Inside the aging room of Redwood Winery, I was carefully taping up the box that held the last wines for submission.
Inside the box were Astra Vale, which would become a new milestone in the world of Napa cult wines, Quiet Hill, which would break Sonoma’s pride,
and two cases each of Sylphid and Echelon, which had once received Double Gold.
“Are the preparations finished?”
At the deep voice from behind me, I turned my head. Warren Winiarski stood there, wearing his coat.
He took red wax and a stamp engraved with Redwood’s seal from his pocket. Without a word, Warren dripped hot wax onto each seam of the box and pressed the seal into it.
[ R. W. ]
The seal belonged to Redwood, but the man pressing it was the master who had led the victory at the Judgment of Paris. Perhaps because of that, the simple wine box looked like a chest containing holy relics.
“When I’m at home, you see, information from every winery in the world reaches my ears. Which place made what, which wine failed this year, which vineyard is heralding an all-time vintage this year, things like that...
But lately, instead of telling me information, everyone keeps asking me questions. What the vineyard was like, where we sourced the Franc, what vintage the Merlot was. Every single one of them is curious about Redwood.”
“I see.”
“The collective intelligence of people is truly remarkable. If you sit quietly and listen to the stories coming in, sometimes you can know the result in advance before a major competition like this.”
“Aren’t you thinking too positively?”
“Well... it hasn’t even been a year since I joined Redwood, so if anything, wouldn’t I have more affection for Stag’s Leap? If I were going to think positively, I’d lean more toward Stag’s Leap.”
It was a reasonable point, so I nodded.
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Perhaps after this San Francisco Chronicle, Redwood may become completely different from before. It will probably be quite a joyous change.”
“... Even so, Redwood Winery won’t change.”
He gave me a deep smile and said,
“I know. That’s why I’m even more excited. I couldn’t sleep from anticipation. Thinking about watching those conservative old fogeys drink your wine and fall over in shock.”
At Warren’s encouragement, I calmly lifted the box.
“Hmm... I hope that happens. In any case, I want to have it proven that the numbers I designed weren’t wrong. Properly, this time.”
Their gazes met in the air. It was both an understanding and a vow between seniors and juniors of the wine industry who had acknowledged each other.
A day later, at the historic Palace Hotel in downtown San Francisco. The Garden Court banquet hall of this hotel, which boasted more than 150 years of history, had already transformed into a vast battlefield.
Beneath the ornate stained glass ceiling, boxes of some 5,000 wines gathered from all across the United States were stacked endlessly.
The San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition (SFCWC).
Ahead of this largest and most prestigious competition in North America, a strange tension and clamor crossed through the venue.
“I heard Stag’s Leap brought an unreleased portion of CASK 23 this time?”
“Is that all? The Mondavi boys are putting everything on the line this time too. Rumor is, old Robert personally gave the order.”
All around the venue, sharply dressed winemakers and public relations managers exchanged information while engaging in a war of nerves.
Their eyes swept over the winery logos affixed to one another’s boxes, constantly calculating their odds of victory.
The traditional powers of Napa Valley formed their own cartel in the corners and showed off their influence, while the new wineries from Sonoma or Oregon watched for gaps with venomous eyes.
But there was one name that all of them had in common on their lips.
“Redwood.”
Just as they were all focusing their attention on a single winery, a black sedan arrived at the hotel.
The car door opened, and after I stepped out first, I opened the rear door and helped an elderly gentleman out. The moment Warren Winiarski, the old soldier with neatly combed silver hair, planted his cane on the floor, silence fell over the lobby for an instant.
“My God... it’s Warren Winiarski!”
“Is that true? Warren showed up at the competition himself?”
Camera flashes began to burst. Dozens of reporters swarmed in like a colony of ants.
“Mr. Warren! Is it true that you’ve joined Redwood Winery?”
“Do you believe this entry can recreate the glory of 1976?”
Questions poured in, but Warren kept his mouth firmly shut with a dignified expression. Then, as he loaded the box onto a cart and entered the banquet hall lobby, silence once again fell over the bustling space.
“Look over there. Isn’t that Brian Choi, the real winemaker of Redwood?”
Everyone tacitly assumed that Redwood’s wines had been made by Woody Choi, but as all the key figures of Napa Valley turned their attention to his son, Brian, their gazes naturally shifted to me, and I did not reject it either.
Their eyes touched not my face, but the red wax seal stamped with Redwood’s insignia on the lower part of the box I was pushing, before settling on Warren, who was following behind me.
“Not W.W., but R.W... I never thought I’d see Warren give up his own name with my own eyes.”
“They said one young Asian kid was turning all of Napa upside down, and it seems his momentum is no joke.”
Whispers surged in like waves, but I pretended not to hear and did not so much as blink. I approached the reception desk and handed over the documents with an expressionless face.
“Redwood Winery. In the Cabernet Sauvignon Blending category, Echelon in the mid-to-high price division; in the cult division, Astra Vale; and in the Pinot Noir category, both Sylphid and Quiet Hill as mid-to-high price entries.”
The receptionist, who had glanced at Warren standing silently behind me, accepted the box with trembling hands. Astra Vale was assigned to the main event of this competition and its fiercest battlefield, the “Bordeaux-Style Red Wine Highest Price Division.”
It was the guillotine where Napa’s cult wines, each priced at hundreds of dollars a bottle, clashed with their honor on the line.
“Your entries have been received.”
The receptionist issued me a confirmation slip with shaking hands, and everyone in the lobby was watching the scene. A strange tension drifted through the lobby.
On the twelfth floor of the hotel, in the suite reserved by the prestigious Mondavi family of Napa Valley, another meeting was taking place. The eldest son Michael, the second son Timothy, and the daughter Marcia were analyzing the brackets with serious faces.
“I still don’t understand why Father rated that fellow so highly.”
Michael Mondavi grumbled as he crumpled the bracket with Astra Vale’s name written on it. But Timothy, looking out at the San Francisco skyline beyond the window, spoke in a heavy voice.
“It isn’t simply because of the taste, hyung. It’s probably because Redwood overcame the inherent flaw it was born with. Neither we nor the other wineries have figured out why yet.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating too much?”
“I keep thinking, ‘Isn’t that why Warren Winiarski joined Redwood?’ Father said it, didn’t he? To think about how a Cab like that could have come from Redwood’s terroir. Emily, have you thought about it?”
Emily Mondavi, the granddaughter who had been sitting quietly like a shadow in one corner of the room, raised her head. In front of her, a laptop was open, displaying Redwood’s weather data and soil composition analysis charts.
“I still don’t know. I analyzed the climate from last year and the year before that too, but there wasn’t any major difference from the surrounding terroir.”
“So it isn’t a special vintage caused by abnormal climate?”
“I’m certain.”
“Then does that mean the soil was different...?”
But Michael only shrugged, showing little interest.
“Enough. I don’t know, so you all figure it out. I’m going to rest.”
He immediately left the hotel room. Timothy sighed and shook his head at Emily as he spoke.
“He finds it troublesome and doesn’t want to bother. Even if he loses, he probably won’t care much.”
“Yes...”
“But I’m not like that. And you’re the same, aren’t you?”
“We want to create a cult-class wine on the same level as Astra Vale too. If it’s possible even outside of To Kalon, then it won’t be impossible for us either.”
“Hmm... let’s look for it. There must be a way.”
Such scenes were not taking place in just one hotel room. The countless wineries participating in this event were each locked in fierce battles of wits for survival and the attainment of their goals.
The next morning, the main banquet hall of the Palace Hotel turned into a place of vast silence. Thousands of crystal glasses stood in ranks on the judges’ tables, and servers in white gloves began carefully pouring wines with their labels concealed.
At the judges’ seats sat world-renowned critics, Masters of Wine (MW), and legendary sommeliers. In front of them were only crackers on silver trays and bottles of water to rinse their mouths.
And I was sitting in the very back row of the observers’ section, staring at my laptop screen.
“It’s begun.”
When the chief judge rang the bell, the white-gloved servers began moving thousands of glasses of label-hidden wine in perfect order.
Warren, seated beside me, gripped his cane with both hands and observed the subtle trembling of the judges’ brows like a statue.
“Sir, are you nervous?”
When I asked in a low voice, Warren gave a faint smile and shook his head.
“Rather than nerves... it’s a thrill. Thirty years ago or now, watching the moment those people’s dry expressions break is always enjoyable.”
It was then. The heavy sound of leather shoes broke the silence as someone approached where the two of us sat. I had not even seen his face, but strangely enough, I felt an odd force in that gait.
When I turned my head and realized the other party’s identity, I was slightly surprised. As expected, he was an even greater heavyweight than I had thought.
“Warren, I never thought you’d show up again on this dusty stage. I thought you were retiring...”
The owner of that bitterly cynical voice was William Harlan, the head of Harlan Estate, the cult winery that alone contested the throne with Screaming Eagle in Napa Valley. Behind him, his secretarial staff stood lined up like an army.
A genius businessman from a real estate development background, he was called the king of cult wines and was the man who had built Harlan Estate, a top-tier cult wine, while declaring that he would “create an American Château Latour.”
Although he was about twelve years younger than Warren, he had already become one of the most powerful figures in Napa Valley, and he looked down on most of the wineries there.
Warren slowly raised his head and faced William.
“William, you still haven’t fixed that habit of letting your nose arrive before your mouth. How can you know a wine’s sincerity like that?”
William’s eyebrow twitched slightly. He looked me over as I sat beside Warren. It was a dry and rude gaze, as if he were looking at a polished machine part.
“Is this the fellow? The young man you chose as your retirement plan?”
As if I were not even in his consideration, William leaned toward Warren again and asked in a low voice.
“I came because I was curious. Is the wine hidden behind that name, Redwood, truly the work of this young Asian fellow? Or is it ghost making, with you manipulating everything from behind the scenes?
Be honest. In practical terms, what percentage of your hand went into it? Ninety percent? Or did you do everything and merely lend him your name?”
Warren’s gaze sharpened in an instant. It was an insult that touched the pride of a craftsman. But instead of getting angry, Warren lightly adjusted his grip on his cane and asked,
“Why are you curious about that?”
“How could I not be curious... I can’t help but wonder whether this is some scheme to use someone else’s name to do something about our Harlan, can I?”
“Tsk, tsk... William, you’re still trapped in the mindset of an era when people crushed grapes with their feet. My role was merely to proofread the perfect formula this fellow designed and make sure there were no typos. Everything else came from his head.”
“Is that so?”
William Harlan tilted his head, then looked at me and said with a sharp gaze,
“Lately, all of Napa has been talking about Astra Vale... Would you invite me to the winery sometime?”
But before I could open my mouth, Warren snorted.
“That nasty habit of yours is acting up again. Are you planning to sneak a look at the vineyard?”
“... It doesn’t feel good to have my sincerity misunderstood like this.”
He said one quiet sentence to me, who was only rolling my eyes in silence.
“Let’s have some wine together sometime.”
With that, he left, and Warren said with a stiff face,
“He’s a man who values land more than anyone else. He must be dying of curiosity about Redwood’s soil, so you must never let that man into the vineyard.”
At Warren’s words, I silently nodded.