Selosse, 2022 Northern Rhône Legends, and a red Burg walk into Scott & Kate’s
Another spectacular, gastronomic, educational dinner at Scott & Kate’s, this time with Harumi and Rob, built around Northern Rhône legends and one very serious Champagne.
The evening actually began in my cellar, staring at three Burgundy bottles and trying to decide what could possibly make sense after a lineup of young Chave, Jamet, and Allemand. Note: for Burgundy geeks, finishing a meal with red Burgundy and Époisses is almost always a defensible answer.
My heart wanted to bring the 2010 Comtes Lafon Volnay Santenots du Milieu. I absolutely love that wine, and mature-ish Volnay from a great vintage often delivers more immediate pleasure than a same-age grand cru from Morey-St-Denis. But I suspected the group would want something more “serious,” and honestly, I was curious too. In the end, I decided to bring all three bottles, announce them to the group, and then serve just one blind.
Then into the wine carrier everything went, color-matched with the shoes, naturally, and off to Scott’s.
One thing I love about dinners at Scott & Kate’s is the almost uncompromising discipline behind them. Scott has a very specific vision for how these evenings must unfold: Champagne with appetizers, white wine with seafood, reds with meat, cheese to finish. No deviations. Well, almost none. Rob did attempt to introduce a couple of unfinished Burgundies toward the end of the evening, but by then we were all so completely satiated that I could barely even look at them, much less contemplate drinking them. The progression itself is part of the experience.
Scott’s approach is minimalist. Controlled. Highly intentional. The food is never showy. Everything exists to support the wines and their progression through the evening. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing random. Just great ingredients, precise cooking, and wines given exactly the right stage.
Champagne course
We started with my first truly “serious” Jacques Selosse experience: Lieux-Dits “Sous le Mont,” from Mareuil-sur-Aÿ, disgorged in January 2017 and likely built around the powerful 2010 vintage, layered with older reserve wines from Selosse’s perpetual reserve system. Selosse, of course, is one of the most influential grower-producers in Champagne history. Anselme Selosse essentially changed the conversation around Champagne in the same way that Coche-Dury or Allemand shifted perceptions in Burgundy and Cornas. Oxidative élevage, tiny yields, vineyard expression, barrel fermentation, solera reserve wines — today these ideas are everywhere, but Selosse helped drag Champagne away from anonymous blending and toward terroir.
And yes, this was shockingly oxidative and savory. Honestly, if tasted blind, one might drift toward Jura, a BRDA orange wine, or even certain farmhouse ales before Champagne — except this was vastly more refined and composed than any of those comparisons suggest. The texture and mousse were fascinating too. Instead of the usual tight Champagne bead rising in a single vertical stream, the minutest bubbles seemed to emerge from everywhere at once, almost forming a delicate foam across the palate rather than a sparkling attack. Deep amber color. Walnut oil. Dried citrus peel. Bruised apple. Spice. Almost umami-like. The solera character gave it layers upon layers of old wine memory underneath the freshness of the younger base vintage.
Served alongside the Fatted Calf Pâté de Maison from the SF Ferry Building — brought by Rob — plus Harumi’s homemade liver pâté topped with Port jelly, the pairing suddenly made complete sense. Rather than refreshing the palate in the traditional Champagne sense, the wine almost behaved like part of the dish itself, echoing and deepening the savory richness of the pâtés.
Seafood course
2022 was a notably warm, dry vintage in the Northern Rhône, producing many wines with high ripeness and elevated alcohol, so I approached this bottle expecting sheer power more than precision. Young Chave blanc can sometimes feel massive, almost too dense and powerful in youth. But this bottle was stunning already, perhaps the best young Chave blanc I’ve ever had. Yes, the label says 15% alcohol, but the wine carried itself with remarkable precision and balance. White pepper, pear, almond, lanolin, herbs, crushed rock, and that impossible Chave combination of weight and lift.
Jean-Louis Chave remains the reference point for white Hermitage. The blend is typically Marsanne-heavy with some Roussanne, sourced from multiple famous Hermitage lieux-dits including Rocoules, Méal, and l’Hermite. Fermented and aged traditionally, it is a wine built not for flashy aromatics but for decades of transformation. Young, it can feel powerful and tightly structured. With age, it becomes one of the great white wines of the world.
Scott paired it with simply prepared wood-fired lobster finished with compound butter loaded with tarragon, chives, shallots, and herbs, alongside charred lemons.
The live lobsters came from New England Lobster Market & Eatery in Burlingame, the kind of no-nonsense specialty seafood place serious Bay Area cooks quietly rely on, while the lamb later in the evening came from Bianchini’s in San Carlos, another Peninsula institution famous for its old-school butcher counter and obsessive ingredient quality.
The lobster dish itself was spectacular. Rich, satisfying, primal almost. And the charred lemons were honestly eye-opening. The heat transformed them from aggressively sour citrus into something deeper and more complex — almost lightly candied, with caramelized bitterness and sweetness somehow appearing simultaneously. Normally I would never eat an entire lemon, skin and all, but these became completely addictive once charred. Squeezed into the lobster juices and herb butter, they completely elevated the dish. It reinforced my growing belief that charring almost anything — lemons, scallions, cabbage, peppers, bread — somehow “gourmets it up,” adding depth, complexity, and a subtle sense of fire and transformation that raw ingredients alone rarely achieve.
But of course, there was more.
Meat Course
The 3 reds were served semi-blind. Scott revealed only that one bottle was 2022 Chave Hermitage Rouge. The others could have been drawn from a terrifying lineup of 2022's: Jamet Côte-Rôtie, Rostaing single vineyards, Allemand, Clape, Sorrel. Essentially a hall of fame lineup for traditional Northern Rhône Syrah.
The wines were labeled A, B, and C. I correctly identified B as Chave Hermitage. That silky Hermitage texture and composure gave it away. I guessed A was Rostaing and C was Jamet, both Côte Rôtie. Turns out A was Jamet, and C was Allemand Cornas "Chaillot".
One thing that made the blind tasting so fascinating was how clearly the different Northern Rhône villages expressed themselves once the bottles were revealed.
Hermitage, represented here by Chave, is often the most complete and aristocratic expression of Northern Rhône Syrah — broader, deeper, more composed, built from the famous granite hill above Tain-l’Hermitage and traditionally blended across multiple lieux-dits to create complexity and balance. Côte-Rôtie, where Jamet lives, tends to be more aromatic and lifted: olive tapenade, violets, smoked meat, pepper, sometimes even a slightly haunting or exotic quality, especially from whole-cluster fermentation. Cornas, home of Allemand and Clape, is usually the wildest and most primal of the major appellations — darker, more feral, more iron- and earth-driven, historically almost rustic before producers like Allemand revealed just how profound and soulful it could become.
Of course, great producers blur these lines, and warm vintages like 2022 can soften some of the distinctions further through sheer ripeness and generosity. But tasting Chave, Jamet, and Allemand side by side really reminded me how much these villages still speak through the wines despite the fame of the producers behind them.
I absolutely adored the wildness and expressiveness of C (Allemand), even as some at the table dismissed it as “bretty” (i.e., barnyardy). To me, it was thrilling. I became convinced it had to be Côte-Rôtie because of those zesty green peppercorn notes I always associate with the appellation. At the same time, the wine carried a huge olive character that might normally have pushed me toward Clape, whose wines I know much better. But this felt turned up to an even higher register than Clape — more feral, more electric — so perhaps I should have guessed Allemand after all, despite having far less experience with his wines.
The Chave was complete, seamless, aristocratic. But Jamet and Allemand had more wildness, spice, personality, and raw Northern Rhône soul.
Jamet remains one of the benchmark traditional Côte-Rôtie producers. Whole clusters, restrained extraction, old-school élevage, and vineyards spread across both Côte Blonde and Côte Brune. Their wines often carry this haunting combination of olive tapenade, violets, smoked meat, cracked pepper, and nervy structure. The 2022 was remarkably expressive already, which is not always the case for young Jamet.
Allemand, meanwhile, is basically mythical at this point.
Thierry Allemand helped redefine Cornas from rustic country wine into one of the most sought-after Syrahs in the world. Chaillot, his more approachable single-vineyard bottling compared to Reynard, absolutely exploded with character in this lineup. Dark fruit, bacon fat, cracked pepper, iron, herbs, smoke, wildness everywhere.
The reds were paired with marinated lamb loin roasted in Scott’s wood-fired oven alongside perfect rosemary-thyme potatoes. Lamb and Northern Rhône Syrah remain one of the great classic pairings in wine.
This dinner reinforced something I increasingly believe: Chave blanc is singular. Truly singular. There are peers to Chave rouge in the Northern Rhône. Jamet, Allemand, Clape, Gonon, Rostaing at their best can all enter the conversation stylistically. But Chave blanc occupies a category almost entirely by itself.
Cheese Course
And then finally came my blind Burgundy contribution, paired with the cheese course — the traditional final act for many Burgundy lovers, especially when Époisses is involved. Harumi brought the Époisses, one of the great classic cheeses of Burgundy: pungent, washed-rind, almost aggressively aromatic at first encounter, yet deeply creamy and savory underneath. It is the kind of cheese that can completely overwhelm many wines, yet somehow forms an almost magical partnership with mature red Burgundy, where the earthy, mushroomy, sous-bois elements in the wine suddenly lock into place with the cheese.
The guesses bounced around the table, but Scott nailed the 2010 Clos des Lambrays correctly. And honestly, the wine behaved exactly as I feared and expected. Very classic 2010 Morey-St-Denis. Structured. Cool. Serious. Still somewhat angular and unresolved. Not hard or unpleasant at all, but clearly still developing.
Clos des Lambrays itself is one of Burgundy’s great historic clos, a nearly monopole grand cru in Morey-St-Denis dating back centuries. Since the LVMH acquisition, investment and precision have increased dramatically, but even older vintages retain that classic Clos des Lambrays identity: elegant rather than massive, earthy rather than flamboyant, often requiring real patience.
After the explosive expressiveness of the young Northern Rhônes, though, the Burgundy felt quieter and more intellectual than emotionally compelling. Very good with Époisses, however, where the earthy and savory elements suddenly clicked into place.
Final Thoughts
A fascinating evening overall.
Selosse showed me that Champagne can behave almost like oxidative fine wine from Jura or Jerez. Chave blanc once again reminded me why it may be the greatest dry white wine in the Rhône. And the blind Syrah lineup reinforced how thrilling and distinctive traditional Northern Rhône wines can be, especially in the hands of producers who resist over-polishing them.
I kept thinking afterward about how differently greatness can express itself.
Selosse was intellectually destabilizing. It challenged assumptions about what Champagne is supposed to taste like. Chave blanc was almost architectural in its completeness and scale. Jamet and Allemand were emotional wines — wines that felt alive and untamed and deeply tied to place. The Clos des Lambrays, meanwhile, was a reminder that Burgundy often asks for patience and contemplation rather than immediate seduction.
And then there was the food, which deserves its own recognition because Scott and Kate consistently understand something many ambitious wine dinners miss: restraint is often the highest form of hospitality. Nothing was overwrought. Nothing fought for attention. Every dish existed to support the wines while still being deeply satisfying on its own terms. The lobster with herb butter and charred lemon. The lamb with rosemary and thyme. The pâtés at the beginning. Even the Époisses at the end. Everything felt intentional without ever feeling performative.
I also love how blind tasting changes the dynamic at dinners like this. Labels disappear and suddenly everyone becomes more honest. You stop performing knowledge and start reacting emotionally. Interestingly, neither Harumi — who knows Chave very well — nor Rob identified B as the Chave, though to me it felt immediately obvious. That silky Hermitage texture and composure practically announced itself from the glass.
Evenings like this remind me why wine remains endlessly fascinating even after decades of drinking seriously. You can read endlessly about producers, vintages, and terroirs, but sitting around a table with people who care deeply, opening bottles at the right moment, pairing them thoughtfully with food, arguing about them, revisiting them over hours as they evolve in the glass — that’s where wine becomes something much larger than a beverage or collectible object.
It becomes memory.
Comments