This started out as a bit. One of those smug, wine-soaked claims you make at a dinner party: “Honestly, I could just drink French wine for the rest of my life.” Someone challenged me. I took the bait. And suddenly I was knee-deep in empty bottles, obsessively reorganising the fridge and saying things like “Hmm, it’s giving garrigue.”
The rules were simple: 30 days, only French wine. No cheating with sneaky Albariños. No Marlborough Sauv in a coffee mug. Just French wine for a month – in all its oaky, dusty, bossy glory. It turned out to be more revealing (and more chaotic) than I expected.
Week One of French Wine for a Month: Burgundy Gave Me Whiplash
I started with Burgundy, because of course I did. It’s the diva of French wine. The region with tiny vineyards, complicated labelling, and the power to emotionally wreck you with a bottle that smells like damp leaves and regret. I had a Bourgogne Blanc that was sharp and citrusy, followed by a red that tasted like it had trauma. But god, it was beautiful. Earthy, light, faintly smoky. I drank it with roast chicken on a Tuesday and felt like I’d just passed a test.
Then I opened a village-level Pinot that tasted like damp cardboard. Lesson one: Burgundy is not your friend. Burgundy is your ex who occasionally texts you something devastatingly romantic before vanishing for six months.
The Rhône Chapter: Where French Wine Gets Friendly
This was the turning point. I opened a bottle of Côtes du Rhône that was basically forest fruit and lavender in a glass. It didn’t ask much. It just showed up, tasted great, and got along with everything I cooked. Comfort wine, in the best way. I followed it with a Crozes-Hermitage that felt grown up – peppery, structured, a little smoky. I’d made lentils that night, which felt extremely French of me.
By this point I’d stopped missing the casual charm of New World wines. I’d even stopped reaching for the screwtop section of the wine rack. French wine was like dating someone who wears cologne and reads books – a bit high-maintenance, but you feel smug when it’s going well.
If you’re curious, the official Rhône Wines site is a brilliant rabbit hole for understanding why this region deserves more space in your wine rack.
Week Three: Aldi Wines, Existential Doubt, and Gamay Joy
The wine budget wobbled. Burgundy had been a show-off. I needed something affordable, ideally with a label that didn’t look like it had been designed in 1983 by a geography teacher. I went to Aldi.
I picked up a couple of Côtes de Gascogne whites, one of which had an alpaca on the label for no reason. And you know what? Not bad. One was a little sharp, one was surprisingly full of white peach. I also grabbed a Gamay from the Beaujolais section (if you can call it that – it was wedged between two Zinfandels), and it was an actual delight. Chill it, drink it with crisps, and suddenly your £6 bottle feels like it came from a Paris wine bar with copper lighting and an overfriendly sommelier.
This was also the week I nearly cracked. I passed a bottle of Chianti in Sainsbury’s and had a proper moral wobble. I held it for a full 15 seconds before putting it back like a guilty toddler. But I held strong. French wine for a month meant no detours.
Finishing with Bordeaux – and a Touch of Snobbery
I saved Bordeaux for last because it felt like the big finish. I opened a Saint-Émilion that was all black cherries, pencil shavings, and a whisper of wood smoke. It was glorious. I took it seriously – decanted it, lit a candle, put on music that wasn’t just “Dinner Party Jazz.” I drank it slowly and paired it with steak frites (well… chips and an overcooked ribeye, but close enough).
I followed it with a bottle from Castillon that tasted like old mushrooms and wet bricks. But that’s Bordeaux – one minute you’re in a perfume ad, the next you’re wondering if you have COVID.
What I Learned from Drinking French Wine for a Month
French wine is both glorious and completely over itself. It doesn’t try to impress you with fruit or flash. It makes you do the work. It’s about restraint, and story, and feeling like you’ve earned it.
It also reminded me how much I love white wines that taste like mineral water and salt. And that rosé – especially from Provence – can still catch you off guard in the best way. If you’re in that mood, this rosé season post might help too.
More than anything, the challenge gave structure to my drinking (always useful) and reminded me that French wine still has the ability to surprise me – even after all these years.
Would I Do Another One-Country Wine Challenge?
Yes. But maybe not France again immediately. France is seductive, but she’s also dramatic. Next time I’m thinking Portugal – a month of weird blends, light reds, and things with names I can’t pronounce. Or South Africa, just to drink nothing but Chenin and confuse myself daily.
If you’re stuck in a wine rut, try it. One country. 30 days. Let your palate do something different. And if you end up romanticising lentils and muttering about tannins, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
