Though Toronto is often cited as Canada’s answer to Manhattan, with its dizzying skyscrapers, bustling financial district, and subway system that doubles as a de facto refuge for homeless drug addicts, I have always regarded Montreal as the truer spiritual sister to the Big Apple. What it lacks in hundred-story glass towers, it more than compensates for with beautiful old Art Deco architecture and a sundry food scene boasting bagels and smoked meat that more than rival their New York counterparts.

But for a Torontonian, the other great allure of Montreal, and Quebec more broadly, is the SAQ (Société des alcools du Québec). For the uninitiated, Canada prides itself on being a liberal, chic, and progressive haven, yet in most of the country alcohol remains regulated by government monopolies so centralized they would make Yuri Andropov weep.

The LCBO (Liquor Control Board of Ontario) may be the larger buyer, but there is enough daylight between the respective monopolies that shopping at one rather than the other can still yield discoveries from new producers, unfamiliar labels, and styles less commonly encountered back home. On this trip, two such bottles from the SAQ proved especially rewarding: a crisp Albariño from Spain’s Rías Baixas and a powerful Brouilly Cru Beaujolais from France.

Agro de Bazan Albariño Rías Baixas Granbazán Etiqueta Ambar

Hailing from Bodegas Granbazán, also known as Agro de Bazán, this wine comes from Val do Salnés. The oldest and most coastal subregion of Rías Baixas in northwest Spain, this Atlantic-influenced area is defined by its moderate maritime climate and is known for wines of high acidity and distinct saline character.

In the glass, the wine shows medium lemon. On the nose, it is youthful and medium+ in intensity, offering a fruit profile centered on citrus — lime, lemon, and grapefruit — with a distinct touch of orange peel alongside tree fruits such as apple and pear. These are complemented by flourishes of white blossom and the variety’s signature saline note. The wine is further framed by subtle secondary hints of cream and butter, derived from eight months of lees aging (not the norm for Rías Baixas, but a practice winemakers occasionally employ to add texture and complexity to their wines).

On the palate, it is characteristically dry with bracing, high acidity. It possesses medium body and medium alcohol, with medium+ flavour intensity and a medium+ finish. The palate mirrors the nose while adding an extra layer of stone fruit, particularly apricot, along with a fresh herbal edge. The overall impression is of a wine shaped by both high-quality fruit and intelligent winemaking.

If that was not already obvious, this is a very good wine; it is delicious on its own, but also a highly versatile food partner. Its high acidity makes it an especially natural companion to rich or fatty foods—chips or crips as appetizers are a perfect complement.

Domaine Les Garçons Brouilly 2022

The next bottle was a Cru Beaujolais from Brouilly in Burgundy, made from Gamay. If you have read Alexandre Dumas’ Three Musketeers novels, Beaujolais was always the wine of the people, while the more austere and lustrous wines of Burgundy were reserved for nobles. But despite its humbler place in the hierarchy, Gamay, when properly handled by a capable winemaker, can contend with the best of them—the pompous Cardinal Richelieu didn’t know what he was missing.

As a grape, Gamay is notoriously vigorous. Left untended, vines can produce such an excess of leaves and shoots that they begin to resemble a hoarder’s basement rather than a neat and trim French vineyard, ultimately diluting flavour concentration and diminishing quality. One of the most effective correctives is soil, particularly granite. Granite is restrictive and low in fertility, forcing vines to struggle, drive roots deeper, and channel their energy into fruit rather than superfluous foliage. The result is lower yields, but higher-quality grapes.

Beaujolais also has one of the simpler classification systems among France’s AOCs (Appellation d’origine contrôlée). There are three tiers: Beaujolais AOC, Beaujolais-Villages AOC, and Cru Beaujolais. The latter comprises ten designated villages whose names may appear on the label, signaling the region’s highest quality level. These sites also tend to contain Beaujolais’ deepest deposits of granite.

One such cru is Brouilly, and the bottle I uncorked in Montreal came from Domaine Les Garçons. In the glass, the wine showed medium ruby. The nose was anything but shy, with a spry medium+ intensity and an intoxicating amalgam of red fruits ranging from cranberry and raspberry to red cherry. At four years of age, the wine was also beginning to show the first signs of development, with hints of wet leaves and forest floor.

On the palate, the winemakers’ talents revealed themselves in a triumphant balancing act between mouth-puckering high acidity and, somewhat surprisingly for Gamay, high tannin to match. It is a testament to the grape’s versatility that it can present with such structure and maintain its charm. There was also clear (and appropriate) use of French oak, lending notes of baking spice, chocolate, and cedar. A generous finish sealed the impression of a very good, perhaps even outstanding, wine, especially at the remarkably modest price of $30 CAD.

I could happily drink this on its own, preferably by the case, but I also found it an excellent companion to a falafel pita from Yoni, a local Israeli spot in Montreal.

One posh region, however, to which I find myself returning for the occasional indulgence, and with alacrity is France’s Sancerre.

In addition to being fun to pronounce, Sancerre — sahn-sair — is a Sauvignon Blanc-producing region in France’s Loire Valley that I have come to appreciate for its evident quality, even as I continue to resent its steep price (they start at around $40 and creep up from there). Perched on the eastern edge of the Loire, the vaunted hilltop village lies roughly two hours south of Paris. Firmly ensconced in pop culture, it has been lauded by Taylor Swift as a personal favourite and was memorably dubbed a “breakfast wine” on Emily in Paris — neither of which has done much to curb prices.

To understand what makes Sancerre distinctive, it helps to compare it with Sauvignon Blanc from another region — most commonly New Zealand. Unless it is all you can find, steer clear of the mass-market stuff, such as Oyster Bay or Kim Crawford; Marlborough has far more interesting bottles to offer. And if the label specifies one of the region’s three principal subregions — Wairau Valley, Southern Valleys, or Awatere Valley — you can generally expect something more serious and made by an actual winemaker rather than a paint-by-numbers recipe churned out in megalitre quantities.

That classic New Zealand style tends to burst with gooseberry, asparagus, green pepper, and tropical fruit, all braced by mouth-puckering acidity. It is vivid, extroverted, and immediately recognizable. Sancerre, by contrast, can feel almost like a different grape altogether. Its acidity is still high, but the fruit profile is usually more restrained, leaning toward citrus and stone fruit rather than tropical excess. In blind tasting, I have even mistaken Sancerre for Chardonnay, which is always a humbling experience. The region’s steep hillside vineyards, many of them south-facing toward the Loire River, help produce wines of notable concentration, texture, and poise.

Across the river lies another region, Pouilly-Fumé, Sancerre’s close cousin and fellow source of serious Loire Sauvignon Blanc. It offers a similarly restrained style, though often with a slightly smokier, more flinty profile. Both regions stand far removed from the brasher international stereotype of Sauvignon Blanc as a vessel for pyrazines (aromatic compounds in wine responsible for herbaceous and vegetal notes) and tropical perfumes.

For a geographically closer contrast in price and quality, I would also encourage trying Touraine, the Loire’s more accessible Sauvignon Blanc option. Something of an inchoate Sancerre, Touraine is a much broader region producing simpler, predominantly fruit-driven expressions of Sauvignon Blanc which, while lacking the elegance and fineness of the Loire’s flagship, offer a viable alternative to Marlborough’s tropical style at a far friendlier price.

All of these wines also invite a range of excellent food pairings. Marlborough’s louder, more exuberantly aromatic style is a natural companion to herb-heavy dishes, from Asian curries to ceviche to almost anything involving green vegetables. Sancerre’s more restrained, mineral-driven style, by contrast, is superb with local Loire goat cheeses, salads, shellfish, and white fish, and can even replace Chardonnay alongside white meats such as chicken.

What makes Sancerre worth the hefty penny? Part of what you are paying for is consistency. Its relatively small size — the entire region of Sancerre produces around 8 million bottles of wine per year, compared to Marlborough’s staggering 400 million — along with strict regulations on matters such as planting density and pruning, and constrained yields, helps keep quality reliably high. The result is a region that consistently turns out very good — and often outstanding — wines with lovely texture, precision, and length. Which is precisely what makes Sancerre so enthralling: it is expensive enough to inspire doubt, yet good enough that I keep coming back.

How you enjoy your wine is entirely up to you. But if you’re feeling bold, adventurous, and eager to expand your boozing repertoire beyond your reliable favourites, here’s a primer to get your foot in the door.

First, for Ontario readers, a preamble on the Liquor Control Board of Ontario (LCBO) stores. The LCBO is the world’s largest purchaser of wine and the biggest influence on what wines are consumed in the province. When you enter one of these stores, you are greeted with an intimidating sprawl of shelves, awash in bottles, bearing every label from every wine region in the world. For the uninitiated, deciphering these dizzying hieroglyphics can seem futile, relegating you to choosing which label looks the chicest — or worse, comparing their sugar content.

Moreover, it only adds insult to injury that the LCBO’s “Vintages” designation is a confusing misnomer. In the wine world, a vintage — or the year seen on the label — indicates when the grapes from that bottle were harvested. Conversely, a non-vintage wine is a blend of grapes from different vintages.

By contrast, the LCBO’s “Vintages” section is simply their own curation of wines that they deem befitting for distinction. Ironically, it even includes non-vintage wines such as the dreaded Meiomi Pinot Noir from California. So don’t overlook wines outside this wood-panelled clique, as they hold some of the LCBO’s best-value gems.    

Beyond the vintage or lack thereof, the next thing to look for on the wine label is whatever words are in the biggest, boldest font. This will generally convey what kind of wine it is.

Here’s a general rule of thumb: the wine world is divided into the ‘old world’ — which is Europe — and the ‘new world’ — which is every other wine-producing country today. Wines from the old world are usually named after the region in which they are made, while wines from the new world are named after the type of grape they are made from. 

For instance, peruse the French section, and you’ll invariably come across bottles labelled Bordeaux: this is both the type of wine and its region. Bordeaux is predominantly a blend — also called a cuvée, to sound more pretentious — of grapes such as Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. In California, such a wine would instead just be labelled Cabernet Sauvignon or Merlot, based on the predominant grape — legally, the wine only needs to contain 75 per cent of the stated grape variety to be labelled as such. Winemakers will typically tinker with the blend and the ratios from year to year to achieve a desired flavour profile.

When judging the quality of a wine based solely on its label, a useful rule of thumb is to look at how geographically specific the label is. Wine regions are often divided into smaller appellations—designated and protected sub-regions dedicated to wine production. The more specific the appellation mentioned on the label, the more likely the wine adheres to stricter production standards and reflects the unique characteristics of that particular area.

Take Bordeaux in Southwestern France, a renowned wine region home to specific appellations like Saint-Émilion and Pauillac. Each appellation has its own winemaking regulations, governing aspects such as oak aging and permitted grape varieties. A budget Bordeaux might source grapes broadly from the larger Bordeaux region, whereas a higher-priced bottle may feature grapes exclusively from a Saint-Émilion vineyard. The more narrowly the grapes are sourced, the more the wine reflects its specific origin. This doesn't guarantee that you'll love the wine, but it helps explain why such wines often command higher prices.

To the disappointment of many wine novices, there is no single metric or label marking that can guarantee you’ll love a wine. Your palate is unique and evolves over time; a wine that delights you in your early twenties might lose its appeal in your mid-twenties and become less enjoyable by your thirties. The only way to know if you’ll like a wine is to take the gamble and explore.

But this unpredictability is part of the fun. As you sample wines from different regions, you’ll quickly discover a preference for some over others—Southern Rhône in France was my first favorite. You begin to associate wines not just with brands or wineries, but with their regions, embracing their sense of place, which includes climate, altitude, soil, and geography. This regional connection is why wine enthusiasts often obsess over a particular year’s rainfall in Tuscany like addled astrologists. 

While party staples like seltzers and vodka sodas offer predictable consistency, they lack the intrigue and dynamic complexity of wine. How often have you heard someone ask, “What kind of seltzer is that? Was that a good year for White Claw?” Wine, on the other hand, is ever-evolving. Even after it has been bottled and sealed with a cork, it continues to slowly oxidize and mature, subtly changing its character with each passing year.

As you embark on your vinous journey, remember that the world of wine is vast, brimming with nuances waiting to be discovered. Every bottle you uncork allows you to travel through terrains and time, from verdant valleys to ancient vineyards. 

But don’t let the jargon on wine labels deter you. The next time you’re at your local LCBO, be intrepid. Even if you don’t immediately fall in love with a wine halfway through the bottle, such distinctions between wine often blur into languid enjoyment. Wine is a lifelong journey of discovery that begins with a single bottle. Or two.

First published at The Varsity.

For Oenophiles, Curious Novices, and Avid Winos Alike

As an engineer my interest in wine first stemmed from a broader curiosity in how things work: it's all fermented grapes, so what accounts for such vast variation in taste, style, and price?

Over the years, I’ve learned a few things about wine. Things I am eager to share and discuss here, on my new blog, Between Bottles — whenever I can spare the time, between bottles. Follow me on a journey from Albariño to Zinfandel, and every varietal in between.

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