Frappato: Light, Lively, and Unapologetically Red

There’s a particular face people make when you mention wine. A little tight-lipped nod, eyes glazed over slightly, the subtle panic of someone worried you’re about to lecture them on sulphites and soil pH. And that’s fair. Because somewhere along the line, wine stopped being a drink and became a cult.

It’s no longer enough to say, “This tastes nice.” You have to know the altitude of the vineyard. The astrological sign of the winemaker. Whether it was fermented by moonlight while monks hummed Radiohead covers. We’ve gone from “I like red” to “Is this from the north-facing slope of Mount Pretension?”

And the worst bit? We pretend to enjoy it. We’ve all been there — gritting our teeth through a £48 bottle someone brought to a dinner party, tasting mostly of bark and secrets, because someone once told us that complexity is the same as quality. It isn’t.

Enter Frappato. Glorious, ridiculous, deeply unserious Frappato. The red wine that doesn’t demand anything of you. The red wine that doesn’t assume you’ve been to a tasting room. The red wine that would happily let you pair it with sausage rolls and not make a scene.

Frappato is what happens when wine gets over itself. And frankly, it couldn’t have come at a better time.

Meet Frappato: Sicily’s Least Brooding Red

Let’s be clear — Frappato should not exist in the form it does. It’s a red wine from Sicily, land of molten tannins, Nero d’Avola, and reds that feel like swallowing an espresso while being slapped by a leather glove. And yet here it is: light, floral, silly almost. The kind of wine you half-expect to come with a side of gelato and an apology for not being more serious.

Grown mostly in Vittoria, on Sicily’s southeastern shoulder, Frappato is the local grape they usually blend into Cerasuolo di Vittoria, Sicily’s one and only DOCG. But the best-kept secret is this: Frappato on its own is better. Because without Nero d’Avola’s brooding intensity hanging over it, Frappato gets to do what it does best — charm your pants off.

We’re talking raspberries, strawberries, rose petals. A bit of cranberry zip if you’re lucky. It’s wine that tastes like a Mediterranean picnic looked at you suggestively. It’s not just fruity, it’s alive — bright acidity, whisper-soft tannins, the kind of weightless texture that makes you forget it’s technically red wine and not some kind of spiritual kombucha.

But here’s what seals the deal: it doesn’t want to be complicated. It’s not trying to seduce you with oak or age or alcohol levels that make you weep. Frappato lives comfortably in the 12–13% ABV zone, meaning you can actually enjoy more than one glass without writing off your morning. You don’t need to decant it. You don’t need to study it. You just need to pour, sip, and remember what it’s like to drink wine for fun.

The Joy of Drinking Something That Doesn’t Take Itself Seriously

Frappato is the kind of wine that makes you question why you’ve been working so hard at wine all these years. Because drinking it is so simple, so effortless, that you start to wonder whether all those years of battling through bruising Rhône blends and tannic Tuscan heartbreaks were worth it.

And the moment you take that first sip, you realise: no, they were not.

Drinking Frappato feels like getting away with something. It’s so clean, so light, so outrageously drinkable, that you keep expecting there to be a catch. Where’s the bitter finish? The leathery intensity? The cryptic flavour note like “pencil shavings dipped in regret”?

Instead, it’s… just good. Startlingly good. Delicious in a way wine is rarely allowed to be.

It’s not just that it’s juicy — it’s that it wears its juiciness like a badge of honour. It doesn’t try to hide behind structure or oak. There’s no “wait for the finish to develop” nonsense. It’s immediate, generous, utterly friendly — and borderline dangerous, because before you know it, the bottle’s empty and you’ve told three people you love them.

And the best bit? It doesn’t care who you are.

You could be a Michelin-starred sommelier with a palate like a Swiss watch, or a stressed-out parent trying to survive Wednesday. Frappato treats you the same. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t whisper, “You should’ve served me with duck confit.” It says, “Crackers and hummus? Let’s roll.”

Frappato and the Middle-Class Flex

Let’s address the other reason Frappato is such a delight: it makes you look clever without actually requiring effort.

It’s still obscure enough that no one will have heard of it. So when you casually say, “It’s a Sicilian Frappato. Really elegant, kind of Pinot-ish but lighter,” you sound cultured. Worldly. Like you read wine blogs that don’t have pop-ups. You say “Frappato” and people nod, impressed, hoping you don’t ask them what they’re drinking.

And here’s the twist — you probably spent £13 on it. Maybe £11. Maybe you found it in Aldi while looking for balsamic glaze. But none of that matters, because Frappato tastes like you made an effort. It tastes like you care. Like you know things.

You don’t need to say you chilled it for 20 minutes because that’s how they drink it in Sicily. You don’t need to point out that it’s from a volcanic soil vineyard 300m above sea level. You just need to open it, pour it, and watch as people fall over themselves trying to name what’s in their glass. (Hint: it’s always red fruit. Say red fruit and you’ll be right 90% of the time.)

So yes, it’s a bit of a flex. But it’s the humble brag of wine — the kind that doesn’t make anyone feel bad, just mildly inspired.

Frappato With Food: When You Don’t Want to Think Too Hard

Here’s the secret nobody wants to admit: most of us have no idea what we’re doing when we pair wine with food. We just want something that doesn’t ruin dinner — or worse, make it taste like bin juice. Which is why most reds get relegated to Sunday roasts, date nights, or that tragic moment when you realise you’ve just opened a Cabernet with Thai green curry and your mouth is on fire.

Frappato, however, is not like other reds. It’s what happens when wine lets go of its need to dominate the plate and decides to be a team player. It’s got acidity, which means it won’t sulk next to anything remotely fresh. It’s got low tannins, so it won’t wrestle your food to the ground. And it’s got that beautiful red berry brightness that somehow works whether you’re eating mushroom risotto or a sad supermarket pizza.

Let’s break it down like this:

• Tomato-based pasta? Frappato. No question. It dances with the acidity like it’s been practising.

• Grilled chicken? Yes, even if it’s overcooked. Frappato forgives.

• Roasted aubergines or courgettes? It’ll make them taste fancier than they are.

• Fish? Surprisingly yes — especially oily fish like sardines or mackerel. It’s like someone told red wine to take a cold shower.

• Takeaway pad Thai or your classic “leftover curry roulette”? Frappato gives it a wink and goes, “We’ve all been there.”

You can even throw it at a cheeseboard and let it fend for itself. It’s not fussy. It doesn’t mind if the cheddar’s sweaty and the brie’s about to walk off on its own.

In short: Frappato goes with food the way a Labrador goes with guests. Cheerfully, easily, and without knocking anything over. Which is more than can be said for most reds you’ll find lurking in the £9.99 “hearty” section.

Where to Buy It Without Getting Patronised

You know the kind of wine shop I’m talking about — where someone in horn-rimmed glasses and an apron tries to upsell you a Slovenian Pet-Nat made in an old pair of jeans. They mean well, but they often make you feel like you’ve just failed an entrance exam.

Frappato doesn’t require that sort of environment. In fact, the best thing about it might just be how wildly affordable and available it still is — if you know where to look.

You can pick up a perfectly good bottle of Frappato for under £15, and a solid one closer to £11, especially if you’re not frightened of the words “own label”. If you’re feeling frisky, you can spend £20 and get something from a natural winemaker with a cult following, and even that won’t make you weep at the till.

Try your luck at:

• The Wine Society – reliable, not too smug, great descriptions.

• Majestic – occasionally stocks Frappato, often in a dusty corner labelled “light reds for chilling”.

• Waitrose – because if anyone’s going to accidentally stock something wonderful, it’s them.

• Your local indie wine shop – as long as you pretend you discovered Frappato “on a trip to Sicily”, they’ll love you.

• Online wine shops with names like ‘Low Intervention Love’ or ‘Château Chat’ – just scroll past the orange wine section and you’ll find it eventually.

And — whisper it — even Aldi and Lidl are starting to stock Sicilian reds that may contain Frappato, or at least taste vaguely like it after a glass and a half. The price? About the same as a Pret salad, and a hell of a lot more fun.

This is one of those rare wines where paying more doesn’t always equal joy. Some of the best examples — bright, fresh, slightly chilled — are the ones that don’t take themselves too seriously, and neither should you.

Frappato vs Pinot Noir: The Comparison That Ends Friendships

Let’s get this out of the way: people love comparing Frappato to Pinot Noir. And on paper, I get it. Light-bodied. Perfumed. Good with food. Loved by people who say things like “subtle fruit profile” and actually mean it.

But here’s the difference: Pinot Noir is needy. It wants you to fuss over it. It wants perfect stemware and just the right temperature and someone to say, “It’s very Burgundian” in a reverent whisper. It’s the diva of light reds. All velvet and tears and “my roots only grow in limestone, darling”.

Frappato? Couldn’t care less. You could serve it slightly too cold, in a glass that once held Ribena, next to fish fingers — and it would still be nice to you.

Where Pinot Noir is all haunted backstory and emotional baggage, Frappato is a sunny afternoon in a bottle. It’s more consistent, less demanding, and costs about 60% less. You don’t need a special occasion or a backup bottle in case it’s “closed”. It doesn’t close. It was never trying to be profound.

And let’s be honest: half the Pinot you can afford doesn’t taste that great anyway. It’s thin, sour, and has the nerve to cost £25. Frappato is like finding out the cheerful neighbour next door can cook better than Gordon Ramsay. It’s everything Pinot wishes it was, without the midlife crisis.

So yes, they’re similar in body. But Frappato is what Pinot Noir would be if it had gone to therapy, stopped trying so hard, and decided to just be happy.

Final Thoughts on Frappato (While You Finish the Bottle)

The thing about Frappato is that it’s hard not to fall in love with it. Not because it’s trying to seduce you — but because it’s not. It just shows up, tastes good, works with your dinner, doesn’t blow your budget, and quietly leaves before things get messy.

It’s the wine equivalent of a good friend who brings snacks, doesn’t make you feel guilty for canceling plans, and always replies to your texts. Unpretentious, easygoing, and surprisingly helpful.

It doesn’t require cellaring. It doesn’t require food pairings pre-approved by Ottolenghi. It doesn’t need an oak barrel the size of a Smart car. It just needs a glass, a fridge (optional), and someone willing to take a chance on a red that doesn’t taste like obligation.

And look — you can still be a wine snob about it, if you want to. You can name-drop Occhipinti, talk about biodynamics, wax lyrical about limestone soils. But you don’t have to. You can also just drink it on the sofa with something beige and oven-cooked, and it’ll still feel like a treat.

Because Frappato is what happens when wine stops trying to be art, and just decides to be nice. And at the end of a long day, that’s more than enough.