The Race for Rosé

The rules were simple. Whoever reached thebottom of Gorges du Verdon first would win possession of the most exceptional Rosé in all of Provence. The loser, in turn, would return home with nothing.

The competitors lined up at the edge of Senanque Abbey: Archer Roose atop her moose, and her wine-hoarding nemesis, Luc Dou Ché, atop a two-ton tusked, wildly indifferent walrus.

Spectators had gathered, laced along the entire race course like colorful, waving ribbons. Rosé flowed freely among them, brightening spirits and bringing the afternoon’s air of anticipation to a fever pitch. With the bleat of a baby goat and the firing of a confetti cannon, the race was on.

Archer and her moose rocketed fourth, expelling a cloud of dust in their wake. Luc and his legless blubber hound waddled forward unsteadily, with all the fervor of an overstuffed potato sack. The spectators howled after them, a calamitous rhapsody of cheers, jeers and the inexplicable wailing of a single tuba. Concession vendors only added to the chaos. They sang songs of tapenade toast, honeyed nougat, and fine wine.

Though the onlookers were of every age and social circle, they were united by their love for sport and libations. The race was merely a reason to gather and celebrate—and for a few opportunistic older gentlemen to place their bets on a winner. And so, as the crowd craned their necks, transfixed on the final corner of the race, nobody dared to blink, stir, or breathe until a winner was crowned.

Before long it became clear that this was no race at all. As evidenced by the fact that Archer Roose was ahead by a veritable—and literal—mile. Soon she and her moose were greeted with a deafening cacophony of cheers, while Luc Dou Ché quietly steeped in the stink of defeat.

And so with her head raised high at the base of Gorges du Verdon, Archer was awarded a glistening mountain of the finest Rosé ever produced. A prize she vowed to share with the world.