“I'm gonna raise a fuss, I'm gonna raise a holler
About a workin' all summer just to try to earn a dollar
Every time I call my baby, and ask to get a date
My boss says, "No dice son, you gotta work late"
Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do
But there ain't no cure for the summertime blues.”
-“Summertime Blues,”
Eddie Cochran

Alas, poor Eddie. If only he had better wine choices back in ‘58.

Despite our old friends the Gregorians, most of us keep time according to the school calendar. Our internal alarm clocks buzz around the first of September, and we tend to hit the snooze button just after Memorial Day, or when the ice boom lifts, whichever comes later. By the time July Fourth rolls around, we’re long past taking things seriously.

Wine’s no different. We may uncork fine Bordeaux, complex Napa Cabs, majestic Barolos or rich Chardonnays when the wind howls off the lake, but come July and August, we want undemanding vino that you can just pop and gulp. Whether we’re perched on our elbows at Delaware Park, supposedly absorbing “As You Like It” but more likely scoping out that couple smooching five blankets over, or charcoal-broiling tube steaks and burgers on Beaver Island, the last thing we want is a wine that demands, “Pay Attention, I’m Important.” You want one that says, “Just drink me, for chrissakes.”

Take Zinfandel, for instance. If you believe that the first duty of wine is to be red, then Zin is your perfect summer drink, ideal to wash down whatever smokes on the grill. Heady with raspberry and blackberry aromas, spicy, peppery, and usually loaded with a lash of alcohol, Zin has always been easy to understand and love. With no apparent old world antecedent—no French spoken here—Zin carries none of the usual high-falutin’ baggage about “complexity,” “legs,” “balance,” or “plateau of maturity.” What you see is what you get—there’s nothing up Zin’s sleeve.

Produced in numerous styles, such as light and fruity a la Beaujolais, or lively and full-bodied Cabernet wanna-bes, Zin can also be made into big, head-spinning, high-octane behemoths—the Incredible Hulks of winedom. If the grape skins are separated from the juice shortly after being crushed, and lots of sugar is added to the mix, you end up with the oxymoronic white zinfandel, which enjoys the same relationship to wine that military music has to music. Whatever the style, drink your Zin young, within three to five years of the vintage. Although older Zins can be occasionally interesting, odds are they’ll be indistinguishable from your charcoal starter.

Maybe because of its straightforward appeal, Zin has long been championed as America’s very own juice, just as clear-cut and honest and out in the open as, well, America. (Ronald Reagan must’ve pictured Bruce Springsteen knocking back Zin as part of his fantasy that the Boss wrote “Born in the USA” as an anthem for conservatives.) Alas, the latest research shows that Zinfandel—and its Italian cousin, Primitivo—descended from an obscure Croatian grape but, really, who cares? Zin’s a wine for summer nights, not scholarship. It’s earthy, buzzy, warm, and rich, uncomplicated California-grown wine at its best, perfect to slurp outside on the deck as daylight fades and meat sizzles on the barbecue.

There’s lots of wonderful Zinfandel around, most from the decent 2000 vintage. While prices can top $100 a bottle for scarce bottlings from cult producers like Turley and Martinelli, most knowledgeable insiders consider this level preposterous for what’s essentially a tasty, uncomplicated bottle of grape juice designed to be drunk young. Favorites for less than $20 include the Seghesio, Ravenswood Vintner’s Blend or Lodi Blend, Rancho Zabaco Heritage Vines and Robert Mondavi. For a few dollars more, don’t hesitate to try wines from Green & Red’s Chiles Mill Vineyard, or any of the innumerable bottlings from Rosenblum, Ravenswood and Ridge, especially Ridge’s fabulous Geyserville bottling, one of America’s most celebrated Zins, shot full with more character than most wines twice its price. Or—and here’s a concept—for a few dollars less, load up on the ubiquitous Italian A•Mano Primitivo, utterly delicious and still about $10.

But those who are not the first in their neighborhoods to walk erect may prefer a diet a little less…shall we say…meaty. Lounging on the grass at Artpark, picnicking at Chautauqua or just baking on the beach conjures up thoughts of something lighter, something refreshing, and something white. For you, I have two words: Sauvignon Blanc, perhaps the world’s zingiest wine.

Pop open a Sauvignon Blanc and you’re overwhelmed by a riot of scents—the same ones you might experience if you were lying in a hot tub in the middle of a field in Southern California—fresh cut grass, summer vegetables, lime, grapefruit and perhaps guava, passion fruit, and mango. Your nose will be the first to tell you: Sauvignon Blanc is summer in a bottle.

But make sure to grab the right bottle, so your mouth can thank you, too. Buy only from reasonably warm years, when the grapes have had a chance to fully ripen. Otherwise, the wine’s normally refreshing acidity will take on a screechiness guaranteed to rake the enamel off your teeth. And because Sauvignon Blanc loses much of its appeal as it ages, then, unless you’re into necrophilia, buy only from the most recent vintages. Stick with 2001’s and 2002’s.

Sauvignon Blanc is such a promiscuous devil that it’s taken to wine-producing regions all over the world. It’s the grape that made Sancerre and Pouilly Fume famous, and it accounts for much of the white wine output of Chile, South Africa, and of course, California (the Frog’s Leap and Matanzas Creek are especially nice). But it’s been really rockin’ over the past decade in New Zealand, home to dozens of delicious examples. To get a taste of summer down under, try the bright, juicy, tangy 2002’s from Dashwood, Goldwater Dog Point Vineyard, Omaka Springs, Sacred Hill, Selaks Premium Selection, Twin Islands, and Villa Maria Cellar Selection, all of which will return change from a twenty. If you want to try the best from NZ, score a bottle of the delicious, celebrated Cloudy Bay, which is closer to $25, but provides an endless cascade of aromas and flavors.

Okay, we’ve covered barbecue and we’ve covered sunshine. Now the best part of summer: fun. So here’s the most fun, most delicious wine you’ll ever discover: Cerdon de Bugey, a succulent, sweet, sexy pink fizz from France. I guarantee if you try this, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.

The first time I tried Bugey I immediately recognized that this was one of the most luscious things I had ever put in my mouth. Rolling around on my tongue, begging to be swallowed, demanding another sip, another gulp, hell, another bottle, this wine inspired love—let’s be honest and call it lust—which totally floored me because I’m not really much of a Champagne guy.

Not that I get no kick from Champagne. The problem is, I get too much: frothy bubbles slide down a little too easily, and after a couple of glasses, I’m usually reduced to a glassy-eyed cipher. Yes, the stuff is delicious, but champagne to me is the world’s most expensive potato chip: impossible to stop after one, and the stuff of which regretful morning-after memories are made. Nothing else is quite so celebratory, true, but also nothing else will make you feel like the Mayor of the Village of the Damned the next day. So, in my fifteen years on the wine-circuit, I had given bubbly a wide berth.

But I couldn’t forever stay celibate playing piano in the sparkler bordello. And one day, a taster I trust, a guy with whom I had mainlined many a Chateauneuf du Pape, said the two most dangerous words you can utter to an oenophile: Try this.

That’s my advice, too. Pop the cork on one of these babies and a fine, foamy stream of pinpoint bubbles highlights a cornucopia of silky, red fruit aromas and flavors—strawberries, cherries, raspberries, more strawberries. Despite skepticism from serious wine geeks, it will be a hit with novices and with jaded palates alike.

The source of all this fun are gamay and poulsard grapes grown and handpicked in tiny mountainous vineyards in eastern France (a stone’s throw from the Swiss border). Fermentation only occurs until the alcohol reaches 6%—versus 12% or more for most wines—leaving much of the natural sweetness and yeast in the wine. Once bottled, the wine continues fermenting, producing those sexy bubbles and reaching only about 7.5 or 8 percent alcohol. In other words, the perfect brunch wine.

Currently, only two Cerdon producers are available in the states: Patrick Bottex, imported by Kermit Lynch and Renardat-Fâche, brought in by Louis/Dressner Selections. (Ask your wine merchant to get them for you. If he won’t, get another wine merchant.) Both retail for about $15. Which one to choose? This is what’s known as a high-class problem. I’d go for both if you can get them. After all, can you really have too much ripe, fizzy, succulent, sweet, sexy wine to celebrate the summer?

Mark Criden is the former chair of the Buffalo Branch of the International Wine & Food Society.


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