Sancerre

I once had a friend, a distinguished Scottish musician, whose only wine was Sancerre. He served it at lunch and dinner. He bought it by the case. He knew its nuances.

Much as I enjoy a good glass of Sancerre, my friend’s was an enthusiasm I could not share. If I have an obsessiveness, it leans more towards the steeliness of a good Chablis, a white French wine  that can be considerably dearer (and sometimes slightly cheaper) than the average Sancerre. But why do the nuances of this undoubtedly sophisticated Loire interest me less than those of the white burgundy from what is really not a huge distance away? Is it that I find it too soft and silky compared with the grand structure and integrity  of a great white burgundy?

To accuse it of being a soft sell - the wine, after all, is not particularly cheap and in a restaurant, indeed, tends to seem quite expensive - would obviously be unfair. But to call it overpriced perhaps comes nearer the mark. Its nuances are not in themselves quite fascinating enough to send you out on a great Sancerre quest - something I would certainly be prepared to do for a Chablis. The sight of the leather-bound wine list in a restaurant in the Chablis area, containing page after page of possible choices, is nothing if not imposing.

Looking at the range of Sancerres  in a British supermarket, you know that you are likely to get something nice for around a tenner - Tesco’s  house Sancerre is as good an example as any. Sancerre is a very pretty wine, very pretty indeed, and much to be preferred to some of the more aggressive sauvignons of New Zealand. But if I am spending £10 or  a bit more in a supermarket, I am not sure that Sancerre - or its  sister Pouilly Fume - is what I would buy.

17 September 2014