**Brotherhood of the Knights of Tastevin at** Clos de Vougeot

This post is a necessary one for me, but I understand if it doesn’t necessarily register with everyone else. It will be about the wine of Burgundy, and how I have finally completed the pilgrimage that many wine lovers try to make to this venerable land at least once in their lives. Why do so many of us have near religious experiences when we come here?

It’s not a particularly beautiful place, although it’s certainly not ugly. Imagine a giant wave building up its strength before cresting and crashing, only this wave is made of earth, and it is frozen in that position, facing east, for all of time. Imagine that wave running for nearly 40 miles in length and one-to-two miles in width. On the face of that wave the sun shines brightest, the thickness of the wave is just right—not too thick or too thin— and we have given that prime space a name: Grand Cru (translation: great growth). (This is also where surfers prefer to stay.) Now imagine a beach running parallel along that wave and that beach having a road so you can drive along admiring this wave, and as you have certainly already figured out, the wave is green and covered with grape vines all the way up its face. That road is called the Rue des Grand Crus. This wave is called the Côte D’Or (Golden slope) and since the wave is just so long it is divided into two parts: the northern part is called Côte de Nuits, and the southern part is called the Côte de Beaune. A rest stop sits in the middle of these two parts: the city of Beaune. You can think of this as Wine Mecca. And finally, all along the route of this wave there are named locations.

Some parts of the wave are better than others, or at least more famous, but that’s because the wave has been studied in its frozen magnificence for 800 years by monks, princes, vignerons, and the masters of modern finance. Every square inch of it is understood, has been recorded, and there are markers defining it. The soils and aspects can shift quickly. A simple matter of a few meters can mean the difference between the ethereal or a Tuesday night glass to go with your ham and cheese sandwich. Every part of the wave is named. The bottom part of the wave is just called Burgundy. A little higher up the face of the wave are named villages. Places like Gevrey-Chambertin, Morey Saint-Denis, Nuits-Saint-Georges, Pommard, Volnay, Meursault, Montrachet, etc., to name only a few. The areas directly adjacent to the Grand Crus, of which there are only 33, are the next best: Premier Cru, or 1er Cru, as you might see them on labels. And that’s it. That’s the entire designation system: Bourgogne (Regional), Villages, Premier Cru, Grand Cru. The higher up the wave you go, the more you pay. If you go too far up the wave towards the crest past the Grand Cru face, the quality goes back down again, as do the prices.

As close as I have ever been to the Grand Crus was in the last two weeks when I saw and touched those vines with my own eyes and hands. But that is as close as I am probably going to ever get to a bottle of one of those 33 Grand Crus, as the prices are astronomical—in some cases 10, 15, or even $20,000 per bottle. Huge demand. Tiny supply. Prestige and trophy also play a factor. BUT! Yes, but! I have been drinking my share of the 1er Crus, and I while haven’t seen Jesus, I think Bachus has shown up a few times.

I was lucky enough to travel the road along the wave for one entire day seeing each village name passing me by like some Michelin starred restaurant’s wine menu. I visited Beaune two more times, once by train and once by car, for a total of three visits, and I tasted so many great wines. And this still left me wondering about the other three regions that make up Burgundy: Chablis to the north of the wave, and the Côte Chalonnaise and the Mâconnais to the south of the wave. If I have now been to Wine Mecca, I have still only seen a portion of it, perhaps the best portion, but only a part, nevertheless. I have tasted things that made me feel okay about life. Better than okay. I have less boxes to check and my bucket is fuller. And isn’t that what travel is supposed to do?

One moment of joy I will relate. In the tiny village of Fixin (Fee-San), I saw a sign for a winery I knew and loved: Domaine Berthaut-Gerbet. I learned about them from the folks at Champion Wine Cellars in Seattle, one of several wine shops I frequented. Fixin wines are “affordable” in the USA, but let’s be clear, we are comparing Burgundies, so sure, they aren’t the price of Chambolle-Musigny, but they still ain’t cheap. Their village level wines were around $70 US, so when it was a special occasion, I was able to justify enjoying them. Delicious—full of red fruits, mushrooms, wet earth, spices—all of those wonderful notes that make Burgundy lovers weak in the knees. The other thing I liked about Berthaut-Gerbet was their story. The two families, the Berthauts and the Gerbets, had long histories in the region and the son of the Gerbets and the daughter of the Berthauts got married. She became the wine maker in 2014 after taking over for her father and then merging the two domains under the new double name. Women wine makers tend to rock my socks.

I pulled into the village. Out of the window my Fiat 500 rental car, we spotted a baguette machine across the plaza and immediately had to buy one, €1.35. I have purchased soda, candy bars, chips, and even power cords at the airport out of a vending machine, but bread was a new one. Surprisingly, it was pretty good. Then I walked across the street and entered a small alley into a farmer’s yard. I saw a small sign on a beat-up door to my left directing me to a large barn door down the alley and a buzzer. I pushed the button and held my breath.

The door opened slightly and into the sun popped a working woman’s face looking at me like I was disturbing her.

“Pouvons-nous faire une degustation?”, I said.

“Avez-vous un rendez-vous?”, she replied.

“Uhhh, euuuuh, Non, je suis desole,” I mumbled, looking down at my feet.

“Americain?

“Oui.”

“Oh, eez okay. Come wizz me.”

She stepped out from behind the door and took Chien and I back to the first door with the sign into this small tasting room—nothing glamorous or fancy, but comfortable and full of history—and proceeded to pour us four great wines as the sun poured through the foggy windows. And there I was in Burgundy, drinking a wine I knew and loved with the winemaker who had never heard of me five minutes earlier, at noon, on a Tuesday. I had to pinch myself.

She was so kind letting me bumble along in my junior league French and she in her broken English as we connected over this thousands-of-years-old cultural product. One that she made with her own hands that I had previously tasted on the other side of the planet and I had now pilgrimaged all the way back to her unassuming village door asking to taste more.

I’ll never forget it. It was almost religious.