Richard Waterton writes Richard Waterton, 31, London/York. Italian heritage, music, food and wine drinker, and biased towards an Italian red. I accidentally bought a Frappato during a mix-six operation at Majestic Wine for a party I was having that weekend. Loved it ever since. I very much relate it to myself, born on a council estate in Northwest London, never really fitted in, but survived on being different and entertaining. I have introduced this wine to many wine loving snobby friends in the upper echelons of the London social circles, and the sensible ones have made it their go-to Thursday wine.
Ode to Frappato: the grape with trainers on
Oh, Frappato! You whimsical, cherry-scented whisper of Sicily— the grape that shows up to the party wearing vintage Converse when everyone else is in Italian leather. You don’t need to be bold to be memorable. You don’t need brooding tannins or a six-pack of oak-aged muscles. You’ve got charm. And that’s far more dangerous.
Let us begin where most wine stories do, with the ridiculous yet somehow revered idea that “wine is about place, not grape.” A poetic notion for sure, like saying coffee is about mugs, or music is about the room it's played in. Romantic, yes. Sensible? Absolutely Not.
Because a place is just a place without the right grape, like a stage without actors, or a hot tub without water (just a weird, tiled bowl of disappointment).
So here you are, Frappato, thriving on the scorched, sun-licked soils of southeastern Sicily, while 400 other grapes tried, wept, and shrivelled like raisins. You’re the scrappy local kid who makes it big not by changing yourself, but by being exactly what the place needed all along.
Let’s be honest, Frappato isn’t the grape that walks into a blind tasting and makes jaws drop. It’s not going to punch you in the palate or swirl around like a Shakespearean villain screaming “plum!” It doesn’t age for decades or command auction-house fanfare. But Frappato, my delightful underdog, you’re like that friend who doesn’t say much at first, then cracks the best joke of the night between bites of bruschetta.
You smell like someone’s just bitten into a ripe strawberry while walking through a flower shop and then spilled a little cherry juice on a leather-bound diary. You’re soft and easy to drink, like an apology from someone who actually means it. And you’re light on your feet, more Fred Astaire than Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.
In a world where wine is often about power, you’re a grape that brings wit. You don’t knock down doors. You knock politely, then charm the pants off the room.
People talk about “terroir” like it’s a religion, but the truth is, the grape is the congregation. Without the right grape, the sacred soil is just dirt. Just ask Merlot how it felt trying to survive in Burgundy. “Like being a cat in a swimming pool,” Merlot muttered.
Chianti isn’t Chianti without Sangiovese, and Barolo sure as hell isn’t made from Tempranillo. So yes, wine is about place. But it is also about the right grape in the right place and that’s where you shine, Frappato.
You belong to Sicily, but more than that, Sicily belongs to you. You carry the heat of the sun, the grit of the wind, and the easy laughter of a southern Italian Nonna who says you’re too thin and tries to feed you eight lunches.
You're not a soloist in every performance, you’re often blended with Nero d’Avola, the brooding baritone to your sprightly tenor. Together, you form Cerasuolo di Vittoria, a DOCG wine that tastes like the moment in a romantic comedy where things just click.
But even when you fly solo, you hold your own. Not through power, but through personality.
Drinking Frappato is like discovering your new favourite indie band at a farmers’ market - unexpected, joyful, and full of character. You don’t pair it with wagyu or foie gras. You pair it with pizza, with lasagna. With a Thursday night with your best friend. It’s the wine you drink while cooking pasta, and then again while eating pasta, and possibly again while doing the dishes if there’s any left (which there probably isn’t).
You’re a perfect match for real life. Not “Instagram life.” Not “Michelin-starred dinner in a castle.” Real life. The kind where you forgot to defrost the chicken, so now you’re making spaghetti aglio e olio and pretending it was the plan all along.
There are people out there who chase obscure grape varieties like stamp collectors, only drunker. And God bless them for it. Because if not for those adventurers, how would the world have ever found you?
You, Frappato, with your translucent ruby hue and your noseful of red berries and violets, have made sceptics believers. You’re the grape that proves wine doesn’t have to be “serious” to be spectacular. You’re the sip that makes someone stop mid-conversation and say: “Wait, what is this?” Not because it’s strange but because it’s delightful.
So here’s to you, Frappato, the grape that refuses to be anything but itself. You don’t pretend to be bold. You don’t want to be Cabernet. You’re not trying to bench press 400 oak barrels or dominate steak dinners. You’re just Frappato. Charming, aromatic, full of energy and joy. Like a nap in a hammock. Like your dog recognizing you from across the park. Like putting on jeans and realizing they still fit after Christmas.
But beware! Your drinkability is dangerous. You go down easy, far too easy. Like Netflix episodes. Or those mini cheeses in red wax that were supposed to be “for the kids.” You’re the grape we didn’t know we were missing. Not flashy. Not famous. Just fabulous.
Frappato, you are variety! You are vitality! You are… vino in trainers and we adore you for it.
Cheers to the grape that proves the point: wine is about place, yes, but only if the right grape dares to call it home!
The photo is of the author drinking Frappato in Sicily.
