Product: French Rabbit Chardonnay Producer: Caviro Approximate Retail Value: $7.49/750 ml Category: Wine Country of Origin: France Reviewer: J. Harding The F Words: Flavor – Citrus, pear. Feel – Simple, light. Finish – Easy and clear.

Rating:

When I was told I’d be reviewing wine, I panicked. Wine and I are not best friends. If alcohol is my family, then wine is the aunt we never invite over. Beer; beer is my dinner standby. Nothing complements a burger or a brioche better than beer. It’s just so versatile; ditto for the hard liquors. Whiskey, tequila, vodka—they all have their appropriate place and time in my life. But wine, wine just never fit in. It makes me thirsty, tires me out, and when I’m presented with it I can’t help but ask, “Are you saving that rum for someone special or what?” So because I’ve never been a huge fan of wine, I’ve always doubted my ability to review it thoughtfully. Is this Merlot particularly good? How does Californian wine compare to Australian wine? Don’t you think it’s funny they have vineyards on Long Island? Hell, if I know.

But French Rabbit may change my mind. It’s exactly the kind of wine that would appeal to me. First off, it’s a screw-top wine that comes in a carton instead of a bottle. I’ve always thought popping the cork should be saved for sexual innuendos. It has no place in real life. Secondly, it’s on the inexpensive side. Anything with less than 20 percent alcohol by volume is going to require a lot more than one bottle to do the trick, so it’s good to be able to stock up. And lastly, it tastes surprisingly good. White wine isn’t the color of urine for nothing; it’s often just as undrinkable. But French Rabbit manages to avoid the extremes of taste that can curse cheaper wine. It’s not too sweet or sour, but pleasantly tangy with a refreshing finish.

So, I guess I’ll invite good ole’ Auntie French Rabbit over a little more often. Perhaps this marks the beginning of a long and beautiful reconciliation? Before you know it, I’ll be sipping Bordeaux and remarking on the significance of mid-century French cinema or the dearth of Hardy-esque in the past few years. I’ll start calling my dinner parties “salons” and wear tight black pants and a flowy top. Who knows what lies at the end of this long and dark road that Father Beer’s sister will lead me on. Maybe I’ll just stop with French Rabbit—though I do like the sound of those pants.