Most New Yorkers of my acquaintance are unfamiliar with the normal lapse rate, which involves temperature and altitude. Granted, my circle may be confined to dunderheads — as I’ve long suspected — but I don’t think the normal lapse rate is the stuff of cocktail conversation even among a better class.

Likely this is because — you don’t want to hear this, I know — New York City is height challenged. For example, Manhattan’s highest point, once stripped to its structural skivvies, is just 265 feet at Bennett Park on 184th Street and Fort Washington Boulevard.

New York City’s pinnacle is Todt Hill on Staten Island. However, its 410-foot elevation wouldn’t give even a Habsburg hemophiliac a nosebleed. Still, it lays surprising claim to being the highest point on the Eastern Seaboard south of Maine.

What’s all this got to do with wine? Everything. Here’s where the normal lapse rate returns to the picture: The general rule of shivering thumb is that temperature drops 3.5 degrees Fahrenheit for every 1,000 feet in elevation.The higher you go, the cooler it gets.

This is why Californians have a fascination with what they call “mountain wines.” In California winegrowing, elevations of 1,500 to 2,300 feet — which is getting up there for achieving full ripeness in a grapevine — are far from rare, although they’re not common either.

Most grape growers shy from high elevation sites: Ripeness is hard won; yields are significantly lower; soils are sparse and rocky; and cultivation on hillsides are often complicated by steep slopes. The higher you go, the tougher it gets.

Why bother? Because some of the greatest wines made in California today — not necessarily the most famous or expensive ones, mind you — are grown at high elevations.

Why aren’t they more famous? Partly it’s a function of limited supply. Mountain wines generally come from small estates and yields are low. And partly it’s because these wines are highly individual. They don’t have the sort of universal, one-size-fits-all appeal guaranteed to secure high scores from all tasters.

If wine is, as Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, “bottled poetry,” then mountain wines are poems closer to what e.e. cummings had in mind when he prefaced one of his collections with the unapologetically elitist declaration: “The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople.”

When I tasted the following wine I had, after a single sip, an instant, involuntary reaction: “Gosh, this is good.” It got more operatic, if not necessarily any more eloquent, by the time the bottle was finished.

HERE’S THE (ELEVATED) DEAL

MAYACAMAS VINEYARDS “MT. VEEDER-NAPA VALLEY” CHARDONNAY 2003 — One of Napa Valley’s oldest vineyards, dating to 1880, Mayacamas Vineyards is probably what e.e. cummings was drinking when he typed the line “not for mostpeople.” I can tell you now that you won’t see high scores or effusive praise from “mostpeople” wine writers.

Why not? Because owner-winemaker Robert Travers agrees with physicist Richard Feynman who wrote, “The job of a scientist is to listen carefully to nature, not to tell nature how to behave.” Mr. Travers studied geology at Stanford University and knows a thing or two about respectful science. His vineyards, which he’s tended since 1968, are at some of the highest elevations in California. He’s not about to tell nature — or the wine that comes from it — how to behave.

Mayacamas Vineyards “Mt. Veeder-Napa Valley” Chardonnay 2003 comes from chardonnay vines grown between 2,200 feet and 2,400 feet elevation. What’s more, they’re old by any measure, boasting an average age of between 35 and 40, with a “sizable chunk,” according to Mr. Travers, of 55-year-old vines. Yields never top 2 tons to the acre. (On the Napa Valley floor growers get twice that yield or even more.)

This is California chardonnay of the old school. Mr. Travers uses just 10% new oak barrels in his winemaking. So you’re not getting the vanilla and coconut scent that new oak barrels impart and that “mostpeople” so like.

Also, Mr. Travers does not put his chardonnay through a malolactic fermentation, in which the harder malic acid is changed by a secondary bacterial fermentation into softer lactic acid. He wants the invigoration of malic acidity and the long life it helps infuse into a wine.

Mayacamas chardonnays can and do age for decades. To this day, the 1976 chardonnay, which had similar vintage characteristics of exceptional warmth of the 2003, drinks superbly and has an almost eerie freshness.

This is original, dramatically fine chardonnay like almost no other in California — or anywhere else for that matter. (Grand cru Chablis is the chardonnay it most resembles.) Lemon yellow with a hint of green, it’s a rich yet restrained pure-play chardonnay with a scent of minerals, lemon curd, and crystallized ginger that follow through in the taste. The balance is well nigh perfect, the zippy acidity playing counterpoint to the dense fruit in the mid-palate.

This is truly great California chardonnay in a style that too few of us taste because too many California winegrowers are, well, “mostpeople.” The price is downright cheap for the stunning quality: $32. You can order this wine locally from any retailer (the local distributor is Southern Wines & Spirits of America) or directly from the winery (www.mayacamas.com). This is worth hunting down. It’s one of America’s greatest chardonnays, bar none.