It was exactly four weeks since bottling. Warren took a bottle of wine from its proper place in the aging room and left the winery.
“You could have just had it inside...”
I followed behind Warren with an annoyed look on my face. Even though he knew I was grumbling behind him, Warren kept walking with a pleased grin, as if something had put him in a very good mood.
“When I first decided I wanted to make wine, do you know why I felt that way?”
“Why?”
“Because the vineyards were so magnificent.”
“......”
“I studied in Naples and Florence, Italy, to research Niccolò Machiavelli. There, I was deeply impressed by the sight of Italians enjoying wine with every meal. But the moment I truly thought I should make wine was when I visited L’Albergaccio, the farm where Machiavelli wrote The Prince.”
“It must have left quite an impression.”
“It did. At sunset, the Tuscan sun was dyeing the earth gold, and across the endlessly rolling hills, curving gently into the distance, Sangiovese vineyards stretched on without end. It was shockingly beautiful.”
I nodded. It was true that running a vineyard came with many difficulties, but the scenery alone was enough to delight the eyes.
Objectively speaking, Armando’s Laguna Creek farm, with the Russian River visible at a glance below it, was probably the most beautiful, but Redwood Farm, stretching from the hills all the way down to the flatlands of Silver Oak, was no less impressive.
“I can imagine.”
“When I studied The Prince there, I’m reminded of the time I drank wine on the farm, just like Machiavelli. Back then, there wasn’t even a cork stopper. It was a fiasco, a round-bellied bottle wrapped in straw. As I ate hard, stale bread, a slice of salted ham, and pasta drenched in olive oil, the sour, rough liquid the owner brought out would make the dry bread go down smoothly, and the greasy heaviness of the ham would be washed away by the acidity.”
Thinking, “The old man’s reminiscing again...” I silently nodded along. I didn’t want to ruin the mood by throwing cold water on his sentimentality.
But as I listened, I did become curious.
“At that point, wasn’t it practically the Middle Ages?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk... Young brat, you really know nothing...”
“No, I mean...”
“Listen carefully. At the time, more than ten years had already passed since the end of World War II. And since it was the Tuscan countryside, you can’t think of it as being the same environment as today.”
“I see.”
“Back then, Tuscany still maintained a feudal sharecropping system called Mezzadria. On top of that, Italy had lost the war, so it was poor, and places like Naples or the rural villages weren’t very sanitary either. Supplies were scarce, so wine wasn’t a luxury beverage. It was practically the safest drinking water you could have in place of contaminated water.”
“Ah...”
“That was why it struck me even harder. In America at the time, wine was something you drank at a restaurant to put on airs, but there in Italy, it was life itself. Everything was lacking and barren, yet it was so beautiful.”
“So that’s why you started making wine.”
“That’s right. I wanted to cultivate a farm of my own too. But after finally having such a farm, to drink wine in a place where sunlight doesn’t even reach... That would be an act that defeats the whole meaning of running a farm and winery.”
He had talked at length, but in the end, the reason we had come all the way up to the hill instead of tasting the wine in the aging room was that, in his view, you needed to have a drink halfway up the mountain for the atmosphere to come alive. It was no different from old men insisting that you had to have a cup of makgeolli after hiking, so I could only sigh and follow along.
Warren spread out a rough mat at a suitable spot on the hill, which could hardly be called a mountain, and sat down. Without a word, he took a corkscrew from his pocket. He cut the capsule over the bottle neck and drove the screw into the cork. When the cork came out with a pop, Warren’s eyes gleamed.
“Give me a glass.”
He poured wine into the glass I had brought while following him. As the deep ruby liquid flowed down the clear glass, a rich aroma was already spreading.
“Good.”
“Give me some too.”
“Ah, right.”
He had been about to drink first, but when he saw another glass being held out, he grinned and tilted the bottle. Then he wedged the wine roughly between his legs and gave the glass a swirl. The legs—the streams that climb the inner wall of the glass when wine is poured and swirled once, then slowly flow back down—were neat. They were not sticky, but they were not thin either. The fact that there was a moderate viscosity meant the alcohol was not too strong.
With a faint smile, he gave a slight nod and took a sip. A very small sip. He placed it on the tip of his tongue, rolled it toward the center, and instead of swallowing it straight down, held it briefly against the roof of his mouth before exhaling.
Seeing his expression, I didn’t say anything.
“This is insane.”
There was a slight tremor in Warren’s voice.
“How can this combination be so well organized? Usually, with this ratio, one of them ends up sticking out. The Franc surges forward, or the Merlot melts away limply, or the Petit Verdot draws too sharp a line.”
He lifted the glass, filling it with the view of the farm, and continued.
“So this blending produces this kind of result. The meritage is successful. More than I expected...”
Satisfied with the result, I comfortably tasted the wine as well. It certainly had a solid, weighty structure, while the proper acidity and intense aroma rose up powerfully, giving it a strong presence.
It was as if it showed what the pinnacle of a Cab-centered blended wine should be.
“It’s not bad.”
At my assessment, he looked dumbfounded.
“Only... not bad? Unbelievable.”
“Haha, for me, that means I’m fully satisfied. I think it was thanks to your help that it came this far. I’m truly grateful.”
“Perhaps the reason you were able to reach this level was because you never knew satisfaction and kept looking higher. There’s no need to apologize. I’m the same way. And don’t sit so uncomfortably. Why not sit like me?”
When I flopped down beside him, he pointed at the vineyard in front of us.
“Doesn’t it look wonderful like this? When I look at vineyards bathed in sunlight, I feel as if even my soul is being purified.”
“... It is nice.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk... Your technique is that of a master, but your emotions are dried up.”
“If someone saw you, they’d think you came here to paint.”
“I don’t see why I couldn’t. I could even sing.”
“Please do that when I’m not around.”
“Hahaha! Don’t worry. I enjoy that when I’m alone too. Anyway, what did you decide to name this fellow?”
He picked up the wine wedged between his legs, poured it into his glass, then tucked it right back between his legs. It seemed like a declaration of his will to drink it all by himself.
“Astra Vale. The name you recommended.”
At my words, he grinned and drank the wine. Then, looking down into the wineglass, he said,
“Now that the name’s been given, doesn’t it fit perfectly? It really is intense, like a star has fallen into your mouth. When are you planning to release it?”
“I submitted the label application quite a while ago, so it should come out around next week. I’m thinking of releasing it before November. I feel like I’ll be busy again then because of Ceracia...”
Warren also shook his head at Redwood’s explosive production volume.
“It’s impressive enough that you’re drawing from here and there to produce wine, but every single one of them gets good reviews... Even in my prime, this much would have been difficult.”
“What are you talking about? You’re the man who made Stag’s Leap.”
“These days, that kind of volume is nothing, but considering Redwood’s scale, it’s absurd. Originally, it should be hard enough just to use up all the grapes from the farm. Most wineries can’t even do that, which is why they gather tourists and run tours and the like...”
“Ah, I’d like to take this wine to Mr. Robert and let him try it. Have you heard any news?”
At the mention of Robert Mondavi, Warren’s face stiffened slightly. He looked out over the farm scenery and drank his wine before saying,
“I was thinking the same thing myself, but I don’t know whether the mood will allow for it. Let’s wait and see.”
The cult wine to be released this time held many meanings for Redwood. It was a wine that showed not only Redwood’s identity, but also the direction it aimed for and the strength it possessed. On top of that, it was the first cult wine released since Warren Winiarski joined, so everyone was paying attention.
If there were an evaluation from Robert Mondavi, it would give wine lovers even stronger confidence.
Of course, it wouldn’t matter much if we didn’t get one. It would be nice to have, but not having it wouldn’t be a major problem either...
“But are you really going to drink all of that by yourself?”
“If you wanted some, you should have brought your own.”
“......”
Warren took a crumpled piece of cheese from his pocket and began enjoying the wine alone with the beautiful scenery.
---
At first, Sienna couldn’t understand why her father had told her to change the brand name they were about to launch. They had prepared it for a long time, she was certain it had improved more than enough, and the results were not bad. No, not merely not bad—she had no doubt it would become Harrington Winery’s new main line.
She only fully understood her father’s intention when she heard that Redwood’s new wine was coming out—and that it was Pinot Noir.
“Is that it?”
The Rootstock, a gathering of winery heirs. Named after the root portion of a grapevine, this group expressed their pride in being the foundation and roots of the wine industry, while also revealing its exclusivity.
Its members included Sienna, of course, as well as Matthew of Castello Winery and Emily Mondavi of the Robert Mondavi family.
“Yeah. They say the official release is in two days.”
Matthew brought out two bottles of wine. Seeing the modern-style naming against the deep ivory background, Sienna instinctively sensed that this was what had made her father change his mind.
“Why do they keep messing with Pinot Noir over there? How annoying...”
“Exactly. They should just stick to making Cab well.”
“They’re already making that well too.”
“......”
Each of them said a word or two as they waited for the wine to be opened. Matthew skillfully opened the wine and poured roughly equal amounts into more than ten glasses.
After each person took a glass and sampled the aroma and flavor, they all fell silent for a moment, watching one another’s reactions. In particular, they glanced at the winery children from the Sonoma side, and the representative among them was none other than Sienna.
But Sienna set down her wineglass calmly and said,
“It’s good. Looks like they’re good enough to have the nerve to bring in someone else’s grapes and make wine.”
As soon as she spoke, everyone chimed in.
“It’s not exceptionally outstanding, but... it does have that Russian River Valley grape feel?”
“Honestly, I was a little surprised. It made me wonder if Redwood’s technique was really at this level... Maybe Warren Winiarski didn’t join them for nothing.”
“Isn’t it only this good because Warren had a hand in it?”
“How long has it been since he joined? You make wine and you don’t even know that much?”
While the others were talking noisily, Sienna rose from her seat.
“I’ll head out first. I have something urgent to do.”
Without waiting for anyone’s reply, Sienna vanished like the wind, and several others hurriedly left the gathering after her. They were all children of wineries on the Sonoma side. The remaining children all looked regretful, but among them, only Emily spoke with a hardened face.
“I hear Redwood acquired another new farm not long ago. If we don’t all work hard, we may become their next target. I have experience, so I’m allowed to say that, right?”
At the words of Emily from the Mondavi family, who had once sold their winery due to management mistakes, the children’s faces stiffened.
They had thought it was merely the appearance of a small winery, but little by little, they were beginning to feel its weight.