Cellar Raider Vol. 1

Chapoutier's Hermitage Chante-Alouette hails from the Northern Rhône, entirely crafted from Marsanne grown on the storied slopes of the Hermitage hill. The 1998 vintage sits somewhat in the shadow of its 1999 successor, but it still offered enough backbone to age for decades---on paper, at least. This cuvée often undergoes fermentation and ageing in oak, turning the spotlight onto Marsanne's richer side, while Chapoutier typically aims to safeguard brightness and an almost mineral, floral edge.

At twenty-seven years old (and assuming decent cellaring), this particular bottle seems to have crossed the finish line. The nose veers towards cognac territory, filled with raisin and caramel tones, joined by wool, wax, and roasted nuts. There's a mild savoury undertow, but overall it feels a bit deflated. Some vestigial acidity tries to hold on, yet the palate comes off tired and short. I do enjoy the mellow quality---like a cream soda left out overnight, minus the fizz---but it's hard to avoid the sense that we caught it too late. It's nevertheless a snapshot of how white Hermitage can evolve, and even in its twilight, it offers a glimpse of the warm spice and quiet depth that once made it sing. If anything, this tasting reminds me how mercurial older Marsanne can be---sometimes you strike gold, and sometimes you're merely left with a wistful memory in the glass.

Château Carbonnieux sits at the heart of Graves, celebrated for both its red and white wines, and holds the Grand Cru Classé de Graves title from 1959. Nestled in Léognan, the estate traditionally blends Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon (sometimes, with a pinch of Muscadelle) to craft one of Bordeaux's classic dry whites. Though 1959 is legendary for reds, the whites also thrived under that warm, dry vintage, yielding generous, ripe fruit.

This particular bottle was poured blind, and while one taster pegged it as Bordeaux, most were stumped by its true age. It was obvious the wine was old, but guesses ranged from the 80s to the 90s, and I initially suspected the 70s---until it dawned on me that it might go all the way back to the 50s. Cue some wild second-guessing.

The wine truly astonishes when you put everything in context. Yes, it's well beyond its peak, but it still sports a startling acidity and the faint echo of fruit. In the glass, it morphs from a veil of mould and wet wool into a tapestry of coffee, medicinal hints, caramel, beeswax, and marmalade. The palate feels both broad and layered, culminating in a drawn-out finish where damp cellar nuances mingle with a green apricot bitterness. Considering its age, it's a genuine time capsule, mind-blowing in its survival. Yet I'd be lying if I said it was the most pleasurable sip out there; it's more a rare brush with ancient Bordeaux than an easygoing pour. Still, it's tough not to admire how it has held on---an echo of a vintage that's become the stuff of legend.

Domaine Trapet Père et Fils ranks among Gevrey-Chambertin's finest, famed for wines that capture the nuance and power of this legendary terroir. With holdings in premier vineyards, including Grand Cru Chambertin, they've built a reputation on organic and biodynamic principles introduced by Jean-Louis Trapet, aiming for purity and respect for the land. Their Petite Chapelle Premier Cru, just below Chapelle-Chambertin, often demonstrates a gentle floral lift, refined tannins, and a graceful mineral echo---typical of its Grand Cru neighbour's influence.

I'd been keen to try this bottle in particular, especially after being wowed by another Trapet Gevrey. The intrigue doubled when I realised it was a 26-year-old 1er Cru. Initially, the nose throws up an odd burst of beetroot juice, but that quickly fades, letting in notes of menthol and pickles, mingled with dried fruit, dust, savoury meat, forest floor, mushrooms, and a soft wash of red flowers. The palate proves even more compelling: layered and intricate, anchored by a fresh seam of acidity and a coarse, almost grainy tannin. There's a fascinating finish, where cherry confiture interweaves with earthy mushroom and meaty undertones. Oddly, for all the maturity, the tannic presence is still robust---so much so that one taster questioned why it's still gripping at this age. The wine also leans old-school in style, demanding a certain mindset to fully embrace, yet there's no denying its beauty or the sheer pleasure it provides. It's a snapshot of how Gevrey can unfold over time, with a depth and character that, however unusual, feels distinctly alive in the glass.

From the first sniff, this wine is all dark fruit and concentrated intensity---like rummaging in a spice cupboard alongside boiled meat, dried herbs, liquorice, and a whiff of barnyard. The palate shows heft but wraps it in round, slightly jammy tannins, a decent thread of acidity, and a pleasing bitterness, with plenty of dried black fruit. Over time, it unfurls notes of chocolate, coffee, cola, and herbal cough drops. There's definitely a rustic charm here, but it's not the easiest wine to drink. Perhaps it's the forceful style---powerful, almost syrupy---that holds me back. Still, it's an intriguing glimpse of Bandol's bold side, a wine that speaks loudly of its place, whether you're in the mood for it or not.

In the glass, I find a charming mix of dark fruit---cassis and blackberry---woven with a faint rustic note of cow dung, chocolatey richness, and that trademark toasty oak. A dusting of warm spice and cigar box adds complexity. The structure is firm but welcoming, with decent acidity and still enough dried fruit to keep things lively. I love how it all finishes on a spiced, evolved note, yet stays disarmingly easy to drink.

All the more surprising, then, when you pour a thirty-five-year-old glass and it's still positively ruby. On the nose, I catch sour cherry, these tangy Nordic berry hints, even a whiff of fresh blood and vegetable notes, along with crushed gravel, old leather, tobacco leaf, and a touch of prune. Structurally, it's on the firmer side---yes, there are clues it's been around the block, but there's also youthful energy beneath the surface. The whole thing oddly reminds me of Tondonia Reserva from a younger vintage (let's say 2011). Delicious, fascinating, but I don't see myself stocking up. That said, it's a small testament to how some wines can gracefully sidestep time's usual grip, staying alive and---somehow---still kicking.

Honeyed on the nose, with a damp cellar edge that morphs into mushrooms, apple jam, a dash of cinnamon---almost like strudel. Sure, it's not the deepest or most complex sweet wine I've ever met, but it's seamless on the palate, buoyed by fresh acidity. The sweetness hovers around 70 g/L (it's a guess), so it never feels too cloying, more like an airy sweetness that sets the stage for a long, soothing aftertaste. Honestly, it's almost perfectly balanced and quite delicious.

Still, I must confess a slight preference for their demi-sec. Maybe it's purely sentimental---I recently tried a 1959 demi-sec from this producer and it was my first taste of that vintage, so there's a memory factor at play. Yet, this version more than holds its own. I'd happily drink it again.