Organizational purists will no doubt note the inconsistency in having a separate Regions category for Chablis. After all, Chablis is as much a part of Burgundy as is Pommard. Technically, that is. I won't argue the point; any discussion of Chablis "belongs" in one of the introduction sections or perhaps in the Wines category. But in fairness to me, when people, schooled, half-schooled or unschooled, talk about Burgundy, they much more often than not are not referring to Chablis, Burgundy's northernmost outpost of winemaking. And vice versa, for that matter.

Pity Chablis. Despite its centuries-long, high-profile winemaking history, it has been forced to contend with being thought of as little more than a generic term for some sort of white wine. Even more humiliating, that wine usually can be picked up by its jug handle. Some might argue that the chablisiens got what they deserved because the area's wines had in fact become more generic just when consumers in the United States decided they wanted to try them. What they got in the '70s and '80s were, for the most part, chardonnays that were clean and simple to the point of being insipid.

Chablis is arguably the world's purest expression of chardonnay, something that makes it, not versions from California and the rest of Burgundy proper, the best choice for the dinner table.

That version of Chablis has largely disappeared in the last 10-15 years as producers (not unlike those in many other parts of the wine world who came to the realization that to make clean, technically sound wine is no longer enough) have re-focused their attention on vineyard and cellar practices. Rather than emphasizing volume, there has been a commendable trend toward decreasing yields to better express what mother nature has bestowed upon them.

The happy result is that once again it can fairly be said that the chardonnay produced in Chablis is the world’s purest expression of that most popular and commercially important white grape. Purest in the sense that the marginal—at best—grape-growing climate in Chablis limits the winemaker’s options. He or she doesn’t have the luxury of allowing overripe grapes to bubble into 15-percent alcohol monsters; there is no use in cloaking the wine in 100 percent new oak. It won’t have the fortitude to stand up to such treatment. In other words, no trickery in the cellar, just chardonnay.

Chablis resembles no other chardonnay. You’re not likely to find a bushel of mango, pineapple and passion fruit in a bottle like you would with one from California. And those in search of the spice, bacon fat and crème brûlée flavors of the Côte d’Or’s versions will no doubt be disappointed by the relative austerity of even the richest Chablis. Perhaps the only comparable style is found in Champagne. There is much sense to this because the two places are only a few miles apart. In fact, Chablis is situated much closer to Champagne than to its brethren in Burgundy. While Champagne shares Chablis’ horrid weather—Champagne’s is probably worse on the whole—many of its great blanc de blancs have a level of richness that most Chablis makers would envy. The champenois have the advantage of being able to blend multiple vintages to achieve a degree of roundness when nature hasn’t been kind. Not so in Chablis. What you’re most likely to find when you uncork a bottle is a nose full of flint, minerals and citrus, a wine that is delicate enough to refrain from taking over the dinner table, yet stout enough to mix well with anything from ceviche and sushi to ripe goat cheese.

Chablis is about as fish friendly as a wine can be thanks to its acidity, and typically non-aggressive weight and alcohol levels.

The good news is that it’s not especially difficult to find well-made Chablis at each classification level (at the lowest rung is AOC Chablis, then comes premier cru and finally, grand cru) though it’s far easier at the top of the pyramid than the middle or lower end. Of even more significance for consumers is that dollar for dollar, Chablis Grand Cru is a relative bargain compared to the exploding prices in the Côte d’Or and California. Burgundy prices have leveled off in the last few years, but during the escalation from the mid-80s to perhaps a few years ago, the cost of Chablis wasn’t moving nearly as quickly. A grand cru from Chablis is generally half the price of one of comparable quality from the Côte d’Or. In reality, many of the better-known premiers crus from Meursault and Puligny-Montrachet have long passed the $50-$70 range that most of the best grands crus from Chablis fit comfortably within. Of course, there are notable exceptions, but for the most part, Chablis is Burgundy’s truly affordable luxury.

Simplicity is another reason to like Chablis. Not that the wines are such; rather, unlike the rest of Burgundy, Chablis is compact and easy to understand. There are more than 30 grands crus and more than 560 premiers crus in the Côte d’Or. Fully one-fourth of France’s officially designated appellations are found in Burgundy. That’s an awful lot of place names to know, and is the primary barrier to entry for consumers into the beauty of wines that should be far simpler to understand because there are only two grapes employed (I don’t count aligoté because few pay it any mind). Chablis, on the other hand, mercifully has only one grand cur and one premier cru designation—technically anyway. There are seven climats within the grand cru designation, and 19 premier cru communes with 17 primary climats within them. So, there are still a bunch of names of note but far fewer than farther south. And finally, there is only white wine in Chablis.

While there is unanimous agreement that the grands crus are indeed grand, this is precisely where any semblance of consensus ends. Many of the premiers crus are considered to be latecomers and pretenders that share neither the excellent and vital exposure of the grand cru vineyards or the proper soil mixture. Instead, it’s said, they were promoted over generic Chablis for political reasons (something not uncommon in France). AOC Chablis is what it is, but much more is expected of a bottle with the far more prestigious premier cru marker. Vignerons in Chablis work in—or over— a veritable Jurassic-era water playground of immense complexity. The basis for the crispness that is the hallmark of Chablis is the soil that is the product of a more than 100,000,000-year-old incubation commencing when the entire area was an ocean floor rather than a gently rising ridge of limestone, fossilized sea creature shells, clay and stone. The seven grand cru climats have the best distribution over these four categories of vine nourishment. This belt of soil—called Kimmeridgean, and named for the southern English village of Kimmeridge at its far northwestern limit—makes its way through Champagne and down to Sancerre in the Loire, explaining the similarity of the dry whites in each place. Though Sancerre doesn't share the complexity of Chablis and Champagne, there is a thread of mineralité and chalkiness that would be recognizable to someone well versed in one but not the others. (There are vignerons in Sancerre and Pouilly-sur-Loire who do conjure exquisite whites, but for the most part, sauvignon blanc makes somewhat simpler, greener wines than does chardonnay at its best.) The Kimmeridgean limestone is visible in the topsoil of the vineyards giving the brown dirt an ashen accent.

The seven Chablis Grand Cru vineyards are neatly arrayed east to west in a ridge-like manner, a geographic fact that accounts for their enviable south- and southwest-facing exposures. Given the difficult climate in Chablis, every extra minute of sunshine the vines get helps.

Aspect is everything in Chablis. The grands crus are neatly arranged just across the Serein River from the town itself. From west to east they are: Les Bougros, Les Preuses, Vaudésir, Les Grenouilles, Valmur, Les Clos—probably the best known of the seven— and Blanchot. The collective vineyard of 242 acres stretches just over a mile with a depth of no more than a third of that at any point. They each share the same soil though at varying depths. They also share excellent south- and southwest-facing exposure, something that has been the justification for their lofty standing, and a bone of contention, too. There are a number of similarly well-exposed spots in the greater Chablis area, and owners of some of those spots argued that because their vineyards faced the same way as the grands crus, they should at least be accorded premier cru status if they already had an AOC Chablis rank.

Château de Béru is a case in point. The Béru family has long sought premier cru recognition for its estate-situated Clos Béru precisely because of its uniformity of soil and excellent exposure, though so far to no avail.

Flat stone—and lots of it—as evidenced in this Les Preusses closeup, is the predominant surface feature of Grand Cru Chablis vineyards.

This isn’t to suggest that many of the premier cru wines aren’t special. But it is more difficult to vouch for the contents of a bottle bearing one of the premier cru climats if you don't know the producer. Some of the better-known ones include the boomerang-shaped Fourchaume, located just to the north of Chablis; Montée de Tonnerre, found across the road from Blanchot; Vaillons and Montmains, allayed parallel to each other just to the southwest of Chablis; and Vosgros, the little “island” to the south of the town. The 1,862 acres of premier cru vineyards have less in common with each other than do the grands crus except that they are all larger than their more esteemed relatives. Château de Béru currently owns nearly an acre of the premier cru Vaucoupin.

Few regions in the wine world are as worshiped, and at the same time misunderstood, as Burgundy. The wines, chardonnay for the whites and pinot noir for the reds, are certifiably wonderful, more so now than at any other time in the region's long winemaking history. Unfortunately, a substantial part of that long history has centered on indifferent winemaking that permitted mediocre practitioners to foist thin, insipid bottles on an adoring public, a public no doubt dazzled by place names so steeped in lore as to often mask poor vineyard and cellar practices. Names like Chambertin, Pommard, Clos de Vougeot for reds, Montrachet, Puligny-Montrachet, Meursault for whites, to name a few better known ones, promised something that these justifiably hallowed grounds often could not deliver: ethereal pinots and chards with grace and subtle power.

The good news is that the days of laurel resting are long gone. Producers great and small are exploiting their fortunate geographic placement and making the best wines in the region's history. Though consumers can feel safer about choosing a wine from an unknown producer now more than at any other time in the past, consumers will still be left dealing with Burgundy's virtually incomprehensible classification system. While it may be possible for a somewhat casual white Burgundy fan to identify a known commune like Meursault on a label, it's unlikely that any of Meursault's 18 or so premier cru sites will mean anything to that consumer when spotted on that label, other than the promise of a lighter wallet, that is. Burgundy is a place of place names and these lieux dits (lee-ew dee) or climats (klee ma) are so numerous as to often confound even the most confident student of the region with names never before encountered.

And to make matters worse, Burgundy is the poster child for France's inheritance laws gone wild. A family holding that at one time might have been sizable invariably ends up smaller and smaller with each successive generation's heirs getting his or her piece. The result, in addition to the vast majority of producers being essentially tiny, is a phone book that reads more like a collection of family reunion sign-ins. There are pères, there are fils, there are hyphenations, there are cousins, grandparents, and names so common as to be almost Smith-like in their ubiquity. That's Burgundy.

All of this said, there is a way to make a bit of sense of the Burgundy hierarchy. As it stretches from Chablis in the north to the Mâconnais (that is, the area surrounding the charming town of Mâcon) in the south (technically, the vast, leafy vineyards of Beaujolais are considered part of Burgundy's viticultural area, but it has long been treated separately) and particularly the Côte d'Or, comprised of the Côte de Nuits (in the north) and Côte de Beaune (south of Nuits), pedigree, thus esteem, quality (most of the time) and price, is directly related to vine placement on the ground.

This view of vineyards in Aloxe-Corton and Ladoix (some of which are owned by Domaine Chapelle) in the Côte de Beaune neatly illustrates the Burgundy hierarchy: Vines are generally more highly regarded as they move from sea level up the slopes.

Generally, the lower the vines in elevation, the less special they are. As vines work their way up from sea level toward the slopes, they get better and better. So, usually, vines on the ground floor, so to speak, will typically be accorded generic or regional designations like Bourgogne blanc and rouge, Mâcon, etc. As the vines start to move up the slopes, and/or particularly if they are found in certain communes (essentially something roughly equivalent to a town and its immediate surrounding area), the resultant wines may be given more specific communal appellation monikers, such as Chablis, Meursault and Pommard.

As those vines move up a bit more, something that can easily be witnessed as a visitor drives down roads like the N-74, the finished wines may be given premier cru status. And finally, for those privileged vines raised at or near the crest of certain slopes, a grand cru designation may be indicated. Bottles can then be proudly adorned with the name of the vineyard or other important place within a vineyard. For example, Gevrey-Chambertin is fairly well known as an excellent source of pinot noir. So, a label that simply says "Gevrey-Chambertin" would mean that the bottle contained pinot of a somewhat "basic" quality for that particular commune. (Of course, there is basic and there is basic, and certainly a pinot from Gevrey-Chambertin should be expected to show more class than one from a lesser-regarded commune, such as Ladoix. There's nothing wrong with pinot from Ladoix, however, and in fact, it is an up-and-coming commune that is the source of very well-priced wines.)

If a label also included one of Gevrey-Chambertin's authorized vineyard names or climats, such as for example, Champeaux, one of the best known of the commune's 26 premier cru place names, you would expect the pinot to be a pretty big step up in class from the "basic" Gevrey-Chambertin. You'd also pay a lot more for it. Sometimes winemakers choose to leave the climat off the label but still may label it premier cru. This choice can be made for a number of reasons, including vintage variation and blending of grapes from more than one climat to name just two. And, by the way, you'll never see a bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin with a grand cru designation on its label. Confusingly, there is a grand cru called Chambertin that actually comes from the same commune of Gevrey-Chambertin, but the absence of "Gevrey" means the pinot came from a different place within the commune, one that has long been considered among the best in Burgundy for pinot.

Got it? All of this is very general, and there are so many exceptions that it often seems hardly worth trying to make sense of it. But after all, a general framework with many holes is better than none at all.