This leads with a particularly piercing, icy chime of stone—minty and translucent. That's the sort of element I might expect to catabolize in two years, and not appear without precedent. The rest of the drinking experience is properly curved, transparently flavored, and cured. Beds of saltmarsh brulée, thriving coastal grasses, and oyster-shell sugars flap forwardly aloft, weightless. The dramatic contest here consists of illuminated breeziness meeting fallen nut fats. Botanical rumors mock the upper registers, consisting of apricot, pome, cardamom, piñon, green lemon blossom, tea buds, and flooded gravel. Aspirated dryness. Elegant contours. Mannered emotional austerity. More Champagne should taste like this.
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55° F service is better than 65°.

Animated, dry, striated, impacted inky berry pulp, meticulous mineralogy, more meditative than brooding. Adhesive, opaque texture enables nothing but music and violets, and poppies, black-currants, espresso, meat cellar, and aristocratic evergreen ruby berries. Acidity here is determined in character, lurking. Fascinating trailers of smoldering peppermint smoke, wild mushroom, and summer vacation blather. A keeper.