I have never been a subscriber to the ABC club which, to younger readers won't mean much, but those of drinking age in the 1990s will know it as Anything But Chardonnay.
Since I first started getting into wine I loved Chardonnay, and as I learnt more about wine I realised I loved all the incarnations Chardonnay could take.
I first got into wine through Oddbins, which in the 90s brought us the unalloyed joy of Australia, and with it some of the best Chardonnay one could hope to taste; Coldstream Hills, Petaluma, Leeuwin Estate, Tapanappa.
The memory of the streak of lime green acidity dancing through the flavours of fig, pastry cream and roasted nut of a Reserve Chardonnay from Coldstream Hills still lingers to this day. Dynasty was on TV and a gutsy Chard with shoulder pads and a sassy attitude was de rigeur. But things were about to change.
Just as Chardonnay got popular suddenly it wasn't cool. The wine world was changing fast, and a tidal wave of generic Chard flooded the market. The ABC Club was born and New Zealand Savvy B was the height of fashion.
I was never one of those. Too shrill, too loud. I prefer a throaty baritone. The naysayers took aim at Chardonnay, even if they still loved Chablis and drank Champagne. Too everywhere, too bland, too oaky, too fat!
Yes it's versatile, not too fussy, highly adaptable, wears make up well, curves in the right places, looks good naked. But the fact is that really good Chardonnay is just as difficult to make as any other wine, and finding wines with backbone, balance and power depends on soil, yield, sensible farming, and sensitive cellar work, just as much as a temperamental Pinot Noir does, let alone a droopy Viognier.
Gloriously rich, mouthfilling, and tremulous like the swell of a Wagner overture, or bosom of a Titian muse, that's Chardonnay. At its edgiest it has the steely thrust of a rapier as in the blanc de blancs Champagne of grand cru Le Mesnil. At its most unadorned it evokes pastoral joys on the cool hills of Chablis, rivulets of Chardonnay flavour splashing over pebbles, a cow's heavy udders ready to burst for milking nearby.
At its most regal it blazes gold like the midday sun. Radiant, layers of peach chiffon under nacreous satin, topped with brass buttons, pompadours, ostrich feathers, screaming absolute power.
Even the simple little Chardonnays cooked up with not even a barrel, just a teabag of oak sawdust steeped in the tank, offer a degree of comfort, and a whiff of decadence, something very few cheap wines can. Which is why, when push comes to shove, whether I've got a fiver or £50, I'll take A Big Chardonnay.