Like many who started their drinking careers in the late Seventies, I grew up – and threw up – on Mateus Rosé. I’ve still got the bottle lamps to prove it (in the attic somewhere, along with my flares and cheesecloth shirts). In those days, rosé was as naff and as cheap as could be and not only would no self-respecting wine lover touch it, no self-respecting winemaker would produce it.
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