For a long time, I didn’t quite get Champagne.
A glass of Taittinger.
I certainly understood its place in the wine world: the long history, the meticulous production, the reverence. But every time I found myself at a party where a bottle was opened, I couldn’t understand why people were willing to shell out several hundred dollars for something that never quite lived up to the fuss. The bubbles were fine, the wine was pleasant, but it rarely left a mark.
What I didn’t realize then was that what I’d been drinking often wasn’t Champagne at all. More often than not, it was sparkling wine passed off in the same broad category—a prosecco here, a cava there—festive, fizzy, and fun, but not the same thing. I knew enough about wine to know Champagne had pedigree, but not enough to know I hadn’t really met the real deal yet.
That changed one day on the California coast.
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