About ten days later, evening at Redwood Winery.
A bustle unlike any other day could be felt on this peaceful hill, where the cool, cold winds of November swept across the farm. Dozens of torches flickered, pushing back the chill night air, and at their center stood a rough wooden table with twelve glasses laid out upon it.
“Hmm... Since they’re VIPs, I wondered if we should hold the tasting somewhere a little fancier, but torches and wine... Still, now that it’s all set up, it actually looks pretty convincing.”
I adjusted my tie and marveled. Warren Winiarski, who had overseen the entire setup, seemed thoroughly displeased with my attire; he flicked at my collar and replied.
“You still have a long way to go. The more money people have coming out of their ears, the more they go mad for the smell of dirt over marble floors. A little Napa soil has to get on the soles of their shoes for them to think, ‘Ah, I’m truly standing in the heart of wine,’ and open their wallets.”
“You’re good at marketing too, aren’t you?”
“Hardly. I just know a bit about how rich bastards think.”
Warren chuckled as he stared at the headlights of the vehicles approaching from afar. Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, and unidentified custom sedans were climbing the hill in a line. Christopher hurried over and stood beside me. His poker face was usually flawless, but today, beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead.
“Brian, you’re ready, right? About thirty minutes ago, we got word that Viktor Karloff had just gotten off his private jet and was heading straight here, so he should arrive soon.”
“You look more nervous than I am.”
“Haha... I’ve never dealt with a figure this big before either. It makes me realize once again just how incredible Mr. Warren is.”
A short while later, car doors opened, and people began stepping out one by one.
The first man to get out was Edward Miller, a gaunt man with sharp eyes. Known on Wall Street as the “man-eating shark,” he didn’t even look around before walking up to Warren and giving him a brief hug.
“You old fox. Still alive, I see.”
“I won’t die until before you drink up all my wine, Edward.”
Next, Ken Satomi from San Jose offered a courteous greeting, and Isabella Rossi, known as the queen of the perfume industry, looked at me with an inscrutable smile.
The others who entered while embracing Warren were all extraordinary people as well: Charles Gordon, LA’s top private banker; the Olson brothers, who dominated California’s premium furniture market; Mark Chen, a security software founder called the rising star of Silicon Valley; and twelve wealthy figures from all walks of life whose names anyone would recognize filled the torchlit hill without a gap.
The last to arrive, Viktor Karloff, the youngest son of a Russian steel magnate, left his bodyguards at a distance and looked at me with curious eyes. I had assumed that “youngest” meant he would be young, but since he was a balding middle-aged man, I was slightly taken aback.
“Is this the fellow? The monster who dragged Warren Winiarski back into the field.”
Warren tapped my shoulder and introduced me.
“My partner, and the heart of Redwood, Brian Choi. Others may not believe it, but I call this man Master.”
“What nonsense... Well, let’s leave it at that for now.”
I bowed lightly and guided them to the table. Thinking about it, as Warren had said, there was no need for flashy decorations. These were people who had already experienced every rare and precious thing in the world, so rather than clumsy marketing, we had to compete with essence.
I picked up the Astra Vale I had opened in advance. The wine, having been decanted and allowed to breathe, flowed into the glasses. Beneath the pitch-black night sky, the flicker of the torches reflected in the ruby liquid.
“Its name is Astra Vale. It was made primarily from the finest grapes here at Redwood. It’s the result of Mr. Warren’s advice mixed with my stubbornness.”
Ken Satomi lifted his glass and held it up to the light. His movements were as careful as if he were handling precision machinery. Isabella Rossi stayed motionless for a long while, her nose buried in her glass.
Edward Miller was the first to empty his glass. He rolled the wine over his tongue, savoring its structure, then let out a low exclamation and spoke.
“Mm, surprising. Napa Cabernets are usually all strength. Like athletes with plenty of muscle and nothing in their heads. But this is different. There’s a taut tension that grips the inside of the mouth, but it isn’t unpleasant—it feels like listening to a string instrument tuned with extreme precision. I thought it was a wild mustang, but instead, it has the dignity of nobility. You said your name was Brian?”
“Yes, Mr. Edward.”
“What did you do to this wine? This isn’t farming. It’s architecture. It has the structure of a skyscraper calculated down to the finest detail.”
Perhaps because he had tasted countless blended wines, his way of expressing it was no less impressive than a wine critic’s.
In truth, although he was laying out elegant metaphors about string instruments and nobility, the true nature of the precision he sensed came from thoroughly calculated figures.
The tension that amazed him was actually thanks to the exquisite balance between total acidity and pH concentration, adjusted by a difference of only a few days during the harvest period. The reason the tannin texture felt not rough but like silk was also merely the result of controlling the aging temperature in increments of 0.1 degrees to suppress low-polymerized catechin components—natural phenolic compounds abundant in grape seeds, stems, and skins, tiny molecular units responsible for harshness and bitterness in wine—and stabilize the structure of high-molecular polyphenols.
“Thank you. I’m honestly surprised that you sensed what I wanted to express so accurately.”
At his elaborate praise, I smiled as if in gratitude.
“It was possible because Warren helped, wasn’t it?”
Before I could answer that question, Warren cut in.
“Oh dear... I knew people would make that kind of misunderstanding. But don’t forget, I joined this winery in early summer of this year. The one who set up this structure first was Brian here. And this blending structure isn’t my existing style. There’s a reason I call this man Master.”
At those words, Edward looked incredulous.
“So... you’re saying Napa Valley now has a talent who surpasses you?”
“If that weren’t the case, why do you think I came here?”
“Haha... Wine lovers all over the world will go insane over this.”
With him making such a fuss, the others, driven by curiosity, quickly brought the wine in their hands to their lips. Then they all set down their glasses with astonished expressions and offered a word each, with Isabella Rossi being the first to chatter, her eyes sparkling.
“The layers of aroma are fantastic. At first, blackcurrant and graphite surge forward, but as time passes, wet earth and dried rose rise up. It feels as though it’s telling me what the land called Napa Valley smells like.”
Then Ken Satomi’s serious gaze turned toward Warren.
“Mr. Warren, when I heard you had returned, I was a little worried. I thought it might be a wine like the memoir of an old soldier trapped in past glory. But this... is fiercely modern.”
“Hey, didn’t I just say it? I didn’t make this. I only helped a little.”
“Ah... My apologies.”
“But I did receive a great deal of inspiration. So I’m preparing a new wine, and it will be a little different from the old ones.”
When Warren brought up the words “new wine,” everyone’s eyes lit up.
“Really? What kind of...?”
“You’ll find out later.”
When Warren showed no intention of discussing it further, the people present did not press him any more. Ken Satomi looked regretful, then said,
“In any case, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a wine with such a firm central axis. I understand why Mr. Edward said it had the structure of a skyscraper calculated down to the finest detail.”
Warren laughed heartily beside him, patted Satomi on the shoulder, and pointed at me.
“Satomi, that fellow Brian is a man who obsesses over numbers even more sensitively than your audio equipment. Other wineries would probably be shocked if they saw Redwood’s aging room. It feels less like looking at a winemaker and more like looking at a chemist.”
As everyone marveled in surprise, Viktor Karloff set down his glass with a clack, approached me with his bear-like bulk, grabbed my shoulder, and asked,
“Let’s cut the complicated talk, shall we? I hate obscure expressions I can’t understand. It’s just... a damn fine wine. How much of this precious stuff did you make? About a hundred cases? I’d like to buy the whole lot.”
At his question, I played the business card I had prepared. The reason I had invited them here was not merely to sell a few boxes, but to use their mouths to place the brand called “Astra Vale” at the very peak of the market.
“Unfortunately, it would be difficult to give you the entire lot. This vintage produced about 3,500 cases.”
“3,500 cases? That’s no small amount.”
Edward Miller’s eyebrow twitched. For a wine claiming to be a cult wine, producing thousands of cases could have seemed like a bad move that would damage its scarcity. But I continued.
“Yes. But I intend to allocate it first to those of you here today. The remaining stock will be released only in very small quantities, and under strict control, through the premium channels managed by Christopher. By next week, sommeliers in New York and London will likely be desperate to get their hands on this wine.”
Beside me, Christopher nodded meaningfully. 3,500 cases was not a small number, but once wealthy people around the world heard the rumors and began rushing in, it was an amount that could evaporate in an instant.
Perhaps surprised by the unexpected answer, Viktor blinked slightly, then raised one corner of his mouth.
“That’s even better. The moment you drink this wine, it makes your blood run hot. You said 3,500 cases? Good. To stock my yacht and my villa in Moscow, you’ll have to set aside at least a hundred cases for me.”
He continued, gripping my shoulder hard enough to crush it.
“Money doesn’t matter. But I have one condition. You must bring this wine and come personally to my sixtieth birthday party next year. I want to show off the face of a young Asian genius like you to my friends.”
I frowned slightly at his grip and asked,
“Do I have to carry the wine all the way to Moscow?”
“Hahaha! No, not that. My home is in New York.”
“Then there’s no problem.”
At that, he nodded in satisfaction, then picked up the wine bottle and examined it.
“The label is very impressive. A valley where stars pour down... Hm? But it doesn’t say Napa Valley?”
“That’s because the blend includes Petit Verdot from Columbia Valley. If you look at the text on the back, it’s explained there.”
He looked at the back of the wine and slowly read along.
“On the firm structure of Cabernet Sauvignon, the softness of Merlot and Cabernet Franc, and the delicate texture of Columbia Valley Petit Verdot have been added. Astra Vale, a peerless blend born beyond the boundaries of region. Hm... I see. Impressive.”
After nodding, he immediately crooked a finger toward Christopher.
“Bring the order form.”
Christopher, forcibly holding back the corners of his mouth from rising, brought over an order form no different from a blank sheet. Viktor wrote down one hundred cases and handed him a check.
“You fill in the amount.”
“Yes.”
Amazingly, Viktor merely glanced at the wine payment amount Christopher had written—540,000 dollars—and signed it as it was. That was the beginning. The VIPs in attendance raised their hands one after another, and Christopher darted about like a restaurant server, collecting order forms.
The wine sold in that single day amounted to an astonishing 870 cases, recording sales of nearly 4.6 million dollars.
It was, in effect, the signal flare announcing that Redwood Winery had risen to become a major player in Napa Valley.