It doesn’t speak. It shows. A flicker of citrus, the curve of a stone fruit shadow, the glint of wet limestone catching late light. En Flandre doesn’t need to be loud — it just waits to be noticed. A Chardonnay that holds back, not out of modesty, but control.
It lands clean and fine, like bare skin against cold tile — lemon zest, green pear, and that unmistakable mineral hush that lingers just long enough to feel like a dare. Aged in barrel but without heaviness, it moves with purpose, not decoration. You’re not drinking it. You’re watching it undo itself.
Serve it with oysters, shaved fennel, or something that lets your guests think you didn’t plan this.
