about big, brawny reds from rustic, sun-baked climes— "a beaker full of the warm South," as a far more eloquent commentator once put it. But I've actually found myself gravitating toward whites: the richer, fuller-bodied versions capable of delivering just as much vinous comfort as their more obvious red
A fifth-generation winemaker
now at the helm of his family estate, David Dupasquier adopts a
minimalist approach to his work in the vineyards and the cellar. For one, he harvests entirely by hand, which, given the precariously steep vines he tends, must pose a considerable challenge. Among other praiseworthy practices, he also makes a point of fermenting with
indigenous rather than commercial yeasts, which better allows the underlying materials of the wine to shine through. The result of such meticulous care is an unusually fleshy, complex, and profound expression of the Jacquère grape, which overturns expectations while remaining utterly true to its place of origin.