In my column last week, I employed the phrase “moderate rock star” to describe the status of a certain French winemaker. A friend called me on the wording, asking whether such a description might be oxymoronic. I don’t think so, I said, thinking of musicians below the Timberlake/Springsteen/Adele level who nonetheless have powerful charisma and legions of avid followers. I thought of John Darnielle or Merrill Garbus; my friend thought of Elvis Costello. The arenas are smaller and the outlook is a bit bookish, but the potential for liberation runs high all the same.

By that definition, the wine under discussion today, Chinon, is a moderate rock star. Chinon will never threaten the prestige of Napa, Burgundy, Champagne or Montalcino. But its wines are incredible. Good wines from Chinon make you want to jump up and down, hug whoever is next to you, eat a lot of food, and also pay careful attention. It’s the vinous equivalent of a finding yourself at a concert you never planned on attending, given by someone you’d barely heard of, and emerging to find yourself shaken, changed, wondering why you didn’t know about this before. And then you go tell all your friends they need to start listening, intently.

At some point you recognize that your enthusiasm, though fervid, will never be shared by everyone, not even by every one of your friends. Chinon is not for all. The Loire Valley region’s red wines, always from 100 percent cabernet franc grapes, are bracingly distinct – I can’t think of a red wine in its youth that is as easy to recognize blind – and they don’t necessarily aim to please. Neither did Elvis Costello, though he aimed to be true.

Chinon lies on a southern offshoot of the Loire River, in a cool area known for significant vintage variation. The vintage now being released, 2014, is one of the best ever.

Cabernet franc grapes don’t have tons of sugar. They ripen early. And, even when brought to thorough ripeness before harvest, they pack an inherent punch of green, herbal notes. Chinon from a cool, wet year is too green and stemmy. Chinon from a relatively warm, dry year still reminds one of vegetables, but joins that facet to fruit notes of fresh raspberries and roasted tomato, floral aspects of violets and lilies, and dry wood in a fire.

And always, pepper. Cracked black pepper is a hallmark of Chinon’s flavor profile, as are pink and white peppercorn, even tiny brined green peppercorn. Bad Chinon overwhelms with raw green bell pepper, but good Chinon suggests the refreshing pop of a green pepper without pushing it too hard. Chinon from good vintages has the structure and depth to age magnificently, for 9 to 15 years, at which point the pepper aspect gets roasted red. (Yes, I’m aware that peppercorns are botanically distinct from bell and chili peppers. But the flavor character – a tangy bite, a touch of smoke, a fresh green snap – is similar, to me at least.)

To love Chinon, you must love pepper, and you must like your red wine very dry. But you also need to fall for fragrance, because Chinon’s aromatic profile is so extravagant, I’d almost be happy never actually drinking from a wide glass of it. Intense perfume is almost weaponized in Chinon’s case, so pervasive and encompassing is its power. The scent of flowers is stunning, but there’s something else going on, too: a savage note, feral and raw. How can something be simultaneously so pretty and so piercing? Chinon has an answer.

Chinon is not the first category I’d turn to for meal-free sipping, but the wines are some of the world’s most versatile with food around. Beaujolais, Dolcetto and Chinon form my Holy Trinity for red wines that play nice with just about anything. Indeed, part of the reason that Chinon does, truly, possess rock-star status in certain circles is that these wines are a sommelier’s dream, especially with multifaceted dishes that include fresh herbs. Its soft textures, medium body, and low alcohol (rarely does a Chinon exceed 12.5 percent) nuzzle up to fish and casual fare. The inimitable leafy flavor notes are a wonder with cooked vegetables. The slight earthy quality of Chinon goes with all manner of legumes, while the firewood tone and etched, charcoal note help alongside grilled poultry, tuna and rare steak. Peperonata, caponata, shakshuka, puttanesca, enchiladas, chiles rellenos, steak au poivre – all the world’s great pepper-based dishes are dreamy with Chinon.

Best of all, Chinons are exceptional wine values. Truly excellent wines can be had for $15, wines that will exalt next Tuesday night or a Tuesday night four years from now. No less value-driven are the region’s highest expressions. My reverie today is partially a result of the wine I’ve been drinking over the past few nights, a single-vineyard Chinon 2003 (the “Les Varennes du Grand Clos”) from the great Charles Joguet.

Joguet was a pioneer in vinifying small Chinon parcels separately, to emphasize terroir nuances. His vineyard also has very old vines that produce low yields, and élevage (the French term for taking wine from fermentation to bottling) takes place in large, used oak. The aromatics in his wines are extraordinary, but what stands out most is the depth of its integration, a wine now 12 years old, brought together the way great Bordeaux comes together – damp tobacco, worn cedar, sweet and smooth – though for a fraction of great Bordeaux’s prices and in a fraction of the time. Joguet’s 2013 mixed-parcel wine, the Cuvée Terroir, is available for $22, while a vintage of that single-plot wine I drank this week, the “Les Varennes du Grand Clos” 2010, can be had for a mere $47 – a true bargain.

For a lower-priced bottle, I have long admired (and have previously written about an earlier, lesser vintage) the Domaine de Pallus Messanges Rouge Chinon 2014 ($15). It’s bracing, precise and somewhat intellectual, with a touch of animal on the nose amid the flowers, then white pepper, cranberries, dry twigs.

For a rather more sumptuous, sensual expression, I turn to the Clos de la Lysardière Chinon 2014 ($15). A saturated texture, weighty and luxe, envelops the palate, though the alcohol level is at the usual low end. Most Chinon is purple, but this wine extends the color into the fruit character itself, plummy and viscous. Little of Chinon’s greenness is here, but the wine is woodsy, with the smoke of a fireplace.

The most lean and elegant Chinon I’ve drunk recently is the Alan Lorieux “Théleme” Chinon 2011. In neither character nor price ($28) is it My First Chinon, for it leans hard toward the intellectual end of a wine category that already has a tendency to go brainy. Angular and porous, it doesn’t give you a huge hug right off the bat. Rather, it stays composed and graceful, with an incredibly long finish extending past ample doses of white pepper and sage. Softening a bit after an hour open, it reminds me of how much there is to learn from Chinon in its second set, after hooking you with the first few songs.

Joe Appel is the Wine Buyer at Rosemont Market. He can be contacted at:

soulofwine.appel@gmail.com

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