“Good. Very good.”
Warren set down his glass, nodding, and closed his eyes as if to savor the lingering finish. Since I had already been constantly checking the condition of the wine in the barrel, I wasn't greatly relieved by his admiration. I was only interested in how closely what I felt aligned with his thoughts.
“Does it feel different from Sylphid?”
“Of course. Would you say it’s a type where the aroma doesn’t leap up but seeps downward? It feels like layers of thin sheets stacked atop one another. That’s why the finish stays so long.”
His review was filled with the mannerisms of a wine connoisseur, so the average person wouldn't understand what he meant, but I understood. It meant the initial volatile esters weren't strong and the aroma was centered on medium- and high-molecular-weight aromatic components, so rather than the scent leaping up into the nose, it was a type that slowly unfolded in the mouth.
“The grapes from Grendel Hill were small and uniform with a high flesh-to-skin ratio. The sugar content was slightly lower than the grapes from Hart Farm that I used for Sylphid, but the acidity retention was better, and the seed maturity wasn't excessive either. I judged them to be grapes whose growth had been naturally slowed while minimizing stress, rather than pushed to overripeness, so I aged the wine accordingly.”
“I see. You matched it appropriately to the condition of the grapes... Appropriate, very appropriately matched. So, if Sylphid is a wine that makes you fall in love at the first glass, this one... you could say it's a wine that reveals its true nature at the third glass.”
“That’s why I don’t think it’s for parties. A wine to drink alone, or with people who don’t talk much?”
“It’s perfect for an old man like me. Have you decided on a name, by any chance?”
“I decided on Quiet Hill. But now that I’ve chosen it, it suits the wine so well.”
“Indeed it is. A wine with a quiet yet unforgettable impression. We call something like this a masterpiece straightaway. It will become a new benchmark for single-vineyard Pinot Noir.”
Just then, Mom entered carrying a perfectly golden roast chicken on a large platter, as if straight out of a movie.
“Please eat before you continue.”
“Oh, to think such fantastic food exists... I wonder if I deserve such luxury in my twilight years.”
“Our child is lacking in many ways, so please look after him.”
“What are you saying? On the contrary, I am learning much from him.”
“Hohoho! Warren, how is your sense of humor so excellent? Then please enjoy your meal.”
Mom giggled as she left the aging room, and Warren settled into his seat and spoke.
“Your mother thinks I'm joking.”
“It’s not entirely serious either. As if what I teach amounts to much.”
He carved the breast of the golden-brown roast chicken with a large knife and placed it on his plate. The fragrant, savory aroma of the roasted chicken tickled my nose.
“You see, sometimes the amount of knowledge isn't what's important. The world overflows with knowledge. My sons would consider it important knowledge to know how to buy good real estate cheaply and turn it into great value. Stock traders would consider making money with stocks to be important knowledge. And laborers who earn a day's wage for a day's work would consider their know-how to be knowing which farm to work at to earn a lot while working easily.”
I sat across from him and carved a leg of the roast chicken, placing it on my plate.
“I suppose so.”
“Such valuable knowledge and information can be meaningless to someone else. Or, something one needs... truly just one piece of knowledge can change a person's life. And that knowledge may not be so grand. Like the fact that the sun rises in the east, or that people die when they grow old. To me, your teaching was exactly that. Wine is made from terroir. So the realization that I can change the terroir to make the wine I want.”
“Hmm...”
“So for me, the knowledge I must learn has increased tremendously. A clear goal has emerged. So even if the amount of knowledge you shared isn't large, I have gained a very great lesson.”
To be honest, when I told him about cultivating terroir, I hadn't spoken with such depth in mind. Whether it was when I was replanting Silver Oak's vineyards or now, I had only been thinking of cultivating the soil to be like To Kalon, which would be recognized for tremendous value in the future.
But Warren's words now were an expression of the will to seek out the terroir that made a wine, if there existed a wine approaching the so-called "god's drop" as in some manhwa expression. It was as if I had pointed at the moon for him to see, but Warren had realized there was a new world in the universe.
This changed the story entirely, and the effort and knowledge required would be tremendous. Warren was excitedly talking about a premise that anyone else would discard as absurd.
It was truly a genius, almost unattainable passion.
“Come on, you don't have to go that far...”
“As expected... the pairing is perfect too.”
He ignored my words, chewing on chicken and sipping wine. Realizing he had already fallen into his own world, I closed my mouth and focused on the meal.
Honestly, Mom's cooking was excellent, and the pairing wine was superb, so it was hard to pay attention to whatever else was being said.
After we finished eating, Warren asked.
“Have you applied for the label?”
“Yes. I submitted an approval request to the TTB (Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau).”
“What? You said you were agonizing over the name, and you've already submitted the approval request?”
“I pushed it through as fast as possible. I have a design agency I know, so I worked with them on two drafts in advance, and once we settled on one, I moved quickly. I should be able to receive the COLA (COLA: Certificate of Label Approval; Label Approval Certificate) by the week after next at the latest.”
It takes at least three to four weeks after bottling to release, but the reason I'm moving quickly is that even after label approval, I need state government approval to sell wine in California.
“I like that quick action. But why haven't you applied for our blend yet?”
“That’s because I want to check what state it's in after the marriage first. Then I'll name it accordingly... There's no rush.”
“Hah, so Quiet Hill is urgent and that isn't? Aren't you discriminating too much?”
He expressed his displeasure, pursing his lips. At the old man's complaint, I looked dumbfounded.
“It’s because I'm trying to do things one at a time, in order. It's harvest season now, so I have to harvest grapes; soon Aschlon and Sylphid need to come out, and in November Seracia is coming too. Even releasing just one wine in the middle of all that means a mountain of work. I'm trying to take the blending a little more slowly.”
“Huh...”
“Hahaha, I understand the desire to see the reaction quickly.”
I could understand his feelings. It would be a cult-classic blending wine released since he came to Redwood, a wine to which his sensibilities were applied. So it was only natural that he was dying to know what the market reaction would be.
It had been quite a while since he had launched a new brand at Stag's Leap, so wine enthusiasts were probably extremely curious about what kind of wine would come out of Redwood with Warren Winiarski's touch; he must be eager to show them quickly.
Conversely, it was clear how serious Warren was about this blending wine. If the quality were poor, he would never want to show it off.
Warren, who had been slightly averting his gaze, frowned and spoke.
“It's because I want to show Robert quickly.”
“Ah...”
As expected, there was a reason. Word was that Robert Mondavi's health was gradually declining in Napa Valley. They said his doctor visited every day, didn't they?
It seemed he wanted to show Robert Mondavi—who was no different from a mentor to him—at least one thing before he died.
“Don't worry too much. He'll make it through this year for sure.”
“Weakened old men can go at any time, you know. Honestly, I'm anxious.”
“No. He'll definitely get through this year in good health.”
The reason I spoke with such certainty was because I knew the year of his death was next year. And Warren Winiarski also lived a very long life, only lowering the curtain on his life in 2024.
It was amusing that both of them had spent their lives making alcohol—the worst thing for health—and drinking wine all their lives, yet lived long past ninety.
“Phew, yes. I shouldn't be impatient. May I head back a little early today?”
“Of course. Please head back early.”
“But, um... may I take some of what's in the barrel?”
He was pointing at the Quiet Hill barrel, which hadn't been released yet and was being kept with great care.
“...Honestly, you're saying you're heading home early because you want to drink the wine to your heart's content, aren't you?”
“What are you talking about? My heart is heavy, so I want to rest today. Quiet Hill is just right for consoling my heart. If you don't like it, I'll make do with the wine at home. Quiet Hill fits my mood today perfectly, but if you insist on opposing it, I can't force you, can I?”
He looked deflated, speaking bitterly. To an outsider, he would seem like the most pitiable old man in the world, but I was speechless. Judging by this old man's silver tongue, he must have courted many women in his youth.
“Take it.”
I waved my hand dismissively, and Warren curved a smile at the corner of his mouth, but then he became sullen again and said,
“Well then... I'll take a little to soothe my melancholy heart today. In my old age, I have nothing else to comfort me, so what can I do?”
“...”
And so Warren had someone fill unlabeled one-liter bottles with the barrel wine and left.
---
“Hehehe...”
“Where shall I put it?”
“Take it to the study.”
Watching the employee head to the study carrying the large bottle, Warren headed to the kitchen with a deep smile. He took out Comté cheese and prosciutto ham to pair with the Pinot Noir from the refrigerator and headed to the study.
However, Warren ran into his son and daughter-in-law who had just entered the house, along with a strange man, while holding snacks in both hands.
“Father, you're already home?”
“Hello, sir.”
The man who had followed Andrew and his wife in was, surprisingly, Mark Harrington, the owner of a large winery in Sonoma.
“Oh, Mark, what brings you to my house?”
“Actually, I had wanted to see you and pay my respects, sir. I was waiting until evening, but I didn't expect to meet you so early.”
“Hmm? You came because of me?”
“Yes.”
Warren was puzzled, but Andrew interjected.
“I played golf with Mark this morning. He said he wanted to see you after the meal, so we came together.”
“And you didn't go to San Jose, instead going out to play golf?”
“Father, real estate is all about connections. And Jonathan is there today.”
“Ahem... but why me?”
Mark, who had been about to answer, looked at the cheese and ham in Warren's hands and asked,
“Were you about to have wine?”
“I was.”
“Then might I join you?”
“Sure. You bring a bottle.”
At the words telling Andrew to bring an appropriate wine, Mark tilted his head.
“The wine you're drinking must be very precious, sir...?”
“That's mine.”
Then, perhaps thinking he was being too stingy, he spoke again.
“I'll give you exactly one glass.”
“Thank you. After you.”
Warren entered the study with Mark and opened the tightly stuck cork as he spoke.
“Why did you want to see me?”
But instead of answering, Mark looked at the plain, unlabeled dark wine bottle and asked,
“What kind of wine is that? Did you bring it from Redwood?”
“...You're not without perception, are you?”
“If it's a wine without a label, it must be a pre-release wine, and since you've been going to Redwood, it wouldn't be a difficult guess even for a middle schooler.”
“That's right. If you aren't a fool, you should at least be able to guess that much. Enough, get to the point quickly. When you get old, you become impatient and don't like beating around the bush.”
As Warren poured the wine and urged him on, Mark answered.
“I know that you originally planned to sell Stag's Leap and continue personal grape growing. I understand that now you've left everything to your employees and have completely stepped away...”
“Hmph! That loose-lipped Andrew must have told you that too.”
“I wondered if you might have any intention of selling.”
Warren didn't answer and handed Mark the wine with an inscrutable gaze. And he said,
“Try it.”
The moment Mark reached for the glass,
“If you are confident that your winery has a wine better than what you are drinking now, I will sell you my Arcadia (Arcadia Vineyards).”
At those unexpected words, Mark's eyes trembled greatly.