Do you remember your first time? Do you remember your worst time?
Obviously I’m talking about chardonnay. My first experience with (American) chardonnay was at my girlfriend’s parents. Think fancy New England house where the wine came in cut crystal glasses. The Californian chardonnay, which was undoubtedly expensive, was fat, buttery, and so loaded with oak flavors that I may as well have been gnawing on the sideboard. Here’s what’s wrong with America in a glass, I thought.
Profligate, indulgent, coarse.
I tried not to grimace with each sip. The fairy tale of the Little Mermaid came to mind—how each step she took was like walking on sharp knives.
We all make sacrifices.
Over-oaked chardonnay may have turned a generation off to what is one of the world’s great wines. Countless times I’ve heard people say they don’t like chardonnay, only to have their worldview flipped when given an example that is fresh and lean.
Chardonnay is a chameleon. Or more precisely, it’s like a piece of Play-Doh—it’s waiting to have something done to it. Isolated and untouched, it has no form and no special character. For winemakers, the grape is perfect for expressing terroir, the sense of place where it’s grown—everything from topography to soil to climate. It is never truly one thing, but a multitude.