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Château de Brézé has a long and storied history, first being mentioned in texts in 1068, lauded by King René of Anjou in the 15th century and served at all the royal courts. In 1957, when the AOC of Saumur Champigny was established, the owner of Château de Brézé refused to be part of the appellation, saying that his estate's vineyards were the best and deserved an appellation all their own. And he was probably right. Unfortunately, the wines from those exceptional vineyards were terrible. Lucky for us, the winery sold in 2009 to Le Comte de Colbert, who recruited Arnaud Lambert from nearby Domaine de Saint Just to make the wine. He changed the vineyards over to organic farming and began producing truly stellar wines worthy of their source. The 2012 Château de Brézé Clos David is all estate-grown Chenin Blanc raised in stainless steel to preserve freshness. It has the slightly-oxidized note of a great White Burgundy and a lovely richness that allows it to pair with a variety of foods.

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« Two Greats from Champagne | Main | White Christmas Gems »
Monday
Nov142005

Nothing is Perfect

The Traveller was restless. He had traversed the countryside in an attempt to find the perfect place: to plant vineyards, to find contentment, to live. He passed by myriad wondrous hues of green, admired the vast yellow carpets of flowering blooms that seemed to reflect the sun back into the sky. He rested in shady nooks of stone, drank at percolating brooks unknown, squinting at the broken mirror as he quenched his thirst. He found beauty but not perfection. Each night the Traveller rested his face to the stars. They seem perfect, he mused. These stars gave hope to the Traveller that he would find what he was seeking. He slept with his dreams tracing the night sky. Each day was filled with the many small things that make up a life, but the Traveller was focused on his quest. He tasted the wares of the wine properties that dotted the hillsides like wildflowers, and noted the irony that no wine was completely perfect. Maybe his dream was folly. Was perfection only a way to gauge the imperfect, existing only in the abstract and nowhere else? A cloudy darkness descended. Despite no compass of stars to illuminate, the Traveller found a smooth, leafy bed and closed his eyes… The morning was as brilliantly clear as the peal of a church bell on a winter morn. The Traveller ambled to his feet, the mist of dreams disappearing from his eyes. But these eyes he could not believe. It was perfect. This land- the vineyard, the birds and animals. The fruit trees and the brook. The untilled pasture. All perfect! “Lovely, isn’t it?” The Traveller turned to the voice, and the woman that belonged to it. “Yes, it is,” said the Traveller. “I would like to offer whatever you wish for it. I would like to make it mine.” “Well, you can make it yours, and stay as long as you like. I’ve been here only a short while, but I know I’ll stay forever. But it is not for sale,” she said with laughter in her eyes. “Do you wish to stay?” “Yes, I would like that very much.” The Traveller turned away and waved his hat in an arc. “What do you call this piece of land?” The woman smiled. “Heaven, of course.” Until you get there, enjoy the beauty of the now. And nothing is perfect. Goodbye Patrice. —Joe Zugelder

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