[The characters, places, organizations, events, and so on appearing in this work have no relation whatsoever to reality and are fictional creations born of the author’s imagination.]
Though he had devoured all sorts of novels, it was rare for the liquor industry to take center stage. There was a strong perception that alcohol made less money than finance, big tech, or IT—and that was true in reality as well. And Henry in his previous life, too, had enjoyed drinking, but it had been soju and beer. It had not been Western liquor, so his knowledge was shallow.
And so, as he followed Benjamin around to inspect the equipment, he listened closely to explanations of the stills’ roles and the processes involved. At times, while hearing about the countless trials and errors Benjamin had gone through, he would burst into loud laughter as if teasing him.
“…So I got a thorough scolding from the family head back then. Still, thanks to changing all the apple trees to new varieties at the time, we’re now full of high-acidity cultivars brought over from Europe. Not just the old Hewes’ Crab and Harrison. The nagging I heard from the old men of the family back then… Henry, you can’t even imagine it. They grabbed me by the collar, saying, ‘Why plant rootless French saplings when we have traditional Applejack that even George Washington drank?’ But even if I went back, I’d do the exact same thing. With Hewes’ Crab, you can make rough Applejack at best. You’ll never get a brandy like a work of art.”
“I heard that story too. It wasn’t just that you argued your case—when everyone opposed you, you secretly cut down the trees, didn’t you? There were even records saying that, even after you were scolded, you came to Father hundreds of times and gave him a headache. Hahaha!”
“Henry, you know it too. Ever since I was young, my dream was always the finest liquor. Our Applejack has a long history and tastes decent, but in the end, it’s branded as cheap liquor. No matter how hard we try, who’s going to recognize it? Besides, with trees meant for Applejack, we can never beat the apple brandy those French bastards make—Calvados.”
“Hmm… But Ben. Aren’t you giving me too huge an assignment the moment I become family head? If we do everything you mentioned, the scale of the project and the investment will be enormous. Upgrading stills we bought less than four years ago, adding apple orchards, building temperature-controlled warehouses. A new distillery, an oak barrel cooperage, our own bottling line… At that point, it would be cheaper to just buy another large bourbon distillery.”
“As expected… is it too difficult? Then for now, just the warehouse and apples from nearby orchards…”
“I’m saying it’s difficult right now. Let’s go to the aging cellar. I’ll taste it and decide.”
“Oh! This way, Henry! Hurry up. I’ll let you taste the best damn apple brandy in America!”
Henry shook his head as he watched Benjamin rush off and disappear. Letting out a hollow laugh, he slowly followed the path Benjamin had taken.
‘A new distillery and stills, and on top of that, two-thirds of the apple farming was overhauled, so there hasn’t even been a harvest for the last four years. And a thermally insulated rickhouse with a temperature-control system, six meters underground. The previous family head must have completely surrendered to Ben’s stubbornness and spent at least 1.5 million dollars. At this point in time, that’s the price of a building on Wall Street, and he’s already asking for reinvestment. Ha.’
When they entered the underground cellar, Benjamin carefully opened one small, dust-covered Ozark White Oak barrel placed in the corner. The liquid he drew up with a long pipette had shed the transparency of the raw spirit they had seen earlier and was now shining a brilliant amber.
“This is… three years old?”
“I’ve tried plenty of oak barrels, but this is the best! Just try it first. I’ll tell you after that.”
Henry accepted the small glass Benjamin held out to him. When he gently swirled the glass, he saw the clear golden brandy run down the sides. Even before he brought it to his nose, behind the fresh acidity of apple, the rich vanilla and roasted nut flavors unique to American oak rose thickly.
‘This looks seriously delicious.’
With anticipation, he took a sip, and the three years of aging unfurled softly over his tongue. It was in a completely different dimension from the common Applejack he had forced himself to try because of its history as a drink George Washington had enjoyed. The rough blow of alcohol had vanished, and an elegant, weighty body slid smoothly down his throat.
For a moment, Henry was at a loss for words. Recently, he had been enjoying the life of the upper class and had encountered all manner of expensive fine liquors, but this was his first time tasting the flavor of baked apple pie presented with such wildness and clarity.
“Oh, shit… Ben. This is really. Really excellent.”
Henry looked at Benjamin, the hand holding the glass trembling slightly. Benjamin smiled, relieved, his eyes full of pride and conviction. Henry once again gazed at the golden liquid in the glass.
‘With quality like this, if we just handle the branding and marketing well, it’ll definitely blow up.’
“Ben, how many bottles of this can we produce per year?”
“That’s exactly what I was about to say! Since ’76, I’ve searched every cooperage I could find. I filled dozens of barrels, varying everything from the wood-drying period to the intensity of the toast. But there are only two of these ’76 Ozark Heavy Toast barrels. The rest were rejected because the tannins were too sharp or the aroma was too flat. After filtering out the sediment and bottling, we’ll get about 400 bottles. Of course, there are a few other barrels that are pretty good too. I tried every famous oak barrel there is. Though French oak was too expensive, so I couldn’t buy any…”
“…If we taste all these barrels, I’ll get drunk and collapse. So in your opinion, this one is the best?”
“Those French bastards’ Calvados is too tame. It just wafts floral aromas around and pretends to be elegant. But what you tasted is the result of American white oak’s wildness properly clashing with apples. It’s heavy and has impact, doesn’t it? I want to make this the main product and increase production up to 100 oak barrels a year. But as you can see, this cellar is already full…”
Henry looked over the cellar packed with oak barrels and answered with a light sigh.
“It’s definitely full. Ben, if you want mass production, first select a location for a large distillery and write up a report. In my view, investing more in the estate distillery would be redundant investment.”
It was absurd that his first investment would not be Stephen Watts of “the bitten orange,” the most promising prospect of this era, but a distillery. Still, the brandy he had just drunk was more than worth it.
“Look. This cellar is a new facility that’s barely four years old. It has an expensive temperature-control system and costs a fortune to maintain. But now that it’s full, do you think building another warehouse next to it will solve the problem?”
Perhaps thinking Henry was indirectly refusing him, Benjamin’s shoulders slumped. His sorrowful, aggrieved eyes seemed to say, “You traitor.”
“Let’s say we solve it in the short term. But what happens later with the plan you mentioned? You’ll need a bigger distillery, stills, a laboratory for cultivar development, a bottling line, a nitrogen-charging system… Later on, you may even need a tasting room. Are you planning to build all that on the estate?”
Henry calmly pointed things out one by one.
“Especially for a facility like a tasting room, if we consider the estate’s security and protection, I absolutely can’t allow it. We can’t open the estate to outsiders. So let’s continue small-batch production here as we do now. Instead, if we create a new large distillery for mass production, we use this place as a research facility. We need to set the board properly from the start before we make a move.”
The more Henry spoke, the more the disappointment vanished from Benjamin’s face as if washed away. Each time the words “large distillery” and “research facility” came out, his eyes flashed like those of a child waiting for a Christmas present. The change was so dramatic as his expression finally turned into a mixture of motivation and ecstasy that Henry, who had been seriously offering advice, barely managed to hold back laughter halfway through.
“Yes, boss! No, family head! No, Henry!!”
“Once the family meeting is over, I’ll assign you a real estate strategy team and accountants. In the meantime, go look at land. Somewhere with good expandability and clean water. Got it? And above all, look for terrain with little temperature fluctuation. Saving on cooling costs is money.”
Watching Benjamin nod mechanically, overcome with joy, Henry felt a slight doubt. He wondered, ‘Did this bastard actually understand everything I said?’ But since he was a man obsessed with his dream, Henry decided to trust that he would handle it well and let it pass.
Leaving the cool cellar, they stepped back into the scorching heat of the distillery. Henry shook hands with each of the employees working up a sweat and made himself known. It was a deliberate move meant to instill not the authority of a family head, but the image of a partner walking alongside them.
The next place he headed was the old Applejack distillery in the adjoining building. There, steeped in the smell of aged wood and a strong, nose-stinging scent of alcohol, Henry met the new manager, Theodore Martin. He was the man who had taken the vacant position after Benjamin moved over to the brandy side.
But the report Theodore brought out made Henry’s brow furrow at once.
“Family head, there is something I must tell you. How about we lower the price of Applejack further, or produce only a small quantity for the preservation of tradition?”
“Hmm. What exactly is the situation?”
“Since Prohibition was repealed in 1934, sales have always been at rock bottom. Applejack itself is too old-fashioned, and it has a strong image as a rustic, unsophisticated liquor. We barely sell about 30% of the annual production.”
A deep gloom lay in Theodore’s voice.
“In that way, from 1934 until now, the remaining 70% each year—in other words, 2,800 barrels—has been piling up. For the past three years, thanks to Benjamin, we reduced production, but the market practically ignores it entirely, so 90% of production, 1,200 barrels, goes straight into storage. Now storage space has reached its limit.”
A glorious history of being supplied to soldiers during the Revolutionary War. But the Applejack of the present was a nuisance that had nothing going for it but history. A low-grade, cheap liquor drunk by dockworkers, harsh and leaving behind a vicious hangover. That was where Applejack stood in the public’s perception.
As Henry listened, two questions flashed strongly through his mind.
‘Why did they keep stubbornly making something that didn’t even sell for decades?’
‘And if it didn’t sell, they should have thrown it away. Why have they been stockpiling it all this time?’
To Henry, who possessed a modern businessman’s instincts, this inefficient situation was an utterly incomprehensible risk. Henry immediately fixed Theodore with a sharp stare and raised his question.