Last night I took a sip of Chardonnay that knocked my socks off.
In the past, I was not, repeat not, a big fan of Chardonnay. Too much butter, too much vanilla, often too oaky. Like licking a strip of bark slathered in butter.
Then came my Chardonnay revelation in the form of a white Burgundy that was included in the Tour de France of Wine tasting at Ô Château in Paris.
That Chardonnay was an entirely different creature, with its bright aromas of apple and almond, and hints of pineapple, tangerine and cream. Nothing like the over-oaked abominations from California.
So I've happily sought out bottles of white Burgundy, all the while carefully avoiding any bottle that includes the words élevé en fût de chêne*.
Then the other day, thanks to a local vigneron and her family, I learned that oak barrel aged Chardonnay can be a sublime experience.
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