Whatever the reason, serious and even not-so-serious wine drinkers in this country not only abandoned pink wine, but also concluded that every pink wine was sweet and unworthy of any glass, be it Riedel or Libbey.

Cognizant of this underlying prejudice, marketers cleverly avoided the word "pink" in the merchandising of White Zinfandel – a far-fetched descriptor if ever there was one. White Zin swept the country in the 1980s, yet calling it "blush" wine was the closest anyone got to calling it pink.

The mere suggestion that a wine is pink is insulting. Unfortunately, that history of aversion has been hard to overcome, and aside from those who know better, pink is equated with putrid.

I remember giving some friends a bottle of Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne Rosé a few years ago as a housewarming present. I couldn't just give them the bottle; I had to explain that this pink wine, like so many others, was delicious and worthy of their attention and enjoyment.

I explained that in Paris the most popular Champagnes for very special occasions were rosés (even I had trouble using the word pink). I told them that the best Champagne houses produced rosé bubbly, albeit in limited quantities, and that those wines often commanded higher prices than their "white" counterparts. I told them that the best rosé wines in the world, such as Champagne and those from the Rhône region in France, were not sweet, but dry on the finish, all the while delivering great fruit on the palate.

In some ways I felt like a one-man crusade, determined to persuade my friends that pink Champagne was really good. Finally, on the verge of becoming pedantic, I just gave them the bottle.

In succeeding years, a few Americans have learned to appreciate and enjoy pink Champagne. Dom Pérignon Rosé, at $200 per bottle, is tightly allocated. More and more Champagne houses are releasing their rosé sparklers to the American market as our minds – and our palates – begin to open. Sparkling winemakers from other countries are producing and exporting pink wines so that they, too, can get a piece of this growing niche.

Notably, Freixenet, the popular Spanish cava producer has released a new brut de noirs. Almost a household name for its black bottle, this Cordon Negro sparkling wine is made from red grapes (garnacha and monastrell), and no one can ignore its beautiful, deep pink color. Nor can one ignore its affordable price of less than $10 per bottle.

Perhaps the entry of Freixenet into the pink Champagne market is a sign that America is growing up. But no one responsible for selling that wine – or any other of the same color – is going to call it pink. Such wines are to be called salmon-colored or pale peach-colored or, more commonly, rosé.

I, for one, would like to bring back the use of the term "pink Champagne." I can understand why, in France, "rosé" is the preferred word. Sacre bleu, it is a French word. But in this country, "pink" should be the verbiage of choice. And it's such a lovely word, connoting softness, quality and light spirit. Writers have used it with success. It was Oliver Goldsmith, in "She Stoops to Conquer," who coined the phrase, "the very pink of perfection." In defense, pink is a nice word and an apt way to describe a good wine that happens to be that color. I'd like to resurrect it and prevent Cold Duck from claiming a victory. But that effort is going to take time and a lot of tasting before people will change their minds.

Indeed, allow me to return to that bottle of Perrier-Jouët Rosé I gave to my friends. Some months after I had given them the gift, they invited me to a small dinner party, and they served Perrier-Jouët Rosé. I was hoping that, having tasted the bottle I had given them, they had liked it enough to buy another one for the occasion. I was wrong. They had saved the bottle, not because they knew I liked the wine, but because they wanted me to explain to their dinner guests why the wine was so good. My hosts were not about to make a faux pas and serve pink Champagne without an "expert" in the house.

I know that most of you reading this column don't drink White Zinfandel.

I rarely drink it, and when I do it's usually as part of a tasting for my newspaper column. But what I don't understand is why people who enjoy wine begrudge others their enjoyment when it comes in the form of White Zinfandel. People who want that pale pink as their wine of choice are sometimes treated like social outcasts, pariahs of the wine world.

There's nothing wrong with White Zinfandel, and there's nothing wrong with those who choose to drink it. Like other wines, there are good (such as De Loach and Beringer) and mediocre White Zins (too many to name here). We should just be happy that people are drinking and enjoying wine, whatever its color or lineage.

Besides, my mother likes White Zinfandel. It's the only wine she'll drink – with the exception of an occasional glass of pink Champagne.

Senior Editor Bob Hosmon is the Associate Dean of the School of Communication at the University of Miami and the wine writer for The Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel.