If Alain Pascal’s Rosé could speak, it would have a southern twang. Not a cutesy bubble-gum drawl, but a dense, rich Mediterranean resonance as persistent as the mistral, as intense as the Provençal sun. It would sing of lazy summer afternoons stretching into evenings and the smell of homemade bouillabaisse in pans big enough to feed an army. This bottle is full of chiseled, vivid, southern charisma with a soupçon of wild strawberry.
