Champagne: Unriddled
If you’ve ever attempted to navigate a rental car out of a capital city — on the wrong side of the road, no less — you’ll understand the mood at the start of our trip: eyes locked to the tarmac, voices raised, Google Maps gasping for breath. We missed turn after turn, found ourselves on a one-way road to nowhere (literally, ten miles in the wrong direction), and at one point were close to declaring the whole thing a scenic detour in rage management.
Eventually, though, the apartment blocks gave way to open fields, and with the city finally behind us, the car fell silent. Bustling cafés and well-dressed Parisians were replaced by empty village squares, shuttered boulangeries, and the occasional local who muttered something in what we assume was French. You know you’ve left the Île-de-France bubble when the pace drops by half and espresso starts tasting like punishment.
We stopped in one such village en route to Reims, hoping for a hit of caffeine and charm. What we got was one of the most foul tasting espressos of the trip, palatable only when cut with enough sugar to qualify as a Grand Marque dosage (apologies for the low-blow). The mood wasn’t helped by the reception — think Chocolat before the wind changes, with all the warmth of a parish council meeting and the same suspicion you'd get asking for dairy-free alternatives for your coffee (which we obviously didn’t).
As we approached Reims, the glamour you'd expect from the world’s most prestigious wine region was oddly absent. The landscape felt bare, underwhelming even. Given Champagne’s marketing, we half expected gilded gates and vineyards rolling in orchestral slow motion. Instead, Reims itself turned out to be a rather industrial city with only a whacking great Gothic cathedral as its redeeming feature, as if someone had attempted to wallpaper over the municipal blandness.
After locating our exceedingly affordable Airbnb and lobbing our bags in a corner, we headed to our first appointment: Champagne Ruinart — the self-proclaimed oldest Champagne house (as they all are), and the undisputed king of Blanc de Blancs, depending on who you ask.
Ruinart delivered exactly what we expected: a shiny, state-of-the-art hospitality facility filled with extravagant architecture, sci-fi sculptures, and Champagne bottles so weighty they might require a small crowbar to open. Of course, it’s all deliberate — luxury is as much theatre as it is taste.
We were ushered into a waiting room dripping in neo-royal décor, where I began to start questioning my casual attire. But before the outfit anxiety could spiral, our host arrived — a young woman dressed herself in what appeared to be my old school uniform; a sharply-fitted blazer with a skirt down to her ankles that hung like a black-out curtain. She was friendly enough, asking about our travels as though conducting a polite job interview, then stiffly ushered us through a maze of gallery spaces filled with modern art. Some of it was genuinely compelling; other pieces invited that classic and perhaps ‘uncultured’ response: is it genius, or could I too have done that with a biro and mild emotional trauma?
After the art came the descent — multiple flights of stairs into Ruinart’s cellars. Think: London Underground, but colder, quieter, and dimly lit in amber tones. Our guide broke the silence with war-time anecdotes and pointed out a wall carving eerily resembling a Nazi soldier, which was… niche, I suppose. The atmosphere was undeniably haunting — damp air, ancient walls, and a disorienting stillness.
The walls drew nearer and we ducked into the first of the famed chalk caves, the crayères. I have to admit, this feeling gave me goosebumps. The air is thick and heady, and the silence sounds different, sort of like dipping your head under the ocean — you feel like you’re immersed in another element, which I suppose you are. Our host disappeared and we stood in silence while a rather intimidating robotic structure in the centre of the room flickered to life.
After 10 minutes of watching this light-display, I began to wonder whether we’d signed up for their art exhibition, rather than their winery tour. But thankfully, just as I thought we might have to fake an emergency exit, the show ended, and we were explained that this experience emulated the exact weather conditions above us now — slightly eerie, but mostly confusing.
Back in the salon, we finally got to the wine. Most notable was the new cuvée Blanc Singulier Édition 19 — a wine designed in response to the warming climate, showcasing the distinct profile of a warm vintage Chardonnay. It was notably riper than their signature style, hence tentative limited edition release, but very smart indeed, and — more importantly — a subtle sign that even Champagne’s old guard is being nudged by reality. A theme that would repeat itself throughout the trip.
As we left, the silence in the car said it all — we were intrigued, but not entirely convinced. The pageantry had been impressive, but I couldn’t help wondering if I’d just attended a very expensive Champagne-themed art school. Still, the trip had officially begun. I found myself channeling Robert Walters from Bursting Bubbles, slightly dazed, slightly disheartened, but most importantly, ready for a drink.
Enter The Glue Pot.
Tucked into the only vaguely picturesque square in Reims, it looks like the result of a design collaboration between an Irish pub and a retro American diner. Garish red banquettes, patterned carpets, and a small wooden bar that feels like it’s seen some things. The food is quick, the music is loud, and the wine list — well, that’s the whole point.
It’s an if-you-know-you-know sort of place. Behind the laminated menus and wacky décor is a wine list that reads like a VIP guest list of rare finds and impossible-to-get bottles. Think Richard Leroy, Château Rayas, and more Jura than the average liver can negotiate. The only real problem is resisting the temptation to stray entirely from Champagne — which, to be fair, we didn’t try that hard to do.
And so, our first day in Champagne ended as it probably should: with a slight buzz, an open bottle, and a lingering sense that the real magic was yet to come. The lights of Reims dimmed behind us. Tomorrow, we’d head into the vineyards.
And this time, hopefully in the right direction.
This was our first real introduction to the vineyards of the Montagne de Reims, that densely covered the surprisingly steep slopes from the narrow tracks of the valley floor all the way up to a forested crown.
Our target was Les Mesneux, a Premier Cru village tucked into the Petite Montagne — a name that sounds like a euphemism for something less dramatic than it is. The road wound its way up until we arrived at a house covered in enough personality for us to be certain of our arrival.
Before we’d even closed the car doors, she was there — Élise Bougy — arms open, smile beaming, radiating the kind of charm that makes you forget you haven’t had coffee. Her laugh was the stuff of legends: big, bright, and somehow already familiar. We attempted some wobbly French; she responded with far better English. “I need to practise,” she insisted. Reader, she did not.
We hopped into her car — a fresh baguette thrown across the dash like some rustic ornament — and bounced up the hillside to meet her vines. The view from the top was maybe the best of the trip: Reims laid out below us, wind rushing past our ears, vines rustling like they had something to say. Here, she explained, the soils are not chalky, but sandy, lending warmth, drainage, and according to Élise, a little extra finesse. It tracks.
Back at her house-slash-winery — a charming annex that may or may not have once been a garage — we descended into the cellar. Lining the walls were barrels in various stages of life and, tellingly, a trophy shelf of bottles that would make any sommelier short of breath: DRC, Soldera, Gangloff, Batardière. “I am a geek of the wine,” she said, with the kind of humility that makes you immediately trust her.
Before falling in love with her own region, Élise spent years in Paris, working in the on-trade and fine-tuning her palate with wines from everywhere but Champagne. Her inspirations come not from within, but from the Loire and Burgundy — places where the words “single site” and “natural wine” weren’t whispered like secrets, but proudly declared long before it was fashionable.
We tasted from a few barrels — Élise tasting some for the first time herself. She believes in leaving wines alone for at least a year before they’re even remotely tolerable. One new barrel, with a toasty signature that some would swoon over, was met with theatrical horror: “Putain, le maquillage!” We felt her pain. We also saw her standards.
Then came the cheese. And the baguette. (Yes, the dashboard baguette had a full character arc.) She set up a makeshift table in the cellar, and we tasted through her finished cuvées. I knew many already, but one stopped me cold: a still Chardonnay from Le Mesnil, no bubbles, just raw voltage. It made me wonder — do bubbles blur terroir? A tactical mask for some, perhaps. But in Élise’s hands, her wines clearly need no disguise.
We hugged her goodbye, reluctant to leave. A friend made. An icon met. And a sharp (and much needed) reminder of why we came.
Back on the road, we set our sights south. This is the part of the trip where our grasp of Champagne geography was, let’s say, politely dismantled. We knew it was a big region, but we hadn’t really felt its vastness until now. To put it into perspective, Champagne has approximately 34,200 hectares under vine, distributed across five departments, 10,000 hectares more than Burgundy. That’s a lot of wine. But to illustrate the sheer scale of the region, consider the department of the Marne (which holds the majority of Champagne’s vineyards); it covers an area of about 816,200 hectares, but only around 24,000 hectares are planted to vines, just 3% of Marne’s total area.
But now, we were leaving the Marne and driving down to the Aube — both thrilling and mildly dangerous, as we trundled uphill in second gear, holding up a convoy of irritated farmers. Our car whined under the incline before the mountain eventually gave way to wide-open plains — transitioning from a mountain patterned with vineyards to vast stretches of farmland, where wind turbines outnumber winemakers and the only signs of life are the endless procession of lorries thundering past in both directions.
Two hours, three péages, and countless exclamations of “how is this still Champagne?” later, we finally arrived at our second Airbnb — this time in the heart of Troyes.
Now this was more like it. Troyes had everything Reims didn’t: charm, crooked timber-framed houses leaning into cobbled streets, and just enough romantic disrepair to feel like a French postcard in motion. It felt alive. But what we hadn’t realised was just how different this part of Champagne would be.
The Côte des Bar isn’t just far from Reims — it’s practically having dinner with Chablis. Closer to the Loire than Épernay, it has its own climate, its own flora, and a completely different energy. Wild forests. Rocky ridges. Soils pulled from the Jurassic — literally. It even felt warmer. The architecture leaned Alpine, with Swiss chalet vibes, which included our next stop: the home of Emmanuel and Bénédicte of Ruppert-Leroy.
First and foremost, this is a farm. Not the curated, visitor-centre kind — a real farm, with more livestock than cuvées. Goats, pigs, cows, chickens, horses — all present and all purposed. We knocked on the front door to be greeted by Manu himself, who looked like a friendly, Champagne-swigging Father Christmas, with his dog Alpha trotting loyally behind him.
He dashed inside his hand-built home (a theme to this visit) to grab a basket of oddly shaped, mismatched wine glasses leaving his front door swing welcomingly open. The house was warm, maybe from the food cooking over open wood-flame, or perhaps from the spirit of the place. Inside, were bottles half-full from last night’s ‘tasting’, muddy boots kicked off by the hearth, sheet music on stands by scattered instruments, shelves crowded with jars of preserves, books and hand-thrown pottery: a home filled with hard-earned joy, from trading modern complexities for life’s simplest pleasures.
Before we could ask a single question about wine, Manu took us on a tour of the animals. He and Bénédicte, both former PE teachers and athletes, had taken over her family’s land. They still supply Michelin restaurants with beef — more on that later — but now they also bottle their own wines, grown from grapes once destined for négociants.
Once suitably covered in the farm’s microbiome, we entered the winery: a low-key barn filled with beautiful custom-built machinery and homemade everything. In one corner, a few crates of potatoes sat patiently. “We harvested more potatoes in 2024 than grapes,” Manu explained with a furrowed brow.
We tasted from barrel, Manu explaining their sulphur-free, no-dosage methods, and their belief in ageing sur lie as a defence against oxidation. The wines were wild. Not just natural — alive. Too alive, sometimes? Maybe. But there’s no question they’re made with more reverence for nature than any cellar I’ve seen.
The standout was Les Cognaux — a cuvée with a steely backbone and that unmistakable Jurassic, salted-lemon tang. It was Champagne that tasted like it aged inside a fossil, in the best possible way. Chalk may get all the PR, but this far from Reims, the soils are actually ancient seabeds, laced with shells and a certain prized je ne sais quoi.
We left, humbled but buzzing, and rolled back into Troyes just as the sky turned amber. Our final stop for the day: Aux Crieurs de Vin. Unassuming from the outside, unforgettable once in. Shelves of wine — just pick your bottle — alongside a few plates of local produce (including beef from Manu and Béné), all served with a wink and a shrug. Exceptional hospitality — by French standards, near-miraculous.
After a few hours, we’d clearly earned our stripes and were invited to stick around for the lock-in. Bottles cracked open, stories spilled out, and suddenly it began to feel less like a wine trip and more like something we might be doing for the rest of our lives.
And that night, full of purpose and a touch too much Pinot, we fell asleep in a crooked house in Troyes, knowing exactly why we were here.
The next morning, caffeine in hand and at least semi-recovered from our spiritual encounter with Aux Crieurs de Vin, we hit the motorway once more — heading north, back towards Reims, for a morning appointment with Sébastien Mouzon of Mouzon-Leroux.
Sébastien inherited the domaine in Verzy — as his father did, and his grandfather before him — a lineage tracing back to 1776. America may have been declaring independence, but the Mouzons were just getting on with farming.
It took all of five minutes for Sébastien to reveal himself as a proper data geek. No small talk. No “did you find the place okay?” Just straight into the numbers. Out came a binder thicker than a Michelin guide, from which he summoned a graph charting the start date of harvests over the last 100 years. Most used to begin in October. Now? August. “C’est la catastrophe,” he said, but not dramatically — more like someone who’s already mapped the apocalypse in Excel.
With an English wine project knocking around in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but make the connection. Sébastien didn’t scoff. On the contrary — he looked me dead in the eye, somewhere between amused and alarmed, and said: “It’s the future.” If the Champenois are saying this, you know the climate conversation isn’t just hot air.
We bundled into his car and took the scenic route around the eastern side of the Montagne de Reims to visit his vineyards. Despite visiting the region in March, with vines still brittle and barren, this was a vineyard in full flourish. Sébastian immediately noticed the dandelions growing on the ground - ‘the soil is getting warmer,’ he noted. And sure enough, as if on cue, a rabbit and its baby darted through the vines.
Now, biodiversity is something everyone likes to talk about these days, but Sébastien isn’t ticking boxes — he’s redesigning the whole grid. He’s built homes for bats to encourage natural insect control. He’s ripped out one vine per row to plant diagonal hedgerows — a move that would make most farmers faint with the sheer sacrificial economics of it. Between the vines he grows cherry, apple, pear, and peach trees, and between the rows: thyme, mint, oregano, potatoes and aubergines. Even tomatoes are trellised up the vines in the summer. “It’s my garden,” he said, chuckling. “Might as well use it.”
Back in the cellar, we shifted from earth to essence, where Sébastien walked us through his approach and critical techniques used to protect the wine without a sniff of sulfur; it seemed a delicate balance of patience and the artful knack of practice. We tasted through the cuvées: each electric with raw, vibrating tension. Some with added texture from extended élevage, now being gradually integrated across the range. But Sébastien was quick to reassure that the price wouldn’t change. “I make wine for my friends. They must always be able to drink it.”
We waved goodbye to Sébastien as he stood on his driveway, hands to head in mock despair at our next move: another two hours west to the outer edges of the Vallée de la Marne. “Mais pourquoi?!” he cried, as if we’d just announced we were joining a cult. But this wasn’t just a road trip — it was a pilgrimage. And no rock — or rogue grower — would be left unturned.
We drove deeper into the Marne, the landscape shifting once again. Forested valleys tumbled down towards a gleaming river, winding like a silk ribbon through a mostly-forgotten patch of Champagne. Towns got smaller. Road signs older. The signal weaker. And then, finally: Crouttes-sur-Marne.
While beautiful, there wasn’t much to it — a half-collapsed church, a café peddling espresso and scratch cards, a blossom tree, and a slightly sun-faded sign pointing the way to Françoise Bedel. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, don’t worry — you’ll hear it again. Queen of the Marne. Master of Meunier.
We pulled into the gravel drive of a humble, rustic house and were greeted by Eugénie, her right-hand woman and our guide for the visit. Françoise herself, we were told, was away. If anything, it only added to the mystique — like being told the wizard is in the tower but cannot be seen.
Eugénie led us into the tasting room: a small, dimly lit space that looked and smelled faintly ecclesiastical. Wooden antiques lined the walls. A statue of Jesus reclined calmly behind us. It felt less like a domaine and more like a shrine to his drink of choice.
We began with the story — the origin myth. Years ago, Françoise’s son Vincent fell gravely ill. After exhausting every medical route with no success, she turned to a homeopath named Robert Winer, who healed him using natural treatments. That experience changed everything. She converted fully to biodynamics, committing not only her vines but her entire worldview to nature’s rhythms. Skeptical? Maybe. But Vincent is alive and well. And the wines? They speak for themselves.
We tasted through the lineup, which included a cuvée from 1996 — about to be re-released after nearly 30 years on lees — dedicated to the doctor who changed her life. Whether it was the story or the setting (or Jesus on the wall), the wines felt otherworldly. And refreshingly, Françoise isn’t militant about dosage. A touch of sweetness allowed Meunier’s cherry-almond character to really shine. Hedonistic and whole.
On the long drive back toward Épernay, we stopped at a vineyard that caught our eye — though not for the right reasons. The soil looked scorched, almost orange, interrupted with alien-looking weeds and littered with bright blue broken shards of plastic. The romance shattered. It was a sobering reminder that while we’d chosen to visit producers doing it right, they’re still the minority. Much of Champagne remains trapped in chemical cycles, addicted to monoculture, and historically open to fertilising their soils with literal Parisian trash. It’s why, even today, you’ll find cigarette butts and bottle caps poking through the topsoil. The movement for change is real — but painfully overdue.
We rolled into Épernay as the sun dipped below the horizon. The so-called “Capital of Champagne” is more corporate campus than charming town — a slightly sterile drive-through dominated by the Avenue de Champagne, where the Grand Marques keep their boardrooms full and their margins fuller.
But Épernay does have one major redeeming feature: Sacre Bistro. Tucked away off the main strip, it’s the kind of place where the food is perfectly forgettable — but somehow, that doesn’t matter. Especially when you’re chasing your paper-dry poulet with a magnum of Marie-Noëlle Ledru.
And so, with another producer’s fingerprints on our glassware, and our minds full of dirt, data, and divine intervention, we raised a final toast to the growers doing things differently — and to the ones yet to come.
The following morning threatened our first real hiccup — and, truthfully, it had been coming. Things had been gliding along a little too smoothly, and Champagne is not a place that stays still for long. Our first challenge was simply finding the place. SatNav deployed, we wound our way to the drowsy village of Écueil, just southwest of Reims. We parked in a picturesque little square and set off on foot, brimming with naïve confidence.
So far, so good — until we reached our supposed destination, only to be greeted not by gleaming tanks or quietly humming barrel rooms, but... a cosmetic surgery clinic. There was a moment of mutual blinking. No sign, no Savart, no clue. Until, like a calling card from Bacchus himself, we spotted a single bottle of Champagne sunbathing in a windowsill. Encouraged by this unspoken message, we followed the bottle’s gaze down a drive — and then, as a garage door eased open with the slow drama of a stage curtain rising, there he was.
Framed by a stack of barrels and bathed in soft morning light, a rakishly handsome man emerged, blinking at us as if we’d arrived mid-dream. We presumed — or perhaps willed ourselves to believe — that this was Frédéric Savart.
He had, clearly, forgotten our appointment. With an apologetic flurry, he vanished “to get ready,” only to return a few moments later looking exactly the same — except now positively radiant with charm. Were Frédéric British, one might affectionately label him a cheeky chappy, with a roguish twinkle in his eye and just the faintest whiff of trouble about him.
Frédéric’s "winery" — if one can apply that term to such a modest structure — is housed in what is technically a garage, and philosophically an enigma. Given the breathless reverence with which his name is spoken by Champagne aficionados, we had expected something... grander. Perhaps a tasting salon with views over the Montagne or a marble floor that could double as a mirror for its own pretensions. Instead, dexterity dominated the décor.
He led us on a tour of his neatly choreographed little space, equal parts ingenuity and eccentricity. One corner looked less like part of a winemaking operation and more like the private lair of a moderately unhinged chemist. A jumble of glass globes, each hidden under velvet veil, as though awaiting a lightning strike to animate some fermented Frankenstein. “These,” he explained, gesturing towards the eccentric contraptions with the casual flair of someone discussing their spice rack, “are for the young wines, avant les barriques.” Of course they are. What else would they be for?
He drew his syringe at our curiosity and despite vin clair infancy, the wine was unnervingly complete - bright and poised, textured even. It was like hearing a symphony played on a single instrument and somehow still understanding the whole score.
Then, to the tasting area — which is to say, an upturned barrel in the middle of the garage. There was no attempt at veneer, no sleek stone counters or designer glassware. Just wine. And Frédéric. And a growing sense that this was exactly how it should be.
Glass after glass, spits turned to sips as the cuvées emerged, each one a small revelation. Crystalline fruit, as if plucked from a snow globe. Bubbles so fine they were more rumour than fizz. There was intensity, yes, but also restraint - a sort of disciplined flamboyance that’s maddeningly hard to pin down.
Slightly dazed, almost certainly tipsy, and entirely under Frédéric’s spell, we pootled off once again, heading east for our penultimate appointment. This time, with a producer so delicately poised between grower and grand marque, we approached with a mix of reverence and apprehension. The wines are legendary. And legends, we all know, can disappoint in daylight.
So with some deep breaths and the medicinal aid of leftover cheese and baguette, we arrived in Ambonnay: land of chalk, land of light, and home of Egly-Ouriet.
Here, chalk isn’t just a soil type - it’s practically a deity. This is the Champagne of postcards: white rolling, sun-bleached hills - impossible idyllic. You see, the top-soil is so shallow here that the very ground glows. Chalk dust clings to every surface - windshields, tyres, trousers - as if the village had hosted a rather elegant desert rally.
Pulling up to the domaine felt like arriving at the Champagne Vatican. Iron gates opened to reveal two immaculate Porsches parked in perfect symmetry. We rang the bell. Silence. Rang again. Nothing. A sense of farce was beginning to settle.
Still, spirits only moderately dampened, we wandered down the road, following a discreet sign pointing again to the domaine and I began to wonder if the whole village was theirs. There we found a young woman, whom we recognised as the daughter of the domaine, directing a convoy of delivery vans like a military commander. Naturally, we introduced ourselves. Frazzled by the heat and evidently having A Day, she ferociously barked at us to wait in the office. Though slightly discouraged by the tone, we dutifully complied, trudging inside and collapsing into silence, privately wondering whether this visit, too, might be turning to dust.
The waiting room was immaculate - the kind of tastefully curated space that whispers wealth rather than shouts it. A sleek round glass table stood at the centre, surrounded by carved wooden stools (the sort you perch on rather than sink into), flanked by a neatly arranged display of their dummy bottles and what appeared to be the complete literary canon of Champagne. If a visitor were to arrive with no prior knowledge of the region, they could do worse than spend a quiet afternoon there.
After ten minutes or so (heavy on the or so), Clémence reappeared — her tone calmer but still clipped. “The visit will be brief,” she said. News that by now was hardly shocking.
We chose our questions carefully — not too obvious, not too obsequious — and something shifted. A slight softening. A flicker of vulnerability. Beneath the steel exterior, one sensed the weight of legacy pressing down. Fame, even in wine, has a curious way of distorting gravity.
She led us through to the pressing room, filled with empty space and two brand-new Coquard presses, standing like altar pieces in a cathedral of precision. Never mind the sports cars - this was the real Rolls-Royce of Champagne. The fruit, she explained, is entirely estate-grown, farmed to immaculate standards. Every bunch hand-harvested, every detail obsessed over. The kind of control that borders on reverence. From there, we descended down a spiral staircase, into the barrel room - cool, hushed, almost monastic. Then back upstairs to the office, where a small tasting awaited.
The wines were as we expected: profound and precise. But I found myself only half-listening, far more intrigued by the woman behind them. Next in line to the throne, yet already carrying a quiet weariness that went beyond the day’s demands. With jaded eyes, she seemed almost detached, just trying to get through, perhaps weighed down by the legacy she inhabits.
Within thirty minutes of our arrival, the meeting was done. We were politely but firmly ushered out, left blinking in the sunlight like schoolchildren sent home early from a class they weren’t sure they’d passed.
Back in the car, we sat quietly for a moment, trying to collect ourselves. While the wines were undeniably outstanding as always, we left with a strange taste in our mouths. There was something faintly chilling in the way money had wrapped itself around the place - a creeping suspicion that even in the most hallowed vineyards of Champagne, some wines sparkle more from pressure, than pleasure.
We surrendered once more to the rhythm of the road trip, winding our way southward, back into the Aube. The light had begun to fade, giving way to the soft murk of dusk. And then, just as the last light dipped below the trees, and the car dipped over the hill, our destination caught our eye. Perched on the edge of the river, glowing gently like a well-kept secret, was La Garde Champêtre - a beautifully restored barn, draped in fairy lights and surrounded by a manicured herb garden. Equal parts fairytale and moody arthouse thriller, it was the kind of place you half expect to be greeted by either a warm loaf of sourdough or a chilling plot twist. At this point in the journey, either way, we were sold.
Inside, the space was hushed and warmly lit with an open kitchen, quiet and composed, its chefs moving with graceful intent. Despite arriving at just past 8:30pm, we were the only guests that evening, which only amplified the theatre of it all. It felt simultaneously like a private concert and a scene from a Wes Anderson film. Romantic, yes, but with just enough mystery to keep it from veering into cliché. Like the kind of place you’d dreamt of but never thought actually existed.
The menu, much like the setting, was strikingly avant-garde - a nine-course tasting built entirely around the rhythm of the seasons, every ingredient plucked from their own garden, and crafted with purposeful precision and bold, clean flavours. It wasn’t just a meal; it was a meditation in texture and restraint. Dish after dish arrived, each astonishingly well composed and somehow more articulate than the last. This was, without question, the best meal I’ve had in my life.
Service was handled by a single man: softly spoken, deeply knowledgeable, and so disarmingly serene, he might have floated in from a yoga retreat, rather than work on a restaurant floor. In fact, in hindsight, he was so intuitively attentive that he may well have studied each of us before our arrival. But as it turned out, he was far more interesting. This ethereal figure was none other than Juan Sanchez — co-owner of the restaurant and something of a quiet legend in the Parisian dining scene. With a portfolio of acclaimed restaurants across the capital, he had traded city bustle for riverside stillness.
Our personal yogi summoned us a wine from a producer less than a mile away — as were all from the list — which was genuinely profound. For those convinced they’d tasted it all, that perhaps the south was as simple as Jacques Lassaigne and Cedric Bouchard, this was rather undoing. Juan, reading our enthusiasm for his creative freedom, began to take the lead as the showman, bringing mystery glasses prescribed as a pair or potion, each loosened time, softened edges. Conversations stretched, laughter deepened, and the sense of place grew strangely elastic. By the time we noticed how far we’d drifted, the tether had already slipped. Not drunk, exactly — just suspended, as if the evening had quietly cast its spell, and we’d surrendered to it without protest.
An unknown amount of time later, I was snapped awake by the slam of a car door, and we sat there in silence watching as the fairy lights shut off and our secret was left whispered into the dark.
The last morning hit a little harder than expected. Peeling myself away from the boulangerie with a final croissant in hand — still warm, still faultlessly flaky — I already knew that nothing in London would come close to this buttery wreckage of perfection. A farewell bite and a small act of mourning, all in one.
We’d saved the Côte des Blancs for our final day — a deliberate move, or at least that’s how we justified it. Save the best until last, right? After days of darting across Champagne, this was our last pilgrimage: destination Flavigny, to meet Adrien Dhondt — the name on every sommelier’s tongue, spoken with the kind of urgency usually reserved for limited allocations and late-night wine bar gossip.
He was already outside when we arrived, casually leaning against the wall — impossibly attractive in that effortless French way, as if he’d just wandered out of good lighting and better genetics. I suddenly became far too aware of my parking skills — or lack thereof — and pulled in with the tense focus of someone trying not to embarrass themselves in front of a teenage crush.
Adrien Dhondt took over the reins of Domaine Dhondt-Grellet — founded by his parents in 1986 — and didn’t just continue the family legacy, he redefined it. At 22, while most of us were still trying to boil pasta without parental supervision, he was dragging Champagne’s conversation toward terroir, texture, and something uncannily close to Burgundy with bubbles.
In person, he’s the kind of winemaker who quietly upends convention, without ever needing to say so. Thoughtful but not in a deliberate, ostentatious kind of way. Genuinely pensive. Calm, direct, and slightly unbothered by the industry’s tendency toward overexplanation.
As we walked through the cellar, Adrien spoke of his approach; intuition over instruction. No certifications equal no restrictions — just a deep trust in the land, the vines, and his own sense of timing. His evolving vision now includes a micro-négociant project, giving him the freedom to work with select plots beyond the family’s holdings. Anchored by intent, it’s clear that he's not chasing trends — he's chasing understanding. He’s chasing detail.
Mid-sentence, a toddler burst into the room with arms outstretched: “Dadda! Dadda!” Adrien’s face lit up as he scooped up his son — a moment so warm and unfiltered it briefly made the steel tanks look like nursery furniture. Perhaps the next generation of Dhondt has already begun his apprenticeship.
The tasting took place in what may or may not have been his actual kitchen — bright, clean-lined, modern. Efficient and intentful — like him, I suppose. Bordeaux Zaltos were placed on the marble counter with almost exaggerated care — a deliberate gesture from someone fully aware of their significance, but choosing to treat them like everyday tools all the same. “Big wines,” he shrugged. “Need big glasses.”
And he wasn’t wrong. The wines were as self-assured as their maker: intense, ripe, and strikingly textural — even in a busy service, I’d encourage any bold guest to give the wines a decant. Given time and space, they evolve from a delicate whisper to unexpected grandeur, the fine perlage acting as a messenger — each bubble bringing another note of insight to the surface.
As final stops go, it was hard to imagine a more elegant mic drop. Adrien’s wines, much like the man himself, were impossible to ignore — quietly intent on being unforgettable. And that they were. So we rolled out of Flavigny with palates soaked in Chardonnay, heads full of chalk and stomachs growling for our one final mission: lunch.
Fortunately — or more accurately, by cunning design — our final meal in Champagne was just a few short turns from Adrien Dhondt’s domaine. Convenient, yes, but also strategic. Because lunch wasn’t just lunch. Les Avisés, gained us front row seats to the inner workings of Domaine Jacques Selosse, without the luxury of backstage tickets.
Now this time, if you haven’t heard of Selosse, you probably should head over to the Egly-Ouriet offices after all for some light reading before you do much else. You see, Selosse isn’t just a producer; it’s an institution and one that became the gravitational centre of the grower revolution.
Founded by Jacques Selosse, and now synonymous with his son, Anselme, and even more recently, his son, Guillaume, Selosse reimagined what Champagne could be: dangerously oxidative, fiercely site-specific and wildly expressive.
These wines are not easy. Nor are they meant to be. They’re cerebral, kaleidoscopic, often polarising — and, to those tuned into their frequency, transcendent. You don’t drink Selosse so much as decode it. They demand attention, provoke debate, and rarely show the same face twice. No wonder his former interns include names like Jérôme Prévost and Olivier Collin — both now legends in their own right.
So arriving at Les Avisés — the family’s intimate, ten-room hotel and restaurant perched above the Avize hillside — felt a bit like stepping into the inner sanctum. There’s no pomp, no show. Just an understated manor house with high ceilings, lived-in charm, and a kind of quiet self-assurance that speaks only to those that have done their homework.
The dining room was elegant but relaxed, filled with the gentle hum of a kitchen that knew exactly what it was doing. The chef, Stéphane Rossillon — who spent over a decade alongside Anne-Sophie Pic at her three-star Michelin restaurant in Valence — sends out a single set menu each day. No choices, no substitutions. You’re here to surrender.
And the wine list? Let’s just say there were bottles of Selosse available at prices that would make a London sommelier weep into their Coravin.
The whole experience was hauntingly elegant — not staged or curated, just deeply personal. Like being welcomed into someone’s (very refined) home, where the conversation is as compelling as the meal. It was the kind of lunch that doesn’t really end, it just softens — until suddenly you find yourself back outside, adjusting to the daylight, unsure how much time has passed or if the world carried on without you.
Back to our trusty rental car one last time, the dashboard dusted with pastry flakes and the boot gently chiming with glass. We wound our way back toward Paris in near silence, not out of fatigue, but reflection. A soft, satisfied quiet that settles in when you’ve witnessed something significant.
It was the people. The ones who walk their vines every morning like checking in on family. Who speak not of yield or volume, but of balance, feeling, and the rhythm of weather and time. Who pour wine with the same generosity they reserve for stories, that often last longer than the finish. It’s the stubbornness, the patience, the obsession — the choice to do things the slow way because they know it’s the right way, even if it means their names will never be up in lights.
Because in Champagne, the lights are already taken — strung along the Avenue de Champagne, flickering above glass towers and corporate courtyards. Prestige poured into flute-shaped fantasies, working tirelessly to distract from the damage done, and the scarred hands now working to undo it.
What we found in Champagne wasn’t invention for invention’s sake, or disruption in the name of trend. It was a deeper kind of revision — producers reshaping the name from the inside out, with quiet conviction and dirt under their nails.
And so, as we followed the tarmac that tethered us back to reality — inboxes, deadlines, BIN numbers — we already knew we’d failed at the most hopeless task: explaining any of it. Not for lack of trying. I’d narrated, analysed, philosophised, even wandered into metaphor more than times than anyone asked for. But some trips refuse tidy conclusions. They linger instead in fragments: a grower gesturing at their vines like introducing old friends; the hush of a cellar thick with century-old stories; the taste of something that makes you lean back in your chair, glass hovering, trying to place it. Later, you reach for adjectives, structure, some unifying thought. But really, it just fizzes at the edges of memory — too elusive to pin down, like a conversation half-remembered over a glass too many.
So no, I can’t give you the final word. No thesis statement, no tidy bow. But what I can offer is this: next time the urge for bubbles strikes, perhaps reach past the usual suspects and towards the margins — the names etched small on the label but rooted deep in the land. The growers whose vineyards double as diaries, whose cellars echo with decades of gentle defiance. Not to be reverent, but to be curious. Follow the story. Stay for the detour. Because what stays with you isn’t always the wine itself, but the ability it has to shift the room around it — the mood, the conversation, the belief of what Champagne can be. That, or it’s just very good wine.Either way, raise a glass to the ones making Champagne feel human again — one bottle, one blister at a time.