A dozen Belons, a crisp Chablis

Forty years ago, anybody who drank wine could speak at least one word in French: Chablis. That was the synonym for white wine, whether it came from France, Chile or the San Joaquin Valley, in a bottle, jug or carafe. Grape variety? Don’t ask. If you wanted white wine, you asked for Chablis.

Then came the vogue for varietals. Who wanted Chablis anymore? That, we thought, was just plonk meant for the sorry saps who didn’t know any better.

Eventually, of course, we discovered that true Chablis was one of the world’s greatest whites: elegant, bone-dry, with delicate fruit, a serious stoniness and crisp, palate-cleansing acidity -- altogether wonderful.

Especially with oysters. And Dungeness crab. And Petrale sole. And sand dabs. But especially with oysters.

Now, a new generation of vignerons is committed to making Chablis that will knock the socks off even dedicated wine aficionados. As a result, beautiful Chablis from a string of excellent vintages is showing up on restaurant wine lists and retail shelves around L.A. Because every vintage since the late ‘90s has been a good one, it’s hard to go wrong buying or ordering a Chablis. You don’t need to spend a fortune either. Terrific examples can be picked up at wine shops for less than $20.

True Chablis comes from vineyards in a precisely defined area surrounding the town of Chablis, about 100 miles southeast of Paris. Although it is considered the northernmost appellation of Burgundy, the wines have more in common with Champagne in terms of their acidity and the delicacy of their fruit.

The grape is chardonnay -- although you’d never know it if you are accustomed to the ripe fruit and wood flavors typical of new world Chardonnay. Chablis, slightly green-tinged, is wonderfully lean and minerally.

“You don’t find that razor-blade sharpness in California,” says Bastide sommelier Christian Rolland. Bastide offers a dozen Chablis ranging from $45 (2000 Brocard “Vielles Vignes”) to $195 (1998 Raveneau “Blanchots” grand cru). “I love to pour Chablis for people and see how they’re struck by that uncompromising minerality,” he says.

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the vines of Chablis grow in soil made of oyster shells. I have a piece of limestone from Chablis on my desk, and with a magnifying glass I can see thousands of tiny primordial oyster shells, fossilized into calcium. This is Kimmeridgean limestone, once the bed of a warm, shallow sea teeming with life. The limestone bed stretches south from the English Channel like a lost sea serpent with its back occasionally breaking the surface. Chablis is the largest island of Kimmeridgean limestone in France; Sancerre and Pouilly-Fume, farther south, are two more. Not surprisingly, Sancerre and Pouilly-Fume (both Sauvignon Blanc) are also great oyster wines.

American wine producers built on Chablis’ lofty reputation but ended up corrupting it. Between Prohibition and World War II, large wineries such as Beaulieu and Gallo began labeling relatively dry white wines as Chablis (sweeter whites were called Sauterne or Rhine). Of course, that was before the European Union began suing foreign companies that appropriated European place names as generic labels. By the 1950s, Chablis had become synonymous with white wine in America; use of the misnomer persisted through the 1980s.

Meanwhile, the Chablis appellation itself declined. The effects of phylloxera, war and competition with cheaper wines from the south of France steadily eroded Chablis’ viability. By the end of World War II, the vineyards covered just a fraction of their historic extent. But there was a silver lining: The vineyards that survived were the best ones. That proved to be fortuitous when a new wave of inspired Chablis winemakers set out to polish the appellation’s tarnished name in the late 1980s.

Wine’s character

The distinctive character of Chablis, that unique stamp of ripe acidity and flavors as subtle and defined as cut crystal, comes from two factors.

One is the cold northerly climate.

Like nearby Champagne, Chablis is located near the northern limit of the vine’s ability to ripen fruit. That not only emphasizes acidity, but also brings out an extraordinary purity of fruit, with delicate nuances of white blossoms, honey, fresh-mown hay and clean stony flavor -- the sort of subtle complexity that is lost as grapes get super-ripe in a warm climate like California’s.

The marginal climate determined the rigid classification (in 1938) of Chablis vineyards: the seven great grand cru vineyards (Le Clos, Blanchots, Vaudesir, Preuses, Bougros, Grenouilles and Valmur) are grouped together on a warm south-facing slope above the Serein River and the town of Chablis. The lesser (and less expensive) premier cru blocks are more spread out, with less direct exposures to the sun. Basic Chablis wines, or Chablis A.O.C. (appellation d’origine controlee), come from the coldest locations. Some of the cooler exposures produce wonderful wines -- the Brocard “Vielles Vignes” is a good example -- but ripening is more difficult. The vines producing Petit Chablis are in a commercially motivated expansion zone outside the original appellation where the pure Kimmeridgean limestone shifts to a harder version from the later Portlandian geologic age.

The clay soils derived from that limestone, and the pure chalk subsoil where the roots of mature vines go looking for water, contribute to the steely edge of acid-etched stone in the wines.

Like all great appellations, Chablis is evolving. A new generation of producers has stepped up to carry Chablis into the future; they are taking issue with the way things have been done for decades.

The main focus of controversy is oak. The use of oak barrels in fermentation and aging can have a dramatic effect on a wine’s aromas, flavors and textures. The so-called traditional viewpoint (actually, just a few decades old) is that overt wood flavor degrades the purity of expression that distinguishes Chablis; therefore, the wine should be fermented and aged in vessels made of neutral material such as stainless steel or well-seasoned oak that no longer imparts woody flavors. Wines from this camp tend to be leaner and steelier -- perfect for oysters.

The progressive stand, which is actually based on centuries-old tradition, is that the best wines of Chablis not only have the substance to handle oak influence, but they also are improved by it. These producers ferment and age their wines in new or slightly seasoned oak tanks and barrels, which are often lightly burned inside to give the same kind of slightly toasty flavor that distinguishes white Burgundy (also made from Chardonnay).

Producers such as Vincent Dauvissat, Domaine Francois Raveneau and William Fevre show masterly touches in using oak to support the texture and sensual complexity of their wines without sacrificing purity and nuance.

Yet less oak is better when it comes to oysters, says Jenny Benzie, sommelier at Michael’s in Santa Monica. Michael’s wine list offers half a dozen Chablis, mostly chosen to accompany fresh Kumamotos, Fanny Bays and other West Coast oysters. “Woodiness is too overpowering,” says Benzie. “Oak is butterscotch and sweet. It doesn’t pair with seashell flavor and saltiness.”

The good news, says Benzie, is that “you don’t need to spend a lot of money on a Chablis for oysters.” She recommends the steel-fermented Billaud-Simon ($38). “It’s crisp, clean, with a lot of minerality and a little chalkiness that pairs perfectly with oysters.”

If you’re planning an oyster feast at home, you can do even better: Du Vin in West Hollywood has a 2001 Chablis from Domaine Billaud-Simon for $19.99 and a 2001 Chablis premier cru Montmains from Jean-Paul Droin for $26.95. And Wine House in West L.A. carries about 20 Chablis, including 2002 Domaine Sainte Claire from Brocard for $18.99.

Washing down a live bivalve with wine grown in soil made from its fossilized ancestors -- now that’s the whole oyster experience.