I was looking back at a Raveneau tasting at Vin Vino Wine in 2015 and had to smile at the price stickers. 2012 Vaillons: $140 2012 Butteaux: $145 2012 Montée de Tonnerre: $185 I called the prices “sky high” at the time. The lineup also included 2012 Valmur Grand Cru—one of Raveneau’s great wines, and a highlight that day. Power and precision, an oily, buttery texture, and what I described as “crushed stones covered with honeyed butter.” An extraordinarily persistent finish. We finished with a 1999 Montée de Tonnerre - silkiness and complexity! But beyond the prices, what struck me was how familiar my notes felt. Seaweed, seawater, honey, creamy texture. Eleven years later, those are still the things I chase in Chablis. More bottles and more experience since then, but the fascination was already there. Have your old tasting notes ever surprised you with how much—or how little—your taste has changed? Original tasting notes from 2015: ironchevsky.com/2015/03/2012…

Are all ripe Burgundy vintages created equal? Not even close. I've been revisiting 2009 red Burgundy lately, and it's prompted a broader question: how much does vintage character influence what we taste, and can it sometimes overshadow terroir? A recent 2009 Méo-Camuzet Chambolle-Musigny 1er Cru Les Feusselottes was almost a Cabernet drinker's Pinot — cassis, noticeable tannins, yet unmistakably Pinot in body. Ripe but not overripe, with lovely acidity. Delicious! A 2009 Faiveley Gevrey-Chambertin Les Cazetiers was equally impressive, bit more savory and evolved, beautifully perfumed and balanced, with plenty of life ahead. Both made me reconsider some assumptions about 2009. But looking beyond that vintage, I think there's an important distinction between two broad families of ripe Burgundy: The opulent vintages — 2003, 2009, 2018. Generous, rich, often plush and approachable, though 2003 is an extreme case. At times, the vintage's powerful signature can make the distinctions between appellations less obvious. The ripe but structured vintages — 1990, 1999, 2005, 2015, 2019, 2020. These also achieved considerable ripeness, but often with greater concentration, tannic architecture and freshness. Many of the older examples have demonstrated extraordinary longevity. And then there's 2022, perhaps the most fascinating recent example. Despite the heat, the wines can be remarkably fresh, floral, precise and elegant. Of the excellent 2015, 2019 and 2022 vintages, 2022 is my personal favorite so far. 2012 offers another lesson. I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about it on release, but have come to appreciate the wines considerably more with age. A reminder that our initial impressions of a vintage aren't necessarily the final word. But why does any of this matter? For collectors, vintage variation is part of Burgundy's magic. Watching different years evolve, comparing terroirs across vintages, and choosing when to open bottles are all part of the pleasure. For consumers, especially those newer to Burgundy, I think vintage character offers something even more practical: a way to navigate Burgundy through your own palate. Love rich, generous, immediately expressive Pinot? Explore 2009 or 2018. Prefer concentration, depth and structure? Look toward 2015, 2019 or 2020. Value freshness, delicacy and precision? Try 2008, 2010, 2013 — or the wonderful 2022. These are broad tendencies, of course. Producer and vineyard still matter enormously, as does bottle age. And no vintage is universally successful. But Burgundy can be intimidating, with its countless producers, appellations and climats. Understanding vintage style can give people a useful starting point, rather than relying on scores or chasing famous labels. Our palates also evolve. We may begin by enjoying richer, more generous wines and gradually discover the appeal of cooler, more delicate expressions. Or simply learn to appreciate both, depending on the occasion. I've put together two illustrations exploring these vintage personalities and how they might help consumers and collectors. They're interpretive maps, not scientific measurements or vintage rankings. I'm particularly curious about one question: do powerful vintage signatures like 2009's become less dominant with bottle age, allowing appellation character to emerge more clearly? Or do they remain an essential part of the wine's identity? Would love to hear what others are finding in their mature Burgundies.

2009 Burgundy, 17 years on. Time for a reassessment? I've generally favored 2010 over 2009 for its precision, acidity and more classical expression of terroir. But several recent bottles have me reconsidering. The 2009 Faiveley Gevrey-Chambertin 1er Cru Les Cazetiers was gorgeous — ripe, perfumed, beautifully balanced, with plenty of life ahead. More recently, the 2009 Méo-Camuzet Chambolle-Musigny 1er Cru Les Feusselottes was equally delicious, though quite different: cassis, graphite, noticeable tannins, almost a Cabernet drinker's Pinot! Yet the fruit was ripe rather than overripe, with lovely acidity and freshness. This got me thinking about the vintage more broadly. 2009 brought unusual generosity across Burgundy. Chambolle gained richness and muscle, while traditionally firmer appellations like Nuits-Saint-Georges and Pommard often showed softer tannins and more approachable fruit. Did that powerful vintage signature compress the differences between appellations? Did Chambolle become a little more Gevrey-like, while Nuits became less rustic? Or did 2009 simply reveal different facets of these terroirs? And now, with 17 years of bottle age, are those differences becoming more apparent as the primary fruit recedes? Perhaps we've been too quick to judge 2009 against the classical ideal represented by 2010, rather than appreciating its own character. The best bottles I've tasted recently have been surprisingly fresh, complex and beautifully balanced. For those opening 2009 Burgundies lately: how are they evolving? Are you finding more terroir definition with age, or does the vintage still dominate? And has your opinion of 2009 changed?

Interestingly, this vintage saw 50% new oak, which may help explain some of that darker, more structured personality. Méo's Feusselottes seems to lean toward this style across several vintages.

36 years old, and absolutely magnificent! The 1990 Raveneau Chablis 1er Cru Vaillons was one of those rare wines that makes you stop and marvel. Golden with hints of copper, beautifully mature yet astonishingly vibrant. Rich orchard fruit, toasted nuts, subtle truffle and warm spices, with wonderful texture, a touch of salinity, and laser-like acidity. It reminded me of a great aged Champagne without the bubbles — that glorious interplay of richness, tertiary complexity and electric freshness. Raveneau is legendary for producing some of Chablis’ most ageworthy wines, and 1990 was a particularly ripe and generous vintage. Yet here was a Premier Cru, not a Grand Cru, showing extraordinary vitality after more than three decades. A beautiful testament to the producer, the vineyard and the vintage. It makes me wonder how many of us give our best Premier Cru Chablis enough time to reach this kind of maturity. Have you experienced similarly remarkable old Chablis? Huge thanks to Dan for sharing this extraordinary bottle. What a treat!

Continuing on the subject of Nuits-Saint-Georges…. Did you know that the entire Côte de Nuits is named after a village that doesn’t have a single Grand Cru? And the historical irony goes much deeper. Today, Vosne-Romanée, Chambolle-Musigny and Gevrey-Chambertin dominate the conversation about the greatest red Burgundies. Yet the region takes its name from Nuits-Saint-Georges, a village often overshadowed by its more illustrious neighbors. Historically, Nuits was an important commercial center of Burgundy’s wine trade, home to influential merchants and négociants. Its prominence helped establish the name Côte de Nuits, just as Beaune lent its name to the Côte de Beaune. But here’s where the story gets really interesting. Until 1892, the town was simply called Nuits. That year it officially became Nuits-Saint-Georges, honoring its most celebrated vineyard, Les Saint-Georges, whose reputation for exceptional wines had been established for centuries. Yet when Burgundy’s Grand Cru classifications were established in the 1930s, Les Saint-Georges remained a Premier Cru. Economic considerations and the decisions of influential local growers reportedly played a role, and efforts to elevate the vineyard have continued for years. Consider the remarkable chain of history: Les Saint-Georges lent its name to the town. The town lent its name to the entire Côte de Nuits. Yet the vineyard itself never received Grand Cru status. Burgundy has a long memory, but its classifications don’t always tell the whole story.

Is Nuits-Saint-Georges Burgundy's most underrated great village? Or does its reputation for rusticity hold it back? When we talk about the greatest red Burgundies, Vosne-Romanée, Chambolle-Musigny and Gevrey-Chambertin tend to dominate the conversation. Romanée-Conti, Musigny, Chambertin... legendary vineyards, extraordinary prestige, astronomical prices. And then there's Nuits-Saint-Georges. 41 Premier Cru climats, some outstanding terroirs and producers, yet not a single Grand Cru. Historically, Les Saint-Georges was considered Grand Cru caliber, but economic and political considerations reportedly played a role in its exclusion from the original classification. Efforts to elevate it have continued for years. But perhaps classification isn't the whole story. Nuits has traditionally been associated with muscular, earthy, sometimes rustic Pinot Noir — arguably closer in spirit to Gevrey or Morey than to the aristocratic spice of Vosne or the silk and perfume of Chambolle. Is that reputation deserved, or has it become an outdated stereotype? The terroirs themselves tell a more nuanced story. Northern Nuits, particularly Boudots and Murgers, can approach Vosne in refinement. In the south, Vaucrains offers power and structure, Les Saint-Georges combines depth with finesse, while Les Cailles can be remarkably silky, perfumed and elegant. Robert Chevillon is one of my favorite producers for exploring these differences. His remarkable range of Nuits Premier Crus is practically a masterclass in terroir. At a recent dinner, we tasted Chevillon Les Cailles 2005, 2010 and 2023. The 2005 was simply magnificent — vivid, juicy, beautifully focused and energetic at 21 years, with a long future ahead. A wine that could stand proudly alongside many Grands Crus. Which brings me back to the larger question: Is Nuits-Saint-Georges undervalued because it lacks Grand Cru status, because its more savory, muscular character is less fashionable, or because its best vineyards genuinely fall short of its illustrious neighbors? And among Les Saint-Georges, Les Cailles, Vaucrains and Boudots, which would you nominate for Grand Cru status — if any?

What’s your take on 2022 white Burgundy? And is 2017 making a case as the most satisfying red Burgundy vintage to drink right now? An excellent Wine & Food Society dinner at SF’s French Club gave me plenty to think about. 2022 Jean-Michel Gaunoux Meursault 1er Cru Gouttes d’Or, with lobster. Jean-Michel established his domaine in 1990 after working with his father François; his son Henri now makes the wines. Traditional methods, modest new oak. Gouttes d’Or—“drops of gold”—is a small, east-facing premier cru with clay-rich soils over limestone. This bottle delivered beautiful richness balanced by freshness, with a hint of toast. A wonderful partner for lobster, and another reason I’m enjoying 2022 whites. 2017 Lamarche Vosne-Romanée village and 1er Cru Les Suchots, with duck confit. Still bearing the François Lamarche name, these were already Nicole’s wines. Her emphasis on fragrance, elegance and refinement makes an appealing match for the accessible character of 2017. The village was classic and satisfying. Suchots brought distinctly more depth: darker, richer, more concentrated, almost plummy. This premier cru sits between illustrious grand cru neighbors—Échezeaux, Richebourg and Romanée-St-Vivant—and here it had the presence to match the intensely savory duck. Classic Burgundy, classic pairings. Both vintages giving a lot of pleasure.

What makes a truly great Champagne? For me, it’s not just acidity or richness — it’s having both in abundance. We kicked off an extraordinary Burgundy dinner at Scott’s with a revelation: 2013 Veuve Fourny & Fils Cuvée du Clos Notre Dame, from a tiny 0.29-hectare monopole in Vertus, Côte des Blancs. 100% Chardonnay, oak vinification, extended lees aging, just 3 g/L dosage. Absolutely stellar! Deeply vinous, with luscious ripe fruit, beautiful texture, and exhilarating acidity that keeps everything vibrant and precise. Rich without heaviness, powerful without sacrificing finesse. Delicious now, yet I can easily see another 20 years of evolution. It reminded me of the magnificent 2008 Bollinger R.D. — a very different expression, but that same thrilling combination of ripe fruit, vinosity, freshness and structure. I’m increasingly realizing this is my Champagne sweet spot. Egly-Ouriet, Bérêche, Fallet-Dart, André Clouet 1911, and a memorable 2010 Cœur de Mesnil — very different Champagnes, yet all delivering that wonderful marriage of richness and tension. I loved the Fourny so much I immediately hunted down a couple more bottles for the cellar! What other Champagnes deliver this combination of ripe, vinous depth and electric acidity? Any overlooked gems I should be hunting down?

Is 2005 Burgundy finally having its moment? After the Raveneau vertical, we moved on to another remarkable trio: Robert Chevillon Nuits-Saint-Georges 1er Cru Les Cailles — 2005, 2010, 2023. With beautifully roasted quail. 2005 — Perfection! Vivid, juicy, beautifully focused and full of energy. Remarkable vitality at 21 years, with a long life still ahead. My clear WOTN. 2010 — Well balanced, but comparatively muted. Less expressive and less focused than the 2005, which simply had another gear. 2023 — Quite lovely already. Naturally more fruit-forward, but not excessively ripe. A promising young wine. What surprised me was that the 2005 wasn’t merely more powerful — it was more vibrant, expressive and precise than the 2010. Are your 2005 Burgundies finally coming into their own, or are you still finding them stubbornly closed?

Last night at Scott & Kate’s: all-you-can-eat Hog Island oysters and all-you-can-drink Raveneau. Simple, classic, perfect. Life is good! A fascinating mini-vertical of Raveneau Chablis 1er Cru Montée de Tonnerre: 2010, 2014, 2023. All excellent, yet remarkably different. 2010 — My WOTN. Delicate white fruit, verbena, lychee, almond. The least overtly fruity of the three, but the most captivating aromatically. Beautiful complexity. 2014 — Perhaps the most classically Chablis of the lineup. Beautifully balanced, yellow fruit, structure and precision. Still youthful, with a long road ahead. 2023 — The ripest and most generous, with delicious orchard fruit. A very enjoyable young Raveneau. Interesting that I preferred the 2010 today, while the 2014 may have the greatest future. Three exceptional wines, three very different expressions of the same vineyard. Which vintage of Raveneau — or Chablis generally — is your favorite of the 21st century, and why?

Does pork actually give you more wine freedom than steak? Tonight made a pretty good case. Thick bone-in pork chops: brined first, then marinated for 2–3 days, smoked at 225°F for about an hour, moved to a 375°F oven while being basted with a Mongolian-style glaze of hoisin, soy, Worcestershire, mustard, citrus, garlic and a little chili heat, then finished with a hard sear to about 145°F. Smoky, sweet-savory, tangy, deeply caramelized outside — still juicy inside. And two completely different wines both worked: 2022 Protos Verdejo Reserva — a richer, more serious take on Verdejo from Rueda, with herbal notes, almond, texture and enough acidity to cut through the glaze and pork. 2020 Clos Puy Arnaud — biodynamic Castillon Côtes de Bordeaux, Merlot-led and much more savory than plush: dark fruit, herbs, earth and structure that played beautifully with the smoke, char and umami. Pork seems to occupy a sweet spot: enough richness for a serious red, but not so dominant that a substantial white gets overwhelmed. What’s your favorite wine pairing with pork?

Why does rosé get no respect? We still tend to put it in the “summer, poolside, drink it cold and young” box. But some of my favorite rosés over the years have been very different wines: Tempier / Pradeaux, Bandol — Mourvèdre-driven, structured, savory, ageworthy. Clos Cibonne, Provence — mostly Tibouren, aged in old foudres, with real texture and development. Ridge Lytton Estate Rosé — direct-pressed and picked for freshness, but still very much an expression of a serious vineyard. Nervi-Conterno Il Rosato, Gattinara — Nebbiolo from northern Piemonte, with acidity, savory character and a real sense of grape and place. Domaine de la Mordorée, Tavel — southern Rhône rosé in a completely different register: deeper, richer, more extracted and structured, sometimes almost closer in spirit to a light red. Tavel is also an appellation devoted entirely to rosé. And then there’s rosé Champagne and other serious sparkling rosé — yet another world, with different methods and ambitions. The winemaking can vary enormously too: direct press, short skin contact, saignée, blending in some sparkling wines, different aging vessels, different goals. A recent discussion here has also given me a few more to explore: PYCM Rosé de Pinot Noir, Joseph Roty Marsannay Rosé, Marisa Cuomo Costa d’Amalfi Rosato, and Terre Nere Etna Rosato. So why does rosé still get treated as somehow less serious than white or red? What rosé made you take the category seriously?

Raw oysters have plenty of classic pairings. But for BBQ oysters? The 2025 Nervi-Conterno Il Rosato at Tony’s in Marshall might be my answer. Nervi is the historic Gattinara estate now owned by Roberto Conterno, working with Nebbiolo from the volcanic soils of Alto Piemonte — wines that tend to have a distinctly lifted, savory, mineral character. Tony’s, meanwhile, has been sitting on Tomales Bay since 1948, and today is part of Hog Island, whose oysters are farmed right there in the bay. Salty, smoky, sweet and briny oysters against bright citrus, red fruit, acidity and that savory Gattinara edge. Two very different places, somehow speaking the same language. What would you pour instead?