Warren Winiarski’s face was not particularly bright when he returned to Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars. His thoughts were tangled in a complicated knot, and just then, the door suddenly flew open.
“Father! I heard you went to Mondavi Winery today?”
His son, Jonathan Winiarski, thirty-eight years old and already the father of two children, still had his eyes shining with that shallow anticipation of what opportunities might arise if they sold this winery.
“I did.”
“What did you talk about?”
He stared at his son for a moment, then sat down in the chair in his study and said,
“Didn’t you hear his health isn’t good?”
“Ah...”
Jonathan, who seemed to have little interest in the subject, nodded indifferently, then placed both hands on the desk and said,
“Father, if Stag’s Leap is sold, we can move forward with setting up the investment company as planned, right? I talked to my brother too, and he says real estate around San Jose still has plenty of room to rise.”
“I heard the real estate market is in a dangerous state right now.”
“The housing market is, yes. But land prices are different. There’s already a lot, but they say the inflow centered around IT companies will keep going, so we have to invest quickly. If anything, now that real estate is slowing down, it must be our opportunity.”
“Hmm...”
Warren let out a deep sigh and quietly looked at his son’s excited face before speaking.
“Jonathan.”
“Yes?”
“If we sell the winery... is that really what you want to do?”
Jonathan grinned as if it were obvious.
“Father, there’s a clear limit to how much money you can make with wine. We have to go bigger. I’ll make you like Trump, Father. A real estate tycoon.”
“Do you think your father will live as long as Mondavi?”
“Of course. If you live to ninety-three like Mr. Mondavi, you’ll be able to see your son become a magnate. I’ve already picked out what to invest in. Everyone’s jealous, saying we’re buying at an amazing price, you know?”
“I’m not so sure.”
Worried that Warren might change his mind because of his negative attitude, Jonathan spoke urgently, his voice filled with appeal.
“Why are you trying to bring up something that’s already settled again? I’m not interested in wine. Even my brother doesn’t touch alcohol at all. I respect you, Father, but don’t ask me to take over your work.”
“... All right, for now.”
When Warren waved his hand as if there was nothing more to say and told him to leave, Jonathan shook his head with a disappointed expression and left the study.
A long while later, a little past five in the afternoon, a guest arrived at the mansion. It was Brad Duncan, vice president of Michelle Wine Estates, MW Estates, and a man famous in the Washington wine industry for his dazzling eloquence.
In his mid-forties, with sports sunglasses perched on his head, he approached Warren with a bright, witty smile.
“Mr. Winiarski! It’s always an honor.”
Warren extended his hand out of courtesy.
“Welcome, Brad. I heard the children invited you.”
“Haha, Kaylin’s cooking is always moving. I couldn’t refuse the invitation.”
Kaylin was Jonathan’s wife and Warren’s second daughter-in-law. Brad Duncan had already become so close to the family that even if he had nothing particular to say about the winery acquisition, it would not have been strange for him to come by.
At the dinner table were Brad Duncan, the guest; Jonathan, the second son, and his wife; and their daughter Jenny. Since the eldest son’s family was currently traveling in France, it was a rather modest gathering compared to usual.
“No matter when I drink it, Stag’s Leap wine is the best. You can already see its class from the first aroma. The balance of acidity and concentration—this truly feels like genius.”
Everyone looked proud at his praise, but Warren only gave a bitter smile and said nothing.
Brad was not offended in the slightest, since he knew Warren had been lukewarm about selling the winery from the beginning. The only processes left now were detailed conditions and a bit of haggling over the price, and since the gap between their desired price ranges was not large, the sale was practically as good as done.
So there was no need to feel anxious or make a strenuous effort to coax him. Brad Duncan spoke comfortably, as if he were truly the father of a friend’s household.
“Actually, there was one rather unfortunate part. If the acquisition had gone through early last year, we would have made a documentary about last year’s thirtieth-anniversary re-tasting of the Judgment of Paris. It would have been an enormous topic of conversation.”
“A documentary?”
When Jenny asked with her eyes wide, Brad smiled kindly.
“That’s right. It would show the history of America completely defeating France. It would have become a huge sensation, don’t you think?”
“That’s so cool!”
Brad burst into laughter, then turned his head toward Warren.
“Hahaha, it is a pity, but I’m thinking of producing a documentary by interviewing the people who participated. We’d be making the greatness of American wine and Stag’s Leap known once again.”
“That sounds interesting.”
Jonathan smiled as he tapped the meat with the knife he had been using to cut his steak.
“There’s going to be an incredible response. Ah, the building you said you were investing in down in San Jose—I checked it yesterday too. The price really was cheap. How did you find out about it?”
“Don’t even get me started. Jennifer found out that the investment company holding that building had suffered a big loss after making a bad investment in derivatives.”
“Ah! You mean that real estate management one? They looked capable.”
“Right. So...”
The conversation about real estate continued on and on. Warren found it increasingly uncomfortable to listen. Money, real estate, and the sight of his children losing themselves over such things made him feel sick inside.
“I’ll get up first, so eat well and enjoy yourselves.”
“Of course.”
After forcing himself to finish the meal, Warren glanced in passing at his children, who were absorbed in Brad Duncan, and returned to his study.
“Whew...”
Sitting in his chair with his eyes closed, Warren massaged the stiff back of his neck. The fact that everything he had built until now was being converted into nothing more than money filled him with an indescribable frustration. And Mondavi’s advice kept circling in his ears.
---
In March, I was checking the ground at the Silver Oak farm site with an auger. An auger was a tool with a T-shaped handle and a long metal rod whose end curled into a spiral, allowing it to dig into the earth like a screw. As I turned the iron auger and dug down, wet loam and gravel rose up in long, coiled layers.
“Hmm... this part wasn’t done properly...”
The core of the To Kalon terroir was drainage, so even though I had confirmed that the gravel had been laid densely, I checked the drainage speed across the entire farm using an infiltrometer. Then I found one part that fell short of the standard, so I was checking underground.
“Do we have to redo the work...”
I was shaking my head and checking the portion where the gravel layer was lacking with the auger when an old man I had never seen before suddenly appeared.
“Huh? What brings you here?”
Instead of answering my question, he glanced over the ground and asked,
“Why did you dig up the earth?”
“I was checking the subsoil, thirty to one hundred centimeters below the surface layer.”
“Why check that?”
“To see whether drainage is good.”
“I see.”
He nodded, then looked at the other equipment nearby—the portable pH meter, EC meter, water container, and so on—and asked,
“What are all these?”
I roughly figured out the old man’s identity. He had to be a farm owner growing grapes nearby. Only the large farms had begun applying SWP now, and there were still small farms that did not even know what SWP was. So it was not especially unusual for a farm owner to be curious about why such equipment was being used.
“This checks acidity and salinity conditions. This one is for checking soil texture...”
I pointed at the water container with my eyes and placed the heavy auger on the tractor.
“You check both the topsoil, down to thirty centimeters from the surface, and the subsoil? Across this whole vast farm?”
“Come on, it’s not like I check absolutely every single bit myself... I have the workers check too.”
“But you still check it all, don’t you?”
“It’s not like we check every meter. The intervals are... pretty wide.”
I spread my arms and gestured far into the distance, but even so, the old man’s doubtful expression did not change.
“Why check all of that?”
“To make good grapes come out.”
“What are the good grapes you want?”
I tilted my head, then said,
“Good grapes? Hmm... Brix, total acidity, TA, titratable acidity, anthocyanin, seed maturity, skin tannin maturity, berry size... If you dig into the specifics, there are too many.”
At the unexpected answer, his eyes changed strangely.
“What did you say?”
“Why? Is that strange?”
“No... Usually, when I ask this kind of question, certain answers come out. Things like, ‘grapes that reveal the taste made by the land without hiding it,’ or, ‘grapes that speak for themselves once they become wine,’ or, ‘grapes that taste like something only this land can produce.’”
“Ah...”
“Then I ask more specifically, you see? Then the answers become a little more concrete. They’ll say that without any need for fermentation or anything else, the aroma bursts just from chewing the skins, or that the acidity and sugar are naturally balanced, and when you bite the seeds, you feel firm tannins rather than a green smell...”
“That’s true too.”
“It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone answer like you.”
I simply nodded. It was only natural that people who farmed could not research and dig into the details the way I did, so this reaction was not strange.
“Then what Brix level do you want?”
“Between 24.5 and 26?”
“The reason?”
“But isn’t that much basic knowledge that everyone knows?”
“Some know and some don’t. I’m curious about your answer.”
From the look of it, he seemed to know the answer, but I decided to answer as he wanted. This much was not even at a level that could be called a secret.
“With that level of sugar, after fermentation the alcohol will be around 13.8 to 14.8 percent, which is the most appropriate. It’s also the range where concentration and acidity balance without over-ripeness or sweetness running wild.”
“Then the total acidity, the amount of sourness?”
I looked more carefully at the sharp-eyed old man again and shook my head.
“That’s a secret.”
“Huh? Why?”
“You should find that out yourself. You shouldn’t try to get someone else’s knowledge so easily for free.”
“Hah... Hey, do you know how many professors I know at UC Davis? If I call, they’ll answer right away.”
“Then you can ask those professors right away.”
“I’m asking because I’m curious whether you really know.”
“Liar.”
When I looked at him with disbelief, the old man wore an expression of utter absurdity. And when I gathered up all my equipment, he hurriedly said,
“It should come out to five to seven grams per liter.”
I was startled and turned around. The exact target I wanted was 5.5 to 6.5 grams per liter, but in any case, it was an answer one could only give if one knew what to aim for.
“Oh? You do know?”
“Hah, do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I told you. I was curious whether you knew or not.”
“Yes, I knew.”
When I turned around again, he asked once more,
“What about pH and pigment?”
I looked at him, still not leaving, and asked,
“Why do you keep trying to pry into secrets? Even if you know, I’m not going to teach you.”
“Fine. Then let me ask just one thing. As far as I know, the drainage in this area isn’t bad, so why did you bother checking the drainage?”
“To make it even better.”
The old man, who had caught an important fact from that answer, was greatly surprised.
“To make it even better? Are you saying you artificially created the subsoil?”
I was also slightly surprised by the old man’s unexpectedly sharp answer.
“Wow, you figured that out.”
In one sense, it might have seemed like an important secret, but in truth, the fact that the subsoil had been artificially created could not be called a secret. All the workers had been mobilized to create the subsoil in this area, so it would have been impossible not to know.
The ratio of gravel, the depth of the roots, and the most important point—how the organic matter was composed—could be called the real secrets.
“Why create it anew? This area is already perfectly part of Napa Valley, and the land has value worthy of that.”
“It’s good. I don’t think it’s bad either. It’s simply for the sake of making better grapes.”
“What are better grapes...”
The old man could not continue. He had probably remembered that I had refused to tell him the standards for those good grapes, saying they were secret.
I shrugged and said,
“Still, you really do know quite a bit. You must have studied a lot.”
“... Not a small amount.”
“Don’t try to get things for free, and if you study harder, you’ll do well.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
“You should go now. And don’t get any funny ideas about taking soil.”
He flinched, then backed away hesitantly before soon walking off into the distance. I told the worker who had just come over to keep an eye on that man and make sure he did not take any soil, then drove off on the tractor.
The thought that we would have to redo the work suddenly made irritation surge up in me.
{@PIC:803174}