The Burgundy Myth Is Dead

And Good Pinot Doesn’t Need a French Passport

There was a time when if you said "Pinot Noir," everyone assumed you meant Burgundy. Maybe still do. It’s the standard, the pedestal, the expensive flex. And yeah—there’s magic there. We’re not denying that. But pretending it’s the only place where good Pinot happens? That’s the myth. And it’s time to bury it.

Burgundy wrote the rulebook, sure. But that doesn’t mean it owns the game. Not anymore. Some of the most honest, expressive, unforgettable Pinot we’ve tasted in the last few years came from places off the script. Volcanic slopes in Chile. Fog-hugged hills in Tasmania. Wind-whipped vineyards in South Africa. Coastal corners of California. These aren’t copies—they’re counterpoints.

These regions aren’t interested in pretending to be French. And that’s what makes them matter. The wines don’t ask for comparison. They stand on their own. Pinot grown in these places brings its own mood—sometimes raw, sometimes silk, sometimes like biting into a red plum still warm from the sun. This is the kind of Pinot Cab lovers go crazy over. The kind with power and precision.

But the Burgundy shadow still looms. People sip something from Santa Barbara or Patagonia and say, "This is almost like Burgundy," as if the goal is to get close. But maybe the goal is to get out. Out of the comparison trap. Out of the hierarchy. Out of the idea that good wine has to come from the same six villages someone decided were holy.

Pinot is a grape of tension. Of transparency. It shows its scars. It doesn’t need makeup. And when it’s grown with care in the right places—even if those places don’t come with centuries of reverence—it can still stop you mid-sentence. That’s what we look for.

At Bruno, we work with Pinot that speaks its own language. Not trying to impress a French grandfather. Just trying to be unforgettable in its own way.

The map is bigger now. The myth is old. Let it go.

Drink Different. Or Die Bored.

Cheers,
Bruno