Steven Norton writes Steven Norton leads research, media and events for a US-based technology consulting firm and writes a column on enterprise technology leadership for Forbes. Based in New York, he completed the WSET Diploma in 2024.
Ode to Romorantin
I sit alone at a wine bar in North Carolina, restless and doomscrolling about the coronavirus that seems on the verge of shutting the world down. Toward the end of the night, my anxiety rising despite the two glasses of so-so Sauvignon Blanc in my system, the bartender pulls an off-menu bottle from the fridge and pours me a splash. He doesn’t mention a producer or a vintage, just a word that sounds French: Romorantin.
With one sniff, I’m walking on the beach at midday, all sea spray, salt, and sun. Each sip is like eating an oyster, but with a squeeze of lime instead of lemon—briny, tart, subtly sweet, with a startling acidity like a whip of ocean air. This enigma of flavors thrusts me into uncharted territory. Its freshness shocks my system, the wine equivalent of a cold plunge.
Desperate for the source of this exhilaration in a bottle, I open a new tab on my phone and hurriedly tap out “Romo Rantan.” The grape is new to me but not to the internet, thankfully. My doomscrolling turns to joyscrolling.
The grape’s rarity strikes me first. I learn that, once widely planted in the Loire Valley, Romorantin, like many of its vinifera compatriots, was largely abandoned after phylloxera devastated France’s vineyards in the late 1800s. Less than 100 hectares are cultivated today, most in and around Cour-Cheverny, a tiny appellation on the eastern edge of Touraine.
Romorantin’s mysterious origin draws me in further. One source dates the grape’s arrival in the Loire Valley to the sixteenth century, when King François I requested vines to be delivered from Burgundy to the town of Romorantin, where he planned to build a palace. Whether these vines were actually Romorantin appears up for debate: other accounts suggest it wasn’t introduced until centuries later by a wine grower who lived nearby.
As I settle up, my mind returns to more pressing matters, namely, whether the virus’s spread will prevent my flight from taking off the next morning. I forget to ask the bartender about the producer or to snap a dimly lit photo of the label.
It doesn’t matter. With barely half a glass, Romorantin shows me wine’s power to surprise and draws me deeper into its mystery.
–
Back in Brooklyn, after weeks at home washing groceries and self-soothing with Netflix and homemade sourdough, I walk to another wine bar. This one has pivoted to a retail shop to keep customers and cash flowing until indoor dining returns, or at least until the wine runs out.
Bottles from the cellar line the tables where diners once swapped stories over roast chicken and a glass of something orange. Clad in a mask and latex gloves, hunting among the stacks of Cru Beaujolais and Slovenian Rebula, a golden capsule catches my eye. I read the label and do a double take. François Cazin, Cuvée Renaissance, Moelleux, 2005. Cour-Cheverny. My pulse quickens as memories of that first meeting with Romorantin come flooding back.
My fiancée and I open the bottle on a sunny Saturday afternoon while cat-sitting for our neighbors. They have a patio and a washing machine—we brought our laundry with our wine. After weeks of lockdown, this feels like a vacation.
Removing the cork, I pray for rapture but prepare for heartbreak. So much has changed. What if 15 years in the bottle hasn’t been kind to the wine? What if it was just the two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc that made me go gaga over Romorantin? What if neither the wine nor I live up to that past exhilaration?
The reunion is sweeter than any I can imagine. In this bottle of off-dry, late-harvest Romorantin, I meander through an acacia grove, all honey and yellow flowers. There’s a touch of saltiness, but the briny oysters of that first unfamiliar bottle are now river stones, ripe pears, bruised apples, and almonds. It still has breathtaking acidity, but unlike the first wine’s sharp gust, this is a gentle, lingering breeze. Bottle age and living through a global pandemic unearth new dimensions, new possibilities.
My heart fills with elation, a wonder larger and more expansive than the thrill back in North Carolina all those months ago. Sitting on the patio, the love of my life beside me and a load of clothes completing the spin cycle, Romorantin arrives on golden wings to lift our spirits and remind us that though the world has changed, it will endure, just as this wine has. I realize that recapturing past tastes and experiences isn’t the goal. Being present is.
–
I search for Romorantin on every wine list and in every retail shop. On the rare occasions I find it, it’s like running into a dear but distant friend. There is great pleasure in reminiscing about past meetings, remarking on all that’s changed, and making new memories before going our separate ways. At restaurants, it also tends to be one of the least expensive wines on offer. Life-affirming and generally well-priced? Sign me up.
While Romorantin’s acidity is sure to make you sit up a bit straighter, it does not, in my experience, create loud wines. Its aromas and flavors, while evocative, are unassuming. Whether bright and easy-going, rich and layered, oaked, oxidative, or a combination of the above, Romorantin carries itself with modest majesty, unconcerned with the spotlight or how it stacks up to more famous varieties. It’s the person at the party who doesn’t say much, but when they do, people pay attention.
More than any tasting note, it’s a reminder to appreciate the here and now, and to be more comfortable in the not-knowing. It’s also delicious, which is probably the only thing that matters.
Cheers to you, Romorantin, a constant companion in turbulent and slightly less turbulent times. And to all the grapes that find us at just the right moment, tap us on the shoulder, and bid us listen, savor it all.
The photo, captioned 'bottle of Romorantin on the patio', is the author's own.
