The Third Thursday Alibi: Beaujolais Nouveau for the Deeply Suspicious

There is a particular sort of British wine drinker who hears the words “Beaujolais Nouveau” and immediately adopts the expression of a man being asked to admire a friend’s new conservatory. It is a look that says: yes, very nice, but must we? I understand it. The wine arrives with a marketing campaign louder than the actual liquid, it tastes of things that are not traditionally considered wine-like, and it is released on the third Thursday of November with the urgency of a lunar landing. In 2026, that Thursday is the 19th. The scepticism is justified. The wine is still worth drinking.

First, the allegation: is it a scam?

Not quite. It is a very old, very clever bit of French theatre, which is a different thing. Beaujolais Nouveau is Gamay picked, fermented fast and bottled barely weeks later. The whole point is that it is young, gulpable and available before anyone has had time to become precious about it. The race to get it to Paris — and then to London — began as a publicity stunt in the mid-twentieth century and has never really stopped being one. So no, it is not a scam. It is a ritual. And rituals, as anyone who has attended a British wedding knows, are only embarrassing if you refuse to join in.

What it actually tastes like, without the sommelier sigh

Young Gamay from this part of the world, made in this hurried way, tends to arrive smelling of bananas, pear drops and bubblegum, with a bright, slightly fizzy edge and a finish that disappears before you have finished forming an opinion about it. This is not a flaw. It is the entire personality. It is the vinous equivalent of a primary school disco: loud, briefly thrilling, and not improved by taking it seriously.

Serve it cool — not icy, but cooler than you would serve a decent red. Fifteen minutes in the fridge is usually about right. And do not decant it. Nothing good has ever come from giving Beaujolais Nouveau room to think.

The case for drinking it anyway

The third Thursday is, in my view, the best excuse for a midweek drinks party in the entire calendar. It asks nothing of you. You do not need to know about crus, you do not need to have opinions about soil, and you certainly do not need to spend more than about £12 a bottle. What you need is a corkscrew, a few friends, and a plausible reason to be eating saucisson on a Thursday.

There is also something quietly pleasing about drinking a wine that has not had time to become a status symbol. Beaujolais Nouveau cannot be aged, discussed gravely, or used to imply that you have a better cellar than your neighbour. It is wine as a cold drink with a bit of a kick, which is how most of us actually consume it anyway.

A snack table that does not require a chef

The correct food for Beaujolais Nouveau is the sort of thing you can buy on the way home and arrange on a board without washing a pan. Think: a baguette, slightly too much butter, a knob of saucisson sec, a jar of cornichons, some Comté cut into rough slabs, and a pot of rillettes if you are feeling generous with yourself. Add a handful of radishes and a bowl of those slightly sad olives from the corner shop. Nobody has ever complained about a sad olive.

If you want to be marginally more ambitious, a tartine of good bread, butter and sliced ham is entirely in keeping. So is a bowl of gougères if you happen to have choux pastry lying about, which you almost certainly do not. Do not let this become a project. The wine is not a project. The wine is a Thursday.

Finding it in Britain without a lecture

From 19 November, Beaujolais Nouveau turns up in most of the usual places. Majestic normally makes a fuss of it, Waitrose and M&S stock the better-known labels, and independent wine shops tend to have a couple of bottles with a hand-written card. Lidl has been known to join in. If you are ordering online, Laithwaites and Nicolas are reliable, and your local indie will almost certainly be delighted to sell you something you can drink immediately rather than cellaring for a decade.

A word of warning: do not pay more than £15. You are buying a wine designed to be drunk, not admired. If someone tries to sell you a “limited release” Beaujolais Nouveau in a wooden box, back away slowly and go to the Co-op.

Running the least solemn tasting in Britain

If you want to make an evening of it, keep it simple. Buy three bottles from different producers — a supermarket own-label, a Majestic house pour, and something from an independent — and pour them blind. Ask everyone to guess which is which. They will not be able to. This is the point. The differences are real but tiny, and the pleasure comes from arguing about them, not from getting them right.

Put out the snacks, keep the wine cold, and resist the urge to explain anything. If someone starts talking about carbonic maceration, hand them a cornichon and change the subject. The whole evening should cost less than a round of cocktails and end earlier than you expect, which is the mark of a truly civilised night.

So yes, it is a bit of a scam. It is also a Thursday in November, the nights are long, and there is a bottle with your name on it and a banana on the nose. Drink it anyway. That is what the third Thursday is for.