At first, I couldn’t understand why this Gamay is called “Canaille,” the French word for “rabble.” Then we tasted it, and four different sets of hands reached out to claim the bottle. I can’t help but think it’s called Canaille because this wine draws a crowd, and a thirsty one at that.

It’s nothing short of drop-dead gorgeous, and it stomped on three very respectable Cru Beaujolais bottling during the same tasting. Hailing from the Touraine district in the Loire, this sneaky little bottle packs an unexpected punch of velvety red fruit and mouth-watering minerality. It’s certainly greater than the sum of its parts—40-year-old Gamay, organic farming, neutral oak, a touch of carbonic maceration—which means that it’s held together by that particular je ne sais quoi that’s defined every great French wine I’ve ever had. And since Touraine remains firmly under the radar of all but the savviest Gamay lovers, it’s priced so that you can order a case and invite your own canaille over for an unforgettable drink.

The wine is red with purple reflections, and exuberantly fragrant right out of the bottle, even with a slight ‘bistro-inspired’ chill. No need to overthink this one—tannins are perfectly supple after two years of aging, dry and silky enough to pair perfectly with medium-rare steak frites but fine enough to enjoy without anything more than good company. Canaille bursts with muddled raspberries and cool earth notes on the nose, but drinks more savory, firm and restrained than you might expect on the palate. The old vines give depth to a bushel of black cherries and fresh nutmeg notes, each mouthful highlighted by firm acidity and a lingering note of wet-clay minerality. It’s a bottle full of easy pleasures, terrifyingly easy to drink and wonderfully hard to forget.