Last month, I proposed a monthly column where readers and I would pick a wine topic, taste two wines that fit the theme, and then discuss. I put forward a somewhat controversial challenge — Chardonnay, Oaked vs. Unoaked — considering that for some, wine choices come down to ABC: Anything But Chardonnay.

My first “ah-ha” moment in wine was my introduction to good oaked Chardonnay. Day one of my first wine job, in a tiny Brooklyn shop, the boss asked what I wanted to drink. I knew nearly nothing about wine, but I had heard Chardonnay was “gross.” I said as much out loud, which prompted him to turn around, pop a bottle — straight off the shelf, at room temperature — and pour it into my glass.

I was wowed. What was this, liquid gold? It was the first lesson in wine: Only open your mouth to ask questions and taste everything offered. No judgments until afterward. I was also hooked, bit by the wine bug, and have never looked back.

Here’s what I’ve gathered since that fateful day: Chardonnay is the world’s second most-planted white grape variety. It grows in just about every wine region, in a hugely diverse set of climate and soil conditions. They call it a winemaker’s grape, because it responds well to many different winemaking techniques. That makes it capable of producing nearly any style of wine in every quality category. 

Given its ubiquity, multiformity, and notoriety, it might surprise some that it inspires a staunch group of detractors, especially in America. Much of this animosity is toward one particular style: Buttery Chardonnay. While there can be low- and high-quality versions of “butter bombs,” this usually describes a wine with medium to low acidity, full body, tropical fruit, vanilla, toast, and butter flavors, and a creamy, mouth-coating texture with a sweet finish. 

It’s appealing to those craving alcoholic baked goods in a glass, but unsurprisingly this combination can be very off-putting for many drinkers. The style may have been relegated to fringe wine circles were it not for the bigger-is-better ethos of the 1980s and ’90s.

The advent of Robert Parker’s 100-point scale meant overnight fortunes could be amassed should your wine capture high enough marks. Producers were on a proverbial gold rush to make the ripest, biggest, toastiest, butteriest, most intense wines ever. All the hype meant that everyone wanted on the bandwagon, even in the lower-quality sector. (Interestingly, RP never awarded 100 points to a dry white wine).

Because of the outsize impression of these wines, all Chardonnay has come under harsh criticism, and hence the ABC moniker. Most people don’t realize Chardonnay is the white grape of Burgundy, Chablis, and Champagne, responsible for some of the most expensive, well-regarded wines on the planet.

In the “New California” wine industry, many winemakers have looked toward these classic, Old World expressions as influences for their wines today. The best examples come from cooler sites, and demonstrate restraint in flavor, texture, body. They are decidedly not buttery.  

The globally recognized counterpoint to the ABC style are wines from Chablis. Always 100 percent Chardonnay, they offer lemon and green apple flavors; high, steely acidity; a light refreshing body; rarely any oak flavors; and almost never any of the butter, which is avoided due to the absence of Malolactic fermentation in the wines. 

It’s nearly impossible for anyone who craves crisp, mineral whites to not like these wines. There are few things more satisfying than meeting someone who “hates” Chardonnay, pouring them a glass, and making them a believer.

I picked two wines in an effort to showcase the best of what both oaked and unoaked Chardonnay have to offer. I had tasted both wines from past vintages, but not these exact bottles. They were chosen based on my understanding of the producers, regions, and expected styles, along with assistance from the sales staff at the wine shops where I purchased them.

Wine 1: Patrick Piuze, Chablis Terroir de Chablis, 2021.
Wine 2: Au Bon Climat, Chardonnay Bien Nacido Vineyard, 2019.

After opening them with a small panel of tasters (my husband and cousin), I really have only two words for you: I’m sorry. I can’t think of two wines that were worse illustrations for the point I was trying to make.

Wine 1 was harsh, green, overly acidic, and sour. It lacked complexity and concentration. It is the epitome of why many people don’t like European wines, because they lack fruit and have a reputation of feeling painful to drink. Or, as my husband said regarding the finish, “I think it’s good because I don’t like it to start with, but when you finish, it’s a sensation that it’s finally gone.”

To be fair, it was a product of a very cold vintage, with what tasted and felt like unripe fruit in the final blend. Wines like this have actually been difficult to find in the days of an ever warming climate. There was a lot of chalky minerality, and for those who love super high-acid wines, it was certainly that.

Wine 2 was even worse, and even more of a shock. This was a bottle I fretted over choosing for days. I wanted the perfect wine, something that was from the New World, with an Old World sensibility. The sales guy agreed that this would fulfill my purpose.

Au Bon Climat was established by a wine icon, Jim Clendenin, in the cool-climate California coastal region of Santa Barbara in 1982. After a trip to Burgundy in the 1970s, where he interviewed many of the region’s most famous winemakers, he was convinced he could produce elegant, restrained, age-worthy Chardonnay back home.

Clendenin, who died suddenly in 2021, was committed to picking for lower alcohol, spontaneous fermentation, and aging in excellent barrels. The Bien Nacido vineyard, where Au Bon Climat has had exclusive contracts on its best block of Chardonnay for decades, is Santa Barbara’s crown jewel.

The vintage is good, albeit somewhat warm. The wine, though, was terrible. Toasted wood soaked in pineapple, slathered in vanilla and coconut and then covered in baking spices, bounded out of the glass. Butter, yogurt, and cream were just behind it, and exactly what I had been hoping to avoid in my New World Chardonnay choice. 

To make matters even worse, the palate was just wacky; all those aromas swirled on the palate with dill, plastic-y reduction, and a wholly unpleasant bitterness, with a finish of roses. Structurally, the wine wasn’t all bad. It certainly had concentration, but also 14 percent alcohol and only moderate acidity as a backbone. 

If I was going to give this wine the benefit of the doubt, I would say it was in an awkward place and needed a few more years to integrate and unwind. Yet at 4 years old, I would expect a lot of the intensity to have mellowed out, and it would take a decade or more for that oak to do something better.

In the end, the lesson with our first challenge is that even the best intentions in a wine pick can be foiled for not entirely expected reasons. I’d love to hear from readers if they tasted these or other similar wines, and what their experiences were.

For next month, I’ve chosen another hopefully less divisive and more joyous discussion and comparison: Rosé, To Bubble or Not To Bubble.

Rosé has gone far beyond the sweetish pink California white Zinfandel and the pale pink Provencal bottles. It’s now made everywhere, with nearly every grape and in every style. The two wines I picked are representative examples of two slightly more obscure, but no less delicious, versions of the pink stuff.

Wine 1: Ann & Rene Moss, Moussamousettes Sparkling Rosé, 2022.
Wine 2: Lamoresco, Rosato, 2022.

Also, if you were wondering, my “ah-ha” Chardonnay was Stuhlmuller Vineyards, Estate Chardonnay, probably vintage 2010.