Andrew Jefford / 03 October 2019
'The lilies' is what the name means: Les
Lys. Wild, tough and tiny, they must have
been; this is no place for nodding blooms,
freighted with scent and pollen. It's an
open, stony vineyard lying at the top
of the hill, under the woods, above the
great sweep of Vaillons vineyards over
to the right. The little town of Chablis
has settled itself like a nesting lark in the
valley below. Beyond it lies the sweep
of grand cru land stitched into a line of
undulating hills. I take students up to Les
Lys every year, together with one of the
William Fèvre team, to spy out the vines
across the valley, to gaze up to the broad
sky above, to scrutinise the limey pebbles
beneath our feet. To know, for a moment,
where we are. To gulp down the scene.
Magical slopes – grands crus Preuses, Vaudésir and Grenouilles (l-r) in Chablis
It was chilly this year: rain on the north
wind, the vines struggling to unfurl,
flowering a distant prospect despite the
fact that we were there in late spring. This
has often been a cruel vineyard, savaged
by frosts, taunted by gaunt summers.
Chablis grapes ripen haltingly, and come
limping home in a famished state, their
sugars in bare rags, their shoeless feet cut
by stones. Global warming may spin the
dial a little, but has yet to erase this innate
austerity. I hope it never does. It's the
quality we treasure most in Chablis wine.
We relished the rain on the wind, the way
our fingers numbed on our notebooks.
We were soon famished, as only the cold
can be: a perfect state in which to push
open the door to one of my favourite
restaurants: Au Fil du Zinc in the middle
of old Chablis. It's built over the little river
Serein itself, which tumbles and hurries
off to the Seine and to Paris beneath you
as you eat. And drink: the wine of the
hillsides which this
very river and its
lacework tributaries
have made over the
past 20,000 years or
so. Largely chilly, often
icy years hereabouts.
More cold, more
hunger; more Chablis.
Looking down the slope to the village of Chablis below
This year we chose
some lovely wines
(Dauvissat's 2015 La
Forest, Raveneau's
2013 Montée de
Tonnerre, the 2015 La
Cerise Sur Le Coteau:
a gentle pinot from
Stéphanie Colinot in Irancy) and asked Fabien Espana and
his Franco-Japanese chef Ryo Nagahama
to make us something to go with them.
They surprised us: a broth with egg and
foie gras and cut radish, then duck breasts
for the main course with a dark jus, a
couple of braised spring onions, pungent
white baby turnips. The wines chased and
harried and clattered the food down. We
could smell water in the glass, the smell
of water on stones; the wines' acids were
long and sinewy and white, like poultry
tendons. Behind us, through the window,
the river wove its own quick tendons
into a braid; and when we eventually
walked out into the rue des Moulins, a street which once would have groaned
with slow-turning mossy wheels, we were
warm, and replete, and knew the place a
little better.
Andrew Jefford
Made in tiny quantities and loved by French
restaurateurs, the wines Andrew drank rarely
make it out of their home country. But if your
appetite has been whetted, take a look at our
current offer of fine Burgundies to drink now.
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