Chardonnay is the grape that divides opinion like few others. Some see it as the height of sophistication, a serious white with structure and the patience to age. Others cast it as the villain of the wine world, guilty of too much oak, too much butter and a good deal of pretension. And then there are the people who simply love a cold, crisp, unoaked glass on a warm afternoon and cannot see what all the fuss is about. All three positions are perfectly valid. All three, it turns out, are the same grape.

The chameleon of white wine

What makes Chardonnay so contentious is its essential neutrality. The grape itself is a blank canvas. It does not carry the loud aromatic markers of a Riesling or a Sauvignon Blanc, so what you taste depends almost entirely on where it grew and how it was made. That is its gift and its curse in a single sentence. Strip everything else away and Chardonnay comes down to one honest question: oaked, or unoaked. Answer that and the whole grape opens up in front of you.

The unoaked side: crisp, precise, all about the fruit

Start here if you like your whites sharp and thirst-quenching. Fermented in steel rather than barrel, unoaked Chardonnay stays bright, precise and true to the fruit: green apple, citrus, a cool line of acidity down the middle. An everyday bottle like the Tormaresca Chardonnay from Puglia is sunshine in a glass, all orchard fruit and no make-up. Climb a mountain and you get tension instead. Catena's High Mountain Chardonnay is grown high in the Andean foothills, where cold nights hold the acidity taut, and it tastes like it was picked at altitude. This clean, steely style has a spiritual home, and it is the next stop.

Chablis: the minimalist masterpiece

If you have ever doubted Chardonnay's potential, drink a proper Chablis and repent on the spot. Grown on the stony, chalky soils of northern Burgundy, these are among the most electrifying whites you can pour. Unoaked, or barely oaked, they are pure and mineral, sometimes almost salty in their intensity. No butter, no gloss, no pretence. Just the grape and the soil talking to one another. A Premier Cru or Grand Cru is a lesson in terroir: same grape, different story entirely, and the great ones improve for decades.

Burgundy's golden standard

In Burgundy proper, across Meursault, Puligny-Montrachet and Chassagne-Montrachet, Chardonnay reaches its apotheosis. These wines are classically elegant, touched with discreet oak, structured enough to age yet never heavy. They are the gold standard by which every other Chardonnay is quietly judged. A Meursault from Joseph Drouhin is a masterclass in balance: there is richness, but acidity keeps it honest; there is oak, but it serves the fruit rather than smothering it. It is the difference between a wine made with intention and one that is simply made.

The New World's louder expression

Then there is the sunnier, more generous end of the spectrum. In the 1980s and 90s, California and Australia turned out some of the most heavily oaked, buttery Chardonnays imaginable. A few were magnificent; others were little more than liquid butter with a hint of grape, and they are the reason the backlash happened at all. The good news is that producers grew up. The modern style, wherever it is made, wears its wood like a well-cut coat rather than a suit of armour. Sicily's Planeta Chardonnay is a fine example: ripe and rounded, tasting unmistakably of the island's sun, but held together rather than drowned. For the same idea with a lighter hand, Bramito from Castello della Sala is the clever, grown-up way in, the little brother of one of Italy's most admired Chardonnays.

On ageing and appreciation

One of Chardonnay's quiet gifts is its ability to age. A well-made white Burgundy can spend twenty, thirty, even forty years in the cellar, slowly gathering layers of honey, hazelnut and toasted brioche. Even the better New World bottles will improve for a decade or more. This is what sets the grape apart from most other whites. It is not just the wine of the moment. It is a wine with a future, whatever you happen to think of oak and butter.

So spare a thought for everyone who spent years ordering Anything But Chardonnay. They were drinking it the whole time, in their Chablis, their Champagne, their smart white Burgundy. The grape never needed defending. It only ever needed you to ask one small question before you poured: oaked, or unoaked. Answer that honestly, and there is a Chardonnay on our shelves for every table you will set this autumn.