Thank God for fermentation,
Fermentation for the wine.
Thank wine for conversation
With these relatives-in-law of mine.
-Chris Thile, Elephant in the Room
To the great chagrin of schoolchildren with construction-paper buckle hats (if only they were aware), there is no agreed-upon record of the “first Thanksgiving” among historians. Many conflicting dates and circumstances have been proposed, but the Puritans who are often implicated were known far more for fasting than feasting during their customary “days of Thanksgiving”. Though harvest festivals and grand invocations of gratitude were certainly commonplace in early America, the tradition wasn’t officially codified until Abraham Lincoln made Thanksgiving a national holiday in 1863, at which time a date was finally fixed. A convenient date was chosen, it seems, given the battle for unity Mr. Lincoln was fighting at the time: the same date as Evacuation Day, the date commemorating the British finally leaving the newly united states after the Revolutionary War was won.
Economic interest prompted a brief switch to the third Thursday of November in 1939 (the fact that a global economic crisis rather than ample time between Thanksgiving and Christmas was the cause of Americans’ lack of spending was apparently lost on Mr. Roosevelt), but by 1942, the fourth Thursday of November was firmly fixed as the exclusive domain of turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and all manner of wine-pairing catastrophes.
A veritable river of ink (or plenitude of pixels, as the case may be) has been spilt on the elusive single wine to span the yawning gap between suspicious casserole and Cool-Whip-assaulted pumpkin pie, and I will not add to it. There are two rules for Thanksgiving in my house: don’t try to drink the same wine all the way through (why punish yourself?), and perhaps most importantly, only large format bottles may be opened on Thanksgiving. On this latter point I will not elaborate. Some truths, as is said, may be held to be self-evident.
For the Beginning: Champagne is the only proper beginning to Thanksgiving, and what a gift that large-format bottles abound from this delightful region. The trick is to choose a bottle that is large enough to do the job, delicious in the extreme, and not so precious that you feel bad opening a separate bottle of Salon to hide behind the bread box.
Our recommendation: 2012 Bollinger, La Grande Année (1x3L)
For the Sea of Casseroles: while we would recommend repenting of your sin by instead following the 1887 White House Cookbook’s recommendation to start with oysters on the half shell, we understand that some of you are beyond redemption. If you must drown your canned green beans in Campbell’s cream of mushroom, you should lean to one of the two extremes of the white wine spectrum: either an enamel-remover to refresh your palate between gloopy forkfuls (or, heaven forbid, spoonfuls), or an Hermitage-Blanc-level study in richness. For our money the former is better, and it has the added benefit of being the right pairing if you choose to retreat to the oysters mid-course.
Our recommendation: 2019 Benanti, Pietramarina Superiore, Etna Bianco (1×1.5L)
For the Stuffing, Rolls, and Myriad Bread Products: stuffing may not be as iconic as the Thanksgiving turkey, but it is certainly the most interesting dish claimed by the holiday. Roasted turkey is, well… not exactly a culinary breakthrough. Recipes for stuffing are as varied as family get-togethers, but the through lines are butter and spices. What else is buttery and spiced? Great white Burgundy. Buy as large a format as you can find from your favorite producer, as this is also the perfect antidote to your uncle’s political tirades after the feast, when everyone but you is conveniently napping.
Our recommendation: 2017 Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey, Chassagne-Montrachet 1er Cru, Les Chenevottes (3×1.5L)
For the Cranberry Sauce: when I unironically Googled “Why do people eat cranberry sauce with turkey”, the usually-hallucinatory AI summary at the top of the search results finally gave me something useful: “People eat cranberry sauce with turkey because its sweet and tart flavor contrasts with the dry taste of the turkey, and its moisture helps the meat from being bland.” The machines may replace us after all. But in the meantime, my friends – my fellow Americans – don’t abide a dry turkey. Brine your turkey. Better yet, smoke your turkey. Spatchcock your turkey. There are so many options to keep the breast meat moist. If your turkey comes out dry, it might be time to utilize your all-American freedom to throw it in the wastebasket and beeline for a Chinese buffet. But whatever you do, stay far, far away from the abomination that is cranberry sauce.
Our recommendation: don’t
For the Ham: American families seem almost equally split between turkey and ham as the Thanksgiving centerpiece, and while it does seem less thematically appropriate, a slice of ham is almost always the more flavorful and succulent choice at the family potluck. The customary hint of sweetness, whether from honey or brown sugar, is a challenge for wine pairing, so we’re calling in a Thanksgiving classic: Beaujolais. In reality, I’d rather go low-brow with this producer’s specially-embossed 3L bottle of Raisins Gaulois, but there isn’t one on the market at the moment, so we’re settling for the more stately Côte du Py.
Our recommendation: 2022 Jean Foillard, Morgon, Côte du Py (1x3L)
For the Bird: assuming you’ve done your duty and the turkey has been brined, smoked, spatchcocked, or otherwise ensured to be delicate and juicy throughout, the world is finally our oyster when it comes to wine pairing. I would have no objection to a well-aged red Burgundy or Côte Rôtie, but today I’m craving something with a touch of dried herbs to match the bird, so I’m reaching for one of the best Sangiovese producers in the game. Larger formats of this wine tend to be readily available, but I want significant age as well, so a magnum of 2010 will do beautifully.
Our recommendation: 2010 Montevertine, Le Pergole Torte, Toscana (1×1.5L)
For the Pie: there is a decent argument for enjoying pumpkin pie on its own, and finding a spread of berry and/or apple pies at a Thanksgiving feast is common enough that one must be careful to choose a wine that complements all three. Botrytis is anathema to pumpkin, and while something like a Banyuls might do alright with cherry pie, it would fight with the apple. So we need a white-grape dessert wine without a hint of noble rot, which is why we’re headed to the foothills of the Pyrenees mountains in Southwest France.
Our recommendation: 2016 Domaine Didier Dagueneau, Les Jardins de Babylone Moelleux, Jurancon (1×1.5L)
Whatever you’re drinking this Thanksgiving, and all jokes aside (except the bit about cranberry sauce, that was deadly serious) we’d like to take this opportunity to tell you how thankful we are for you. Without your trust and partnership, a wild idea like Grand Cru Direct would not be possible. Cheers!