The most interesting wines come from a great terroir in the hands of a great talent. François Raveneau at Chablis, for example. That has to be one of my favorite discoveries, the austere decomposed oyster shell soil and the cranky demeanor of old man Raveneau. And now I present somewhat the same sort of combination, this time from a hidden corner of Provence. Hold on, here we go! Let’s begin with the punchline: When I tasted the dry white from Villars-sur-Var’s Clos Saint-Joseph, I said to myself, “If Raveneau had vines here, this is what his wine would taste like.” (Notice, I did NOT say that it tastes like a Raveneau Chablis.)
     Once upon a time, north of Nice, an inland sea dried up some 150 million years ago and left behind sedimentary layers of sea creature remains. Tectonic movement provoked violent upheavals that churned up strata, including marl. Layers were exposed that had been squeezed upright to vertical by various natural forces. Here and there, rocky formations like petrified innards spilled up and out of the earth’s surface. As I gazed in wonder at the dramatic landscape, it felt like those same forces were still at work, alive and kicking. I imagined grapevine roots digging deeper and deeper into such a geological gumbo.
     My son, Anthony, came up with the lead, and both of us drove to the exotic landscape of the Côtes de Provence appellation at Villars-sur-Var—Villars on the slopes above the river Var—to investigate, and convince proprietor Roch Sassi, even though everything was sold out, to add us to his customer list. Unlike Raveneau, Roch is far from cranky.
     Red, white, and rosé: see what we have in stock and ask our staff about older vintages.
     As for Roch’s rosé, you will not find a Côtes de Provence rosé closer to satisfying my particular palate. Nary a hint of artificial or enological bullshit to be found.