This is made like Raveneau’s
domain wines, partly in neutral old oak barrels and partly in neutral 600-liter
demi-muids. The result is a Chablis that’s both unusually rich and unusually
No press on this, but the
When I sat down write this,
my plan was to focus on the cold climate of Chablis. To write about how the vignerons
were forced to implement widespread anti-frost systems just to survive. Or
about how the traditional Chablis barrel, the feuillette, is smaller than elsewhere
in Burgundy because the local oak trees, stunted by wind and cold, never grew
as big as their more southerly cousins. I was all set to paint Chablis as the
wine region equivalent of Pluto, the outsider of the Burgundian solar system
following its own orbit on the frigid fringes.
And then the
other night, after the kids had gone to bed, my wife and I opened this
particular bottle, from one of Chablis’ oldest premier
cru vineyards, for a nightcap.
Yes, this is classic Chablis, where Chardonnay speaks with a clipped and flinty
accent, but there’s also a beautiful, sunny aspect to this wine that I was not
expecting. As I got deeper into the glass, I noticed a little floral note here,
a touch of ripeness there, and before I knew it, my carefully crafted analogy
crumbled. Then, pretty soon afterward, the bottle was empty as well.