Alexa Sanford writes Alexa Sanford is an American sommelier and wine educator living in Paris. She spends her free time on the wine road and organizing blind tastings with friends. She loves cooking, reading, and has a particular soft spot for Chenin Blanc, Sherry, and wines from the Jura. Her ultimate goal is to never stop learning.
When I grow up, I want to be Chenin Blanc
“Spit! I can’t spit,” I contested, appalled at the idea. How barbarous! As an American from a Mormon background where alcohol is forbidden, I knew next to nothing about wine.
“There will be dozens of producers, each with multiple wines. You spit, or you get very drunk. It’s completely normal behavior at tastings,” he retorted, keeping his eyes on the road.
On that road, the lush green hills and vineyards seemed to envelop and liberate us at the same time. It was therapeutic to leave bustling Paris for the French countryside. And what’s more, we were on our way to my very first wine tasting.
“What cépage do they use in Vouvray?” I was proud of the new, fancy French word I learned for grape variety. The intricacies of French vocabulary for wine and food were simultaneously daunting and exciting.
“Chenin Blanc,” he affirmed.
“Chenin Blanc,” I repeated slowly and pensively. I had so much to learn, but you have to start somewhere. My somewhere was a Vouvray AOC wine tasting in dimly lit stone cellars in the Loire Valley in 2011. I can’t remember whose wines I tasted, nor if I spat, but unbeknownst to me, this was the beginning of a great adventure, and it all started with a glass of Chenin Blanc. A glass that, 14 years later, still comfortably sits in my Parisian micro-kitchen.
At that first tasting, I felt like a kid at a theme park: intimidated, in awe, and impatient for more. Ever since, I get butterflies in my stomach when I drive by or walk through vineyards. It’s the proof of beauty in the making. And very few things, for me, are as beautiful as a glass of Chenin Blanc that has a story to tell. Surprisingly, both my story and that of Chenin Blanc have commonalities.
Chenin Blanc hugs acidity, wraps its arms around it, and says Please don’t let go. Acidity is part of its DNA, its loveability, its versatility, and above all its longevity. My life, too, has been shaped by acidity through vivid memories. As a child, I gobbled up crimson pomegranates, gushing with acidity, from my grandparents’ garden. Most birthdays, my grandmother would make my favorite lemon cake and pierce holes in it to let the mix of lemon juice and sugar ooze in. In the scorching summers of Las Vegas, my sister and I would spend hours making, drinking, and selling lemonade on our street corner. And at school, we’d indulge in the mouth-watering nature of the snack shack’s giant pickles. My mother would attribute this love of acidity to her cravings for lemons while pregnant with me. Whether or not that be the explanation, today, when I reflect on some of the wines that I’ve most marveled at, it’s the likes of Chenin from Bernaudeau, Leroy, and Foucault– all displaying that bright acidity that I love and crave.
I also admire Chenin for its adaptability. Bring it to the schist of Savennières and it soaks up the heat, bringing ripeness, a tinge of bitterness, and sometimes a kiss of residual sugar. Take it to the white tuffeau of Saumur and the acidity is racy with a vibrant salinity. It’ll even take to the fog of the Layon like a small child bundled up in winter, producing a honeyed, quincey nectar with brightness and gourmandise[1]. Now to the Southern Hemisphere, where in sunny Stellenbosch you’ll find old bush vines birthing wines with more flesh, texture, and richness, while keeping their vivacity.
Chenin has to adapt– and so did I.
As a child, I don’t think anyone would have ever used the word “adventurous” to describe me, but somewhere around 21 years old, that shifted. I decided to leave my Mormon bubble for France: the country of strikes, gastronomy, and wine. Culture shock was now the soupe du jour. I was out of my depth, but the adaptability of human beings is quite astonishing. In reality, this adaptability, like my love for acidity, started in childhood with many moves, 8 different schools, and the blending of two families. It prepared me for adapting to French culture, and a happy byproduct was falling in love with its wines, like Ch’nin– the local pronunciation, as a Loire native and sommelier friend would later teach me. I learned how to hold a glass, open a bottle, about appellations, winemaking, and the list goes on. Years later, this passion would drive me to a career change from advertising to wine. Adapt like a Ch’nin, I did!
What I truly envy is Ch’nin’s versatility. It is undoubtedly one of the grape varieties with the most outfits to flaunt. When it’s time to celebrate, Ch’nin gets on its party dress adorned with sparkles to give effervescence from France to South Africa. And when you need a bottle to showcase that with age comes beauty at your friend’s 30th birthday, the amber robe[2] of a Foreau 1995 demi-sec will conjure up wonderment that will put all fear of ageing to rest. On a sun-kissed day in the park with your friends, it’s a miniature unicorn from Les Clos Maurice that will energize the party and the palate.
That versatility is what allows me, as a sommelier, to place Ch’nin at so many occasions for my clients. It’s gastronomy’s lover, cheese’s best friend, and dessert’s companion. It can be your vin de copain or a meditative liquid that dazzles you with its evolution. As a sommelier and wine educator, I ultimately strive to reflect Ch’nin’s versatility by, for example, simplifying the AOC system for foreigners while also expounding on the complexity of terroir for oenophiles. Ch’nin is my example, and versatility is my goal.
So, at the end of the day, my favorite grape varietal is not solely the one I want to drink, but the one I want to be as I continue to grow up.
[1] Bringing pleasure and evoking a craving for more.
[2] Dress. Also the word used for the appearance or color of a wine.
The photo – of a vineyard in Robertson, South Africa – is the author's own.
