It may be obvious, but it must be said—there is no weirder meal for wine pairing than Thanksgiving. The entire culinary experience, from start to finish, is an unruly mosh pit of flavors. Our tables groan under the weight of an ungainly American bird flanked with cumbrous stuffings, slathery gravies, bitter greens, and marshmallow-enhanced root vegetables. The centerpiece is a jumble of proteins, carbohydrates, and fats laced with tryptophan, with nothing more than the shrill acidity of cranberries (an antioxidative trifle) to counterbalance the onslaught.

Is it any wonder that most wine recommendations tend to be palliative, a varnish heaved upon the meal like so much paint upon a Pollock canvas? You seek wines to gloss over the range of flavors the meal inhabits, while remaining sturdy enough to stand their ground in the battle of bitter and sweet, sour and salty—wines that can beat umami into submission.

This year, however, it is our plan to break down the meal into some manageable components and offer recommendations, dish by dissociative dish.

Turkey

Thanksgiving's main course is a challenge. It is, in effect, the “meh” of flavors—vaguely gamey, not exactly light but utterly lacking depth, and overall undemonstrative. This, oddly enough, describes a number of wines as well.

Take Carignane, the workhorse variety of Spain, France, Sardinia, and occasionally the U.S. Best in blends, look for Carignane from Priorat slopes in Spain, like in Buil & Gine’s affordable Giné Giné, or in the vivid old vine Carignane of Domaine d’Aupilhac in Montpeyroux, Languedoc. Closer to home, Broc Cellars makes a nifty Carignane from old vines, and Folk Machine makes a blend called Parts & Labor that thoroughly overdelivers (most of these hover around the $30 mark). 

So far as I know, tryptophan does not have a flavor, but in their levels of alcohol quite a few American Zinfandels seem to mimic its narcotic effect. Avoid those and instead go with Zinfandels that emphasize balance and elegance. Just about anything from Ridge Vineyards would do. I had the 2023 Lytton Springs last week and it’s gorgeous, a seamless, generous marvel for about $50. There are also estimable Zins from high-elevation vineyards with a Napa Valley pedigree. And Joel Peterson, founder of Ravenswood, has resurfaced with Once and Future, an old vine-focused Zin brand. (Any wines made by his son Morgan Twain-Peterson from Bedrock, which specializes in old vine blends, would be great choices as well.) 

Several other red wines inhabit the middle register for pairing with turkey—Oregon Pinot Noirs, Washington Grenaches, Reserva Riojas, Australian Shirazes among them. But I must make my annual pitch for the most cheerful wine on earth—cru-Beaujolais—which embodies the best of French terroir in an attractive, joyously vibrant package, redolent of cranberries, raspberries, and all the red berries. Like so many of the foods of the season, Beaujolais is mildly savory. It has an earthy grip but isn’t gripping, and it is the only wine I trust to go head to head with a giblet. There are ten crus in Beaujolais (you could also go with the “cru-Beaujolais” designation), but the sturdiest may be Moulin-a-Vent, Brouilly, and Morgon. As for producers, Jean Foillard, Yann Bertrand, Diochon, Clos de la Roilette are all standouts (expect to pay between $40 and $60).

Stuffings and Starches

Stuffing and starches are indisputably filling, but these are also the most comforting dishes on the table. That is why they require a wine with breadth as well as sufficient acidity to cleanse the palate after each bite. And that, for me, is a white wine. 

Your first stop should be the Cotes du Rhône, the source of blends of Marsanne, Roussanne, Viognier, and Grenache Blanc; white wines from Crozes-Hermitage and St. Peray; and even Gigondas, which is the proud new owner of a white wine designation that debuted in late 2023 (seek out the ever-reliable St. Cosme’s Clairette heavy blend, La Poste). American versions of Rhône whites from Tablas Creek, Troon, Cowhorn, and Kobayashi are good alternatives.

Italy has a wide range of heftier offerings. Consider the whites of Friuli, Tocai Friulano, and Ribolla Gialla in particular, or those from Campania like Fiano di Avellino and Greco di Tufo. The other place that comes to mind is Alsace, especially its Pinots Gris and Blanc, as well as its rich, dry-ish Rieslings.

Finally, more and more American Chardonnays serve this purpose, so long as they have acidity like the vibrant Sonoma Coast bottlings from Hirsch and Donum or Sta. Rita Hills wines from Chanin, Sandhi, and the Joy Fantastic. (A special shout-out for one of my favorite Sta. Rita Hills whites, Ryan Deovlet’s bracing La Encantada Pinot Blanc.) 

I’m going to make a special mention of Chenin Blanc, a white variety native to the Loire Valley that seems to have been crafted specifically for this feast. Its better bottlings are the perfect marriage of richness, amplitude and acid-driven energy. There is an active global renaissance for Chenin at present, with spectacular old vine bottlings coming from South Africa (look for wines from Mullineux, David & Nadia, and Alheit, among others) and the U.S. (look for wines from Lo-Fi, Bow & Arrow, and Lang & Reed). And especially wines from the Loire in Saumur, Vouvray, Touraine, and Montlouis, and producers like Chidaine, Huet, Pinon, and the late Jacky Blot.

Bitter Greens

Americans generally avoid anything bitter, but this flavor still finds its way to the Thanksgiving table. Brussels sprouts, chard, kale, mustard, and dandelion greens are, along with cranberries, perhaps the only truly healthy food with which you’ll stuff yourself this holiday, so attention must be paid. 

There are a host of wines where bitterness is a feature and not a bug, which often serves as a palate-cleansing foil against rich foods. In the case of bitter greens, they can offer an interesting, if mildly punitive, taste sensation.Most recently I’ve been taken with a savory selection of wines from the Piemonte and its environs—Barbarescos from arguably the world’s best cooperative, the Produttore di Barbaresco ($40-$70); Nebbiolos from Barolo and Gattinara; and in the Langhe, Barberas from Asti, Dolcettos from Dogliani, Rouchets and Pelavergas from the hills beyond Barolo. 

But perhaps the best match for the feast’s green end of the spectrum are the spicy, herbaceous reds of the Loire, especially the charming, well-built Cabernet Francs from Bourgueil, Chinon, Saumur-Champigny, and St. Nicolas de Bourgueil. These wines are known for their herbaceous aromatics, complementing a fruit profile of wild berries with the grip to support much of the Thanksgiving meal. 

And there is a new-ish category of Loire reds coming from traditional and indigenous grapes that are marvelously authentic expressions of the place, many of them blends involving Gamay Noir, the grape of Beaujolais, Côt (e.g., pronounced koe, or Malbec). There’s also Pineau d’Aunis, a bucolic varietal saved from obscurity in recent years by winemakers like Thierry Puzelat, which is bright and dark, fruited and grounded, and all over the place all at once—which, come to think of it, is a little like the meal itself.

Dessert

Lastly, there’s the minefield of dessert with its savory pies, mousses, cobblers, and cakes, most of them weighted down with more sugar than should be legal. If you must (and if you have the room), consider at least a suitable dessert wine. For me, that would be anything fortified, like tawny or ruby Ports, older Madeira, or the marvelous and underrated VDNs of Banyuls in Roussillon. 

The other wine, for which there need never be an excuse, is Hungary’s spectacular Tokaji Aszu, a dessert wine drawn from an ancient tradition made mostly from Furmint. It’s subjected to noble rot, aged slowly, and issued in varying degrees of concentration (the puttunyos system—the more puttunyos, the greater the concentration). It’s one of the most beautiful wines on earth, with flavors of orange and apricot, fluffy earth and frangipane, and some of the wine world’s most palpable acidity. It’s also a wine with flavors and textures that feel especially well suited to Thanksgiving’s mid-range, and whose grandeur leaves the end of the evening with a special glow. 

Note: An earlier version of this story appeared more than a decade ago in zesterdaily.com.