If it were possible to probe the collective consciousness of wine drinkers for their impressions of pinot blanc, you would be left with little of consequence. Few love it, few hate it, few give it much thought. It’s not the dominant grape in any particular region. An even closer examination reveals pinot blanc to be a phantom grape and wine, a cipher that offers few answers but raises many questions.

It always struck me as a mild, milquetoast sort of wine. But I’ve started wondering more about pinot blanc in the last few years, and I became fixated last fall when I was entranced by a bottle at Blaue Gans, Kurt Gutenbrunner’s casual Austrian restaurant in TriBeCa. It was a 2008 Rudi Pichler weissburgunder, as pinot blanc is known in Austria, from the Kollmütz vineyard in the Wachau. I ordered it for the novelty, as I rarely see weissburgunders on any list, much less with a bit of age.

The wine was rich yet dry with more texture than fruit flavors. It tasted not unlike almonds, with a hint of a corn-like sweetness balanced by plenty of minerality, as if hundreds of microscopic pebbles were coursing through the mouth. It was opulent but not overbearing and went beautifully with a plate of smoked trout. I’ve got to have more of these wines, I thought.

Over the course of the last few months, I set off on a bit of an exploration. But pinot blanc turns out to be maddeningly evasive. You reach out to grasp it, and — poof — like a vapor, it’s gone, only to show up where you least expect it.