All It Took Was a Little Patience to Care About Wine Again

A Personal Essay

I have a saying I trot out with alarming frequency:

Patience is a virtue…that I don’t have.

It’s less a joke than a character reference. So it is deeply, cosmically ironic that the thing that restored my passion for wine is called Patience.

For years, wine was my obsession, my career, and my lens through which I understood the world. Then, sometime around 2020, that passion quietly evaporated. Amid a global pandemic, political upheaval, economic uncertainty, and seemingly endless crises, I found it increasingly difficult to care about the details that once fascinated me: soil types, fermentation vessels, obscure appellations, and the endless parade of new releases demanding attention. Wine didn’t feel irrelevant exactly—it just felt small. I didn’t have the endurance to sift through the slop of the outside world to make space for it. 

The disconnect became so profound that I began plotting an exit from the industry altogether. I enrolled in courses outside the wine world, declined press trips and trade invitations, and distanced myself from a profession that had once defined me.

Then, unexpectedly, a trip back to France’s Languedoc changed everything. The Languedoc has long felt like the anti-establishment cousin of France’s more famous wine regions—less interested in prestige than possibility. There’s sunshine, scrubland, seafood, and winemakers who seem genuinely interested in making delicious wine instead of participating in a luxury branding exercise.

The catalyst wasn’t a grand cru or a cult producer. It was Patience, an emerging style of Picpoul de Pinet that reimagines the Mediterranean white best known for its brisk acidity and oyster-bar reputation. It challenges assumptions about both the grape and the region. More importantly, it reminded me that wine is supposed to be pleasurable.

Not performative.

What is Patience?

No seriously, tell me. 

Classic Picpoul de Pinet is a vibrant white that’s practically contractually obligated to arrive with oysters. It’s bottled young, prized for its razor-sharp acidity, and consumed before anyone has time to ask whether it could become something more.

Patience is the cool and worldly older cousin that you go for walks with on Thanksgiving.

The first vintage of Patience was released in 2018, yet eight years later it still accounts for just 1% of Picpoul de Pinet’s production. The wines follow the same AOP rules as classic Picpoul—100% indigenous Piquepoul Blanc, white wine only, and no oak—but must spend at least six months aging on the lees. A small percentage of botrytized grapes is also permitted, resulting in wines with greater concentration and texture that still race across the palate with the appellation’s signature acidity.

Every Patience bottling is approved collectively by the AOP’s growers, who meet at least three times a year to evaluate the category and each new release. Alexandre Freguin, ambassador for Picpoul de Pinet, takes part in those tastings.

“We look at whether there are characteristics that need adjusting or whether a wine simply needs more time on the lees to reveal its full potential,” says Freguin. “Patience showcases the versatility of Picpoul within its appellation. It’s not meant to replace the classic style, nor is it trying to create a hierarchy. It’s simply a more robust, more gastronomic expression.”

That gastronomic quality is where Patience truly shines. Freguin recalls pairing it with barbecued John Dory during a dinner. “The lees aging, texture, and salinity create incredible structure,” he says. “The flinty, slightly reductive notes with the smokiness of the barbecue and the richness of the fish—it was absolutely stunning.”

He also likes serving both styles during the same meal. “We’ll start with classic Picpoul and oysters, then pour Patience with cheese. It’s unreal,” he says. “The freshness, texture, and lactic character from the lees make it a remarkable pairing.”

Freguin first understood Patience’s potential years ago while sitting seaside with local producers, eating oyster tempura alongside an aged Picpoul. In that moment, he realized it wasn’t a marketing exercise but a genuine expression of the grape.

The concept is almost rebellious.

“It’s a serious wine,” he says. “But seriousness often comes with a serious price tag. Patience can still be your everyday wine.”

From the outset, Freguin wanted the focus to remain on the grape rather than prestige. “Let’s leave hierarchy to other appellations,” he says. “Piquepoul is an indigenous variety deeply connected to its land. Ours is the only AOP dedicated entirely to 100% Piquepoul Blanc. It’s a dynamic grape that adapts well to sustainable and organic farming while delivering a real sense of place.”

It’s not lost on me why I became smitten with it. It’s a bit of a contrarian, not falling into a classification system, eschewing brand-name labels, uninterested in keeping up with the Joneses. Just an oddball outlier that happens to be serious, yet approachable and delightful. Harkening to the sentiments of art for art’s sake. L’art pour l’art.

While Patience is beginning to appear on select wine lists and in boutique wine shops, Freguin is perfectly happy for it to remain something of an insider’s secret.

“It’s always going to be a niche,” he says. “The goal isn’t to overtake the regional style. It’s simply another way for Picpoul de Pinet to express itself at the table.”

A Sea Change

I thought I had lost the ability to be surprised. Curiosity requires optimism. Wonder requires emotional energy. Those had become scarce commodities.

The headlines are still awful. People are still arguing on the internet. Climate change continues refusing to take weekends off. None of that disappeared because I drank an aged Picpoul. But for the first time in years, I found myself asking questions again.

With this more textural style, what foods might pair well with it beyond oysters?

How will this category evolve?

Could other supposedly “simple” wines reveal hidden dimensions if producers simply slowed down?

And that’s how I knew something inside me had shifted. Wine had stopped feeling like an obligation and felt interesting again. Maybe that’s its real gift. Not that it demands we become more patient people—I certainly haven’t.

I’m still refreshing tracking numbers. Still unreasonably annoyed by slow walkers. The things I say to people “parked” in the fast lane would make Caligula blush, as Morrissey would say.

But perhaps patience isn’t always about waiting gracefully. Sometimes it’s about allowing yourself enough time to rediscover what once made your heart race.

It turns out I didn’t need another cult producer, another collectible vintage, or another breathless prediction about the future of fine wine. 

I just needed a little Patience.