I had the Les Maillons in my glass, and instantly—there it was: an image. Not of Champagne. Not even of Pinot Noir. But of a man.

He’s the type who doesn’t speak unless there’s something worth saying. The kind who listens, takes note, connects the dots—and then suddenly drops a sentence so precise, so spot-on, that the whole room falls silent. No showman, no spotlight seeker. More like someone who sees straight through you with a single glance, and you’ll never know how he does it.

On the surface, he’s calm. Almost composed to a fault. But underneath, something simmers—energy, depth, a quiet kind of intensity.

There’s something about him that reminds me of a former athlete. Someone who knows his body, his limits. Someone who trained not to perform, but to endure. Not for the stage, but for the moment. On one side: physical strength, tension, a vinous concentration. On the other: unwavering balance and precision.

I imagine he lives a bit off the grid, drawn by a deep need for peace. Maybe in an old house with stone floors, where the morning air smells of freshly ground coffee and the dust of well-loved books. When he hosts guests, it’s only a few—but those few know: this is real. No facade. No pretense.

And that fits Olivier Collin. His path. His vision. The fierce precision with which he’s turned an overlooked parcel into a bold, quiet statement. Les Maillons is exactly that: a man who doesn’t raise his voice, but makes an impact. Who carries depth without ever needing to explain himself. Someone you don’t forget—long after the glass is empty.