Deconstructing Raveneau

The mission

Simple. Fly into Paris. Train to Dijon. Rental car to the Maison des Vins de Chablis. Taste through all 2010 producers.

The inventory

One clueless American. Check.
One effective tour guide (Eric Railsback). Check.
One suitcase full of clothes. Check.

The execution

United flight 948 pushes into Charles De Gaulle an hour late. No sweat. Get track shoes on; hustle to baggage claim and...no suitcase.

Cut to the front of huge line at lost luggage counter – inquire about bag. Smiling agent shrugs, “Je ne sais pas, monsieur? You need to fill out this form…but I have no more pens.” Grab the pen sitting directly in front of smiling agent. Fill out a questionnaire that would make the Spanish inquisition nervous. Off to the train station.

Revised inventory

One suitcase full of clothes. Missing.
One effective tour guide. Somewhere in Dijon.
One clueless American. Check.

Gare Aéroport CDG

I imagine that after a few trips to Europe – navigating various TGV hubs – a traveller could get the hang of this. But to a non-speaking first-timer under the gun, Gare Charles de Gaulle looks like Tokyo and Ring-Ling Bros. had a Parisian love child in the center of town. Different colored sections – bright red, blue, lime green, neon yellow – was this the Olympic pre-game ceremony or a train station? Any minute, I expected “the girl with kaleidoscope eyes” to turn up. It slowly sank in – I was not making the Maison des Vins de Chablis.

Revised mission

Tasting appointment at Domaine Raveneau

Observations from a fish out of water

The notion began brewing the moment I hit the tarmac, but it started taking shape on the drive up to Chablis the next day. Road signs – like Rorschach ink blots – seemed more fit to adorn a living room wall than point the way onward. Eric and I were all but strip-searched at a toll booth for not having a European chip on our credit cards. While a line of disgruntled Citroëns and Peugeots piled up behind us, a radio deejay was segueing from Shakira to Burt Bacharach, as if his playlist was stuck on random shuffle. At every turn, a recurring theme of passion and indifference – as misaligned as it was paralyzing. These were a people who oscillated between rigidity and the cavalier with unrelenting talent.

But, over the next nine days – somewhere between flailing and floundering – a new notion took shape: it was I who was misaligned, saddled by a foreigner’s inability to comprehend a deeper level of cultural regionalism. There is no pandering here. This is a place for the people. Everything on the inside is on the inside. Everything on the outside is on the outside. What a refreshing philosophy, really, to not have to be everything to everybody – to view the grass as always greener on one’s own lawn. When visiting Burgundy, it is all about Burgundy. And when visiting the brothers Raveneau, it is inescapably all about Chablis.

A brief history

The history of the Raveneau family picks up steam in 1948, the year the domaine was officially formed. Chablis had been previously mired in a state of disarray since phylloxera. Throw in a pair of world wars and very little money to replant, and the economic woes racked up. With the advent of the railroad, Languedoc reds found favor in Paris cafés. Frost decimated the ’51 and ’53 vintages. 1956 was a winter so brutal the Chablisienne were skiing down a vine-deficient “Les Clos”. The decision by Louis Raveneau to sell off all his parcels was as pragmatic as it was popular at the time. His son Francois took the road less travelled...

Love, it appears, saved Domaine Raveneau, or at least played a crucial part. Through his marriage to Andrée Dauvissat – René Dauvissat’s sister – Francois Raveneau managed to entwine two of the most renowned Chablis domaines the world has since come to know. In the process, he gobbled up prime real estate – some vineyards via inheritance, others by capitalizing on cheap land prices in the decades to follow. It was only a matter of time before Raveneau’s growing reputation would entice international interest.

In the late 1970s, Kermit Lynch found himself at the Paris landmark Taillevent, staring down a glass of ’76 Raveneau "Montée de Tonnerre." Not long after, Francois’ phone began ringing off the hook, but he remained uninterested in export for fear his wines would not travel well. It took Lynch years to wear him down, but – lo and behold – America finally saw its first allocation with the ’79 Clos.

Today, the domaine is run by Francois’ sons, Bernard and Jean-Marie. Jean-Marie’s path in life was well-formed from the outset. Graduating from Lycée Viticole in 1978, he was at his father’s side in the vineyard by age 24. The second brother’s route was more circuitous. After swearing off wine in his formative years, Bernard later deemed office life far too confining. With a name like Raveneau, a foray back into the wine world seemed inevitable. After a lengthy stint at Maison Régnard, he rejoined the family estate when Francois retired in 1995.

The Raveneau brothers split the family duties right down the middle, but if pressed Bernard would likely man the cellar and Jean-Marie would attend to the vineyards. Bernard has two children, Olivier and Isabelle. While Olivier lives in Montpellier, working in the tech industry, daughter Isabelle represents the future of the domaine. She works in the vineyard with her father and uncle, learning the jealously guarded secrets of her family’s terroir. Bernard proudly declares this her sole apprenticeship, and she will one day carry the torch for the Raveneau name.

Enter Bernard Raveneau

We pulled into Chablis an hour before our tasting appointment. Maybe the wake-up call in Puligny was a bit premature, but Eric and I were taking no chances. Cobblestone streets and funnel-shaped towers inspired a landscape more indicative of Middle Earth than anything I imagined from study. At 8:00 a.m. it appeared the hobbits had abandoned the Shire. All that greeted us was the bitter cold, a reality I had imagined from study and was thankfully prepared for.

The decision to thaw out before hunting down the winery was mutual. In the wee hours, the only known quantity with signs of life was a bar in the centre. Admittedly, this was a budding metropolis in comparison to Chassagne, whose population is so anemic the pins have to drop themselves. Here, we warmed ourselves with espresso amidst a few locals that seemed to tolerate our presence. Opting not to solicit the whereabouts of Domaine Raveneau, we felt trial and error was on our side in a town of 1000.

After fifteen minutes of meandering down narrow corridors, half the town was under foot. Not far from where our car sat tilted up on the sidewalk, we came upon an eerie wrought-iron sign that could have been a Halloween accessory had the gothic script not read, “Domaine Francois Raveneau, vigneron”. The scene of two Americans snapping i-photos prompted an unassuming middle-aged man to come over and see what all the fuss was about. He and Eric bantered back in French for a bit before I was introduced to Bernard Raveneau. Next thing I knew we all hopped in the rental car, off to God knows where...

The layout of Chablis

Picture the town of Chablis as the center of a shallow bowl. Leaving the village in just about any direction involves an incline, and vineyards surround the town. Running right down the middle of the bowl is a crack. This is the Serein River, which starts in the south and – as its name aptly dictates –“serenely” flows north to northwest through the east side of town. The river divides part of the village proper but sets up the outlying vineyards, much like Bordeaux, in dual fashion: Left bank, right bank.

The River Serein, flowing through the middle of town

The left-bank vineyards

Heading southwest from the center of Chablis, we narrowly avoided being t-boned at a roundabout. Bernard laughed in the face of death. I momentarily contemplated how we would dish the bad news to Kermit. Chalk outlines in the Yonne must be especially stark given the indigenous soil.

Near crime scene behind us, the terrain quickly became more rural – the incline steady and gradual. Enter the left bank vineyards: a conglomeration of premier cru and village sites extending from Beauroy in the northwest and winding around to Vosgros in the south. We deposited ourselves on an access road somewhere in between.

Facing Chablis, the view of the city and its mountainous backdrop screamed for a postcard. Our position on the hill could not have been more convenient, hemmed in by five of Raveneau’s holdings. To the right lay Monts Mains and its capable sub-climats, Butteaux and Forêt. The borders of Vaillons would touch to the left were it not for a narrow strip of village vineyards – the source of his recently launched AOP offering.

The conversation began to pick up speed as Bernard discussed terroir. The ABCs of Kimmeridgian are nothing new: Argile (clay) and calcaire (limestone) intermingle with a chain of chalk-abundant sea fossils from the Jurassic period. A closer look at the land reveals complex and intriguing variations on this theme, from vineyard to vineyard and even within the same site. Back in Chassagne, a soil map in the offices of Blain-Gagnard uncovers a patchwork quilt of argilo-calcaire in Montrachet and surrounding grand cru vineyards. Each of his sites contains different proportions of clay to marl to limestone – a different mineral composition corresponding to a different impression on the palate. The ancient soils in Raveneau's sites are remarkably similar. Erosion offers one of a few dependable patterns – a confluence of clay gathering on bottom-slope parcels and harder limestone at the top.

How this diversity plays out in Raveneau’s cuvées is the ultimate rub. As a blanket statement, argile-heavy soils tend to yield a richer, softer wine with an emphasis on fruit intensity over mineralité. The austere, racy side of Chablis derives from calcaire. Vaillons and Butteaux are next door neighbors at the exact same elevation, yet the two could not be more different in the glass. Vaillons, argile-rich and notably warm, is the first vineyard in the portfolio to be harvested. The result is a fatter, more open expression of Chablis – as accessible and fruit-centric as a traditional producer gets. Clay also dominates most soils of Butteaux, but Raveneau's top-slope parcels have higher proportions of calcaire than other parts of the vineyard. Coupled with an inherently cooler mesoclimate, the byproduct is a weighty but structured wine with piercing acidity and minerality.

At an average age of 45 years, the Butteaux vines are the oldest among these five vineyard holdings. While Monts Mains and Forêt are decidedly firmer than the village bottling, these younger vine plots tend to share a commonality of brighter fruit and a more linear texture on the palate.

View from the ridge

Backtracking through the town center, we crossed the river bridge and the highway – the grade is far more severe on the east side of the Serein. From Fourchaume in the north, flowing downstream to Vaucopin in the southeast, a series of undulating hillside plots pepper the right bank. Along the way, one particular ridge is steeper than the rest and faces largely south to southwest on a Kimmeridgian goldmine: destination grand cru.

Perched atop Les Clos, the countryside below is all rooftops and idyllic expanse. Gazing out at the horizon, Bernard brought up how much warmer the region has become. Recent harvest dates have been pushed up a full two weeks on average in just a quarter century. Even cooler years such as 2004, 2007, and 2010 lack the same acid levels seen in some of the great vintages of the ‘70’s. The trend is undeniably alarming, especially to a region defined by its clime.

Global warming is not without its backhanded perks, however. Of the many plagues that wage war on a weather-harsh region, frost is ever at the top of the list. In climate change, Chablis has found a natural kryptonite to its biggest nemesis. Bernard tells us the typical methods of frost prevention are less of a necessity than ever. Still, when the sun goes down on the 48th parallel, vignerons must be prepared to fight the good fight – the prospects of which, if not as problematic, certainly attack the bottom line.

One such countermeasure is aspersion irrigation, a clever gamble indeed. When the weather drops to 0° C, the vines are sprayed with water, forming a protective coating of ice. Using ice to battle frost seems counterintuitive, but vines incur damage at -5° C, and the coating bars temperatures dropping below zero. The perils of aspersion include blocked hoses, and wind threatening the accuracy of sprinklers. The subsequent damage, if spraying is interrupted, can render vines in a worse state than if the system had never been implemented.

Alternative methods of frost prevention harbor their own pros and cons. Chaufferettes – while a far more reliable weapon – posit a sketchy scenario. Imagine lighting a miniature chimney…that runs on fuel…in the dead of night…when pitch black and freezing. Fire-retardant clothing is not an option. Add smoke pollution and high gas prices to the equation and tallies in the negative column begin to mount. Running heated electrical wires throughout a vineyard may perhaps prove to be the lesser of evils, but the associated installation is an undertaking worth considerable thought. Estimated costs hover right around 75,000 euro per hectare – an economic nightmare mitigated by the long-term benefit of cheap electricity.

The right-bank vineyards

Turning our attention to Les Clos, we put to bed discourse on more stressful subjects. At 26 hectares, Clos is the biggest of the grand crus, yet generally considered the most long-lived and lauded. Raveneau’s version is no exception. His two small parcels in total comprise .5 hectares and sit in a very stony section in the northern part of the vineyard. It comes as no surprise that the wines are endowed with striking minerality and serious structure – they are almost impenetrable in their youth. When asked why Clos garners so much critical acclaim Bernard dismisses favoritism and exhorts us to ask the critics. I imagine the business side of the man as unopposed to the lofty sums fetched by his blue chip holding, but the impression Bernard leaves is that Clos is just one horse in a stable of thoroughbreds.

Blanchot and Valmur sandwich Les Clos from the east and west, respectively. Blanchot has its own set of quirks. The vineyard orients to the southeast, stealing the lion’s share of the morning sun. As it is the first grand cru to be harvested, ripeness is rarely a concern. During heat waves, however, too much of a good thing can leave Blanchot parched. Thankfully, vines with an average age of 55 years – the oldest Raveneau possesses – join clay-retentive soils in the procurement of much-needed water. The grapes, on the other hand, are more defenseless, and often prone to burn during heat spikes. Vineyard work, correspondingly, can get dirty, but in bottle, elegance and subtlety define the cuvée. While Blanchot bookends the bottom end of the grand cru ridge – basking in its exposed glory – Valmur hides in an enclosed valley. Raveneau’s limestone-rich parcels see far less sunshine and inhabit a much cooler locale than elsewhere in the vineyard. What follows is a very long growing season, but with patience comes reward. Valmur is, literally, chalk-full of pedigree. The profile – not dissimilar from examples of another valley-dweller, Preuses – allies density with delicacy and length. In the right year, Valmur can age as effortlessly as Clos.

Heading east from Blanchot, the ridge tumbles onto premier cru territory. In Montée de Tonnerre, Raveneau boasts both his largest and his smallest possession. 2.51 hectares of vineyard land is a fair chunk for a producer who – among all his cuvees – works less than 9 hectares in total. On the other hand, Chapelot, a sub-climat within Montée de Tonnerre, is an old vine parcel that produced a paltry 1,500 bottles last year. Such limited production precludes the possibility of export to the USA. Chapelot’s more generous parent fills the void, seeing wide distribution overseas. As its name would suggest, Montée de Tonnerre (“thunder mountain”) is not immune to the occasional bad patch. The vineyard was pounded by hail in 2010 along with much of the left bank. In general, this site, like Blanchot and Vaillons, sees plenty of warmth, and jockeys with the two grand crus for the earliest harvest date. Flesh and depth are hallmarks of Montée de Tonnerre, and it consistently outperforms other crus in its class.

Interlude

Leaving grape and vine behind, it was time for some much needed resuscitation before the tasting. The old familiar “Chablis Bar” prepared itself for our second visit before noon. This time the American tourists had Raveneau in tow. Street cred rising, we toasted our espressos with a renewed level of clink.

Back at the domaine, Bernard veered off to the right where construction was underway on an adjacent building. Hurdling painter’s tape and plastic tarps, we happened upon a crack three-man staff, retrofitting a drain grate. The head contractor was none other than Jean-Marie. He managed a “bonjour” before turning his attention back to the matter at hand – the rest of us catching first glimpse of a soon-to-be barrel room.

Le Dégustation

Since none of us were named Frodo, we found ducking through the main entrance mandatory. Down a steep flight of stairs, we descended into the belly of the whale – a belly conveniently lined with barrels. Though the traditional 132 liter feuillette remains the Raveneau vessel of choice, this particular cellar – the smallest of two – was pièce-dominated. Roughly 10% of the barrels purchased each year are new – the majority reserved for his larger volume cuvées, so as to dilute the influence of oak flavor in the finished wine. No true windows here. The only natural light came from sidewalk-level slits near the ceiling, in case the fashion-conscious wanted to peer through at the latest spring trends in pedestrian footwear.

Getting a feel for a vintage out of barrel is never easy. We tasted through most of the 2011 cuvées. The wines – hard and prickly – were still finishing up malo and therefore more homogenous in their character at this stage. It was another early harvest, alluding to a forward, open vintage in the vein of lusher, fatter years such as 2009. By contrast, the ‘10s are rearing their head for the time being in classic, terroir-driven style.

2010 was not without its growing pains. As previously mentioned, hailstorms punished Montée de Tonnerre and many of the left bank vineyards in July. The bulk of the right bank saw irregular flowering due cold, damp weather after budbreak. Bernard and Jean-Marie lost as much as 40% of a typical crop with grand cru sites getting the better of the situation. Lower yields translated into more concentrated berries. Despite a few warm spells, the summer of ’10 was generally cool with elevated acid levels prevailing. Comparisons to ’04 and ’07 are already being drawn, and the wines – still awaiting bottling at the time of tasting – certainly did not disappoint in the glass.

Working through a producer’s cuvées from the same vintage side by side can often be revelatory. 2010 – branded by words like transparency – demonstrated admirably what Bernard spent hours trying to show us in the vineyard. The AOP offering – a fantastic standalone bottle for its class – clearly lacked the depth and mineral backbone of its siblings. Monts Mains and Forêt were fresh and tightly wound. Vaillons was the most forward of the premier crus – Blanchot and Montée de Tonnerre echoed sentiment. Valmur and Butteaux sang. Both displayed incredible length, richness, and minerality – attributes bound to go dormant in the near future. Clos, already a sleeping giant, resigned itself to brooding.

Resetting our geometry, we then transitioned from the horizontal to the vertical. An exploration of Butteaux commenced, pitting ’10 against ’09, ’08, ’07, ’04...on down to ’95. In ’04 and ’07 we saw elements of ’10 further along in its evolution. ’09 Butteaux was a more restrained example of the vintage – a luxury afforded a cooler site. While some have dubbed ’08 a botrytis year, Bernard states adamantly that his last vintage afflicted with botrytis was 2001. In fact, ’08 ranks among Raveneau’s favorites of the last decade, alongside ’02 and ‘05. You get the feeling with Bernard that the acid-head movement is a young man’s game. Certainly, sampling scores of enamel-stripping whites on a daily basis might prompt a wiser man to shudder in vintages like ’10, but ’08, ’02, and even the overt ’05 display plenty of cut. For Raveneau’s palate, it is this preferred trio that represents Chablisienne balance: proper levels of richness and acidité, ripeness and structure.

Final Conclusion

Driving off to Béru, the last taste left in our mouths was the shockingly youthful 1995 Butteaux. As Bernard’s first vintage at the helm, this was a fitting cap to the day and a reminder of what great Chablis is capable of when cellared accordingly.

Looking back, the trip to Domaine Raveneau was my first introduction to French culture on a personal level. Beyond a winery visit, it was a man opening up his home to us. Somewhere during the tasting, we took a moment and asked Bernard if he liked to travel. His response was succinct and universally translated: “No.” This is a man who eats, breathes, and sleeps Chablis…and it shows.

Brian McClintic MS and Bernard Raveneau