Cheval Blanc Vertical Dinner

Gathered at Porterhouse, with the scent of charred beef in the air and the clink of premium stems marking each pause, Club Mario traced a path through elegance, texture, and time. The evening opened with a duet of Champagne and Meursault—one sharp and cleansing, the other supple and mineral-laced—both paired with decadent A5 Kobe beef, each in its own way revealing something about the interplay of fat, acidity, and grace.

From there, we moved into the soulful gravity of the Loire with the 2018 Domaine du Collier La Ripaille—a wine of dark depth and fine bones, hinting at the structure and age-worthiness that defines this quietly revered domaine.

The main and final act was a trilogy of Cheval Blanc—1990, 2000, and 2015—each vintage a chapter, speaking in turn of maturity, reserve, and potential. Tasted side by side, they offered a meditation on time and terroir, and on what it means for a wine to be expressive, reticent, or just beginning to find its voice.

• 2012 Domaine des Comtes Lafon Meursault Clos de la Baronne 93 Points

  France, Burgundy, Côte de Beaune, Meursault

  Subtle, mineral-driven nose—hay, crushed rock, pear skin. The palate is all about shape: medium-bodied, with beautiful cling and tension. Great cut without harshness. There’s a quiet energy here, a wine that hums instead of sings. With A5 Kobe, the match was unexpectedly seamless—the wine’s silky texture mirrored the richness of the meat, highlighting depth over contrast. Doesn’t shout, but leaves a lasting impression.

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• 2012 Veuve Clicquot Champagne Brut La Grande Dame x Yayoi Kusama 92 Points

  France, Champagne

  Elegant but reticent. The nose speaks in a quiet register—lemon zest, green apple skin, a wisp of warm pastry—like morning light filtering through linen. Still very primary, not yet revealing the inner complexity you hope for in La Grande Dame. But the mousse is lovely: soft, creamy, almost weightless, wrapping the palate in silk. Paired with A5 Kobe, it cut through the richness like a scalpel—cleansing, refreshing, and precise. There's promise in its restraint. Time may draw out the rest of the conversation.

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• 2018 Domaine du Collier Saumur La Ripaille Rouge 94 Points

  France, Loire Valley, Anjou-Saumur, Saumur

  Dark-fruited and brooding, but with a lifted floral edge—ripe blackberries, cassis, and crushed violets carried on a deep, resonant core. Full-bodied yet impeccably balanced, with seamless integration and fine-grained tannins that glide rather than grip. There’s a quiet seriousness to this wine—it moves with poise rather than urgency. Already impressive, but clearly just starting its arc. A long future ahead for those patient enough to wait.

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• 1990 Château Cheval Blanc 95 Points

  France, Bordeaux, Libournais, Saint-Émilion Grand Cru

  It opens with that unmistakable note of a Bordeaux that has crossed the Rubicon—wet ashtray, cigar leaf, leather armchair left too long in a sunless room. It’s not exactly inviting, but it’s honest, the way decay always tells the truth. There's dried fruit too, yes, but not sticky or syrupy; think old fig, sun-dried plum, maybe something like the innards of a Medjool that never fully ripened. No hint of overripeness though—this wine never lost its sense of proportion.
  
  On the palate, it's fully resolved, a polished stillness where tannin once roared. The fruit clings to memory more than it does the tongue. Texture is the star now—silky, almost weightless, like turning pages in a worn hardcover. Acidity keeps it vertical, but just barely. This is not a wine that wants to impress; it wants to be understood.
  
  There’s a calm to it, the kind that comes after long conversations and too much time. Nothing flashy. Nothing hollow. It just is. One of those bottles that feels like the end of something—maybe a chapter, maybe an era. Either way, I’m glad I caught it before it said its final word.
  
  Drink up. Not because it's fading—though it is—but because it has something to say now that it couldn’t say ten years ago.

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• 2000 Château Cheval Blanc 93 Points

  France, Bordeaux, Libournais, Saint-Émilion Grand Cru

  This one still hasn’t quite come out of its shell, and maybe never will. The nose offers that familiar polished wood-and-cedar cabinet scent you get when you walk into a really expensive store that doesn’t have much to sell—immaculate but uninhabited. There's fruit, sure, but it's not talking. It lurks behind a curtain of cool dark tones—cassis, plum skin, graphite—but stays stubbornly internal, like it’s protecting something.
  
  Structurally, it’s more linear than the 1990, but more vibrant too. Less plush, less aromatic, but the acidity is more pronounced, keeping it taut and upright. Tannins have already retreated into silk—elegant, fine, unnoticeable, like a butler who knows when to vanish. But for all its balance, it’s oddly reticent. Everything seems in place, but the wine still feels like it’s holding its breath.
  
  Compared to the 1990, it’s less evolved, less generous, but also less resolved. That wine told its story. This one keeps flipping to the title page.
  
  Maybe it needs more time. Or maybe it just is what it is—a wine that prioritizes posture over poetry. You can admire it without being moved by it.

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• 2015 Château Cheval Blanc 94 Points

  France, Bordeaux, Libournais, Saint-Émilion Grand Cru

  This is the one that showed up in a tailored coat and muddy boots. You get the Pomerol kinship right away—an earthy, loamy nose that wraps dark fruit in warm leather and soft clay. It doesn’t broadcast; it seeps, like damp air through a stone cellar. There’s ripeness, yes, but no flash. More brooding than flamboyant. It smells like something substantial is about to happen.
  
  On the palate, the entrance is almost disarmingly gentle—a velvet footstep—but then it starts to spread out and claim space. There’s a dustiness to the texture, a kind of savory persistence that carves lines across your palate and lingers like static in dry air. It’s tactile, but not weighty. Just… firm. Confident.
  
  Of the three vintages, this is the one that still speaks in future tense. Most dense, most extracted, most coiled. You can taste the structure humming underneath—like a big animal at rest that could stand up at any moment and remind you it runs the place.
  
  It makes you think of winter—not in the dead, austere sense, but in the way a heavy coat makes you aware of your own warmth.
  
  No rush. It’s not going anywhere. But you get the sense that when it does open, it’ll tell a story that starts in Saint-Émilion and ends somewhere just past Pomerol.

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