The “Gold Room,” located deep within the Palace Hotel, was like a fortress where outside light and noise were perfectly sealed away. Among its many events, this was the venue for the final round of the San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition’s highest summit, the “Cult/Premium Bordeaux Blending” category, and the atmosphere was all the heavier for it.
The three figures seated at the judges’ table were living legends whose mere presence could sway the prices of the global liquor market.
At the center sat Robert Parker Jr., a veteran critic who had devoted forty years solely to Napa Valley wines. Known as the “Tongue of God,” he could revive a collapsing winery with a single line of commentary or send a major corporation’s stock price plummeting. He was a conservative who believed in the orthodoxy of terroir and a weighty structure, a man convinced that Napa Valley’s path forward lay in an overwhelming power that surpassed Bordeaux, France.
To his left sat Henri Dupré, one of only some two hundred Masters of Sommelier (MS) in the world. He was a precision machine of taste, rumored to be able to deconstruct a wine’s aroma down to the molecular level and identify the age of the vines and even the viscosity of the soil. Born in France, he possessed an exceptional sense for detecting the vulgarity hidden behind the brilliance of American wines.
Lastly, there was Sarah Jenkins, senior editor of an authoritative liquor magazine. Though sensitive to trends, she placed great importance on the artistic narrative contained within wine. To her, wine was not simply alcohol made from grapes, but poetry trapped inside a bottle.
“Let’s bring this to an end. My stomach is getting heavy.”
Robert adjusted his glasses and spoke in a low voice.
The reason judges did not get drunk despite tasting so many wines was because they never swallowed them. They held the wine in their mouths, tasted it through every sensory organ of the tongue, then spat it into the spittoon placed directly in front of them, preventing the intoxication from rising.
Even so, alcohol absorbed through the mucous membranes would still bring on a buzz, which was precisely why they could not swallow the wine all the more.
In front of him, dozens of glasses of water and cracker fragments were already scattered in disarray. After thousands of tastings over several days, their senses had already reached their limit. The mucous membranes of their tongues were exhausted by acidity and tannins, and their sense of smell was on the verge of being paralyzed by intense oak aromas.
“At this rate, we’ll fill our stomachs with water and crackers.”
“We’re almost at the end now, so hang in there. And from here on out is the real moment.”
Henri Dupré and Sarah Jenkins exchanged faint smiles, encouraging one another.
The wines of the first group were laid out silently by servers in white gloves.
Glass No. 302. The moment he swirled the glass, Robert’s eyes narrowed. The tears of liquid running down the wall of the glass were unusually thick and viscous. It was certainly a Napa Valley cult wine, perhaps on the level of Harlan Estate or Screaming Eagle.
Robert buried his nose in the glass and deeply inhaled the aroma. Dense vanilla, smoked leather, and ripe black plum surged into his nasal cavity like a tremendous wave. When he held it in his mouth afterward, the impact of its high alcohol content, approaching fifteen percent, struck him, while heavy tannins clenched tightly around his tongue.
“A typical Napa emperor.”
Robert offered a brief assessment and recorded a score in the high nineties in his notes. Henri agreed as well.
“It is like a perfectly cut jewel. The flavor of the finest new French oak barrels wraps around it splendidly. This is the most dazzling summit Napa Valley can reach. The public will gladly open their wallets for a jewel they cannot easily possess.”
Sarah, too, seemed enchanted as she emptied the glass. Then came glasses No. 305 and No. 310 in succession.
They were all weighty and imposing wines, as though they had absorbed every last ray of Napa’s sun. But as similar styles of highly concentrated, full-bodied wines repeated themselves, fatigue gradually settled over the judges’ faces.
A saturation of the senses had arrived, like the dizziness one felt after standing too long under the sun.
Sarah asked with a bitter smile.
“Everyone all right?”
“This is the last group. We have to endure it.”
Henri answered with a weak laugh, then emptied his glass dryly.
At that moment, a server set down a glass labeled No. 402. Henri Dupré habitually lifted the glass, and the instant he brought the rim to the tip of his nose, his upper body visibly stiffened as if he had been struck by electricity.
“......!”
He stopped moving and froze. His eyes, usually as cold as a machine’s, began to waver. As if he could not believe it, he shook his head slightly, then inhaled the aroma once more, deeply—very deeply.
If the previous wines had pressed down on the judges with the scents of leather, dark chocolate, scorching asphalt, and the sun, then the aroma rising from No. 402 touched a completely different dimension of the senses.
“This is... the air of a forest before the dawn mist has lifted.”
At Henri’s murmur, Robert Parker raised his head. He had never once seen Henri use such an emotional expression.
Robert picked up glass No. 402. The liquid was not a dark ink color like the wines before it. It was a clear, gleaming deep ruby, transparent as though a gemstone had been melted down, yet possessing an unfathomable depth.
He held the wine in his mouth. And the moment he slowly rolled the liquid over his entire tongue, Robert Parker’s brow twisted. It was not displeasure, but shock at encountering a new answer that existed nowhere in the immense database he had built over the past forty years.
The powerful energy unique to Napa Valley, filling the entire mouth, was certainly there. But what supported that tremendous force was not the weight of oak. It was an acidity as sharp as a blade and as clear as crystal.
“My God... how is this possible?”
Sarah Jenkins also set down her glass, letting out the words like a sigh. In her eyes was an unfamiliar reverence.
“The tannins are smoother than silk. And yet the structure hidden within them is as solid as a Gothic cathedral built from marble. It has Napa’s muscle, but the cool soul of the Sonoma coast dwells inside it. This winemaker... is like a magician who extracted only nature’s purest essence and then reassembled it with precision.”
Henri Dupré had his eyes closed entirely. Through the liquid in the glass, he was now seeing the panorama of the vineyard.
“The sensation as it rolls in the mouth is not like liquid, but as supple as a living creature. Where one ought to feel high-proof alcohol, a refreshing minerality has taken its place. Even after swallowing the wine, the scent of wild cherry and white pepper lingering in the nasal cavity does not disappear for more than a minute. Astonishing. This is a new grammar that has completely escaped the established formula of Napa.”
Robert Parker was silent for a long time. He did not look for the beaker to spit out the wine as he usually did. Instead, as though performing a solemn ritual, he slowly... very slowly passed that precious liquid down his throat. After deeply inhaling once more the lingering aroma left in the empty glass, he finally picked up his fountain pen.
His fingertips were trembling faintly.
“The existing wineries are going to be turned upside down.”
Robert’s low voice broke the silence. In his voice, usually armed with biting sarcasm, there was now the humility of an old soldier.
“At the same time, I believe we have met the wine that will lead Napa Valley from now on.”
The three judges looked at one another. Further discussion was meaningless. They had no way of knowing whose wine this was, or what genius had created it by what method, but they clearly shared one fact: what was contained in glass No. 402 was today’s protagonist, and a historic product worthy of this competition’s authority.
Sarah Jenkins entered a number on the score sheet. The tips of Henri Dupré’s and Robert Parker’s pens also moved without hesitation.
Beside the numbers that approached perfection, Robert Parker left a single line of overall commentary in a trembling hand.
[A new era of Napa has begun.]
While the score sheet they left behind radiated an overwhelming presence in the silence, outside the banquet hall William Harlan and the children of the Mondavi family were still smiling, never doubting that good results would come.
---
The venue of the awards ceremony that would mark the grand finale of the San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition. The awards hall was heated with the energy radiating from wine industry magnates dressed in dazzling evening gowns and tuxedos.
Moreover, the air inside was already filled with a strange thrill. It was because of the storm called “Redwood” that had swept in from the very beginning of the ceremony.
“Cabernet Blending, Mid-to-High Price Category, Best of Class... Redwood Winery, Echelon!”
Every time the host’s announcement fell, a stir erupted from the audience. A new winery claiming the throne in the mid-to-high-priced blending category, known as Napa’s pride, was only the beginning. When Redwood’s “Sylphid” and “Quiet Hill” went on to sweep Double Gold side by side in the Pinot Noir category, the hall was seized by shock beyond astonishment. On top of that, Redwood’s name had appeared again in the cult-class Bordeaux red wine category, and the name Redwood was delivering a shock to everyone in attendance today.
“Impossible. Is it even possible for one winery to reach the peak in two weight classes at the same time?”
“They said Warren Winiarski was behind them, but he didn’t just lend them his name.”
Amid the murmuring of industry insiders, William Harlan stared at the stage with a hardened expression. The awards so far meant nothing to him. For him, the real awards were only beginning now.
The ceremony now had only one announcement remaining, the one that would decide the star of the competition: [Best of Show: Best Red Wine]. This award was an honor granted only to the single bottle of wine that, among the category winners, had received a near-unanimous score from the judges and symbolized all of California that year.
Robert Parker, the chairman of the judges, ascended the stage. Gone was his usual air as a sharp-tongued critic; he stood before the microphone with an expression so grave it felt heavy.
“This year’s judging was painful.”
At his first words, the hall fell silent as though cold water had been poured over it.
“After tasting thousands of wines, we realized that Napa Valley had settled comfortably inside the great walls it had built. But on the final day, we encountered a miraculous liquid that shattered those walls in an instant. That wine moved us, and it showed us not technique, but the realm of art.”
Robert Parker slowly opened the envelope. The reporters at the front, having witnessed the faint trembling of his hand, began pressing their camera shutters like mad.
“The overall winner of the 2007 San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition. I will announce the Best of Show, the best red wine.”
Robert Parker lifted his head and looked precisely at one point in the audience. There sat a young Asian man with a calm expression and the old soldier Warren Winiarski, wearing a smile tinged with regret.
“He’s looking at us.”
“Are you sure? Our eyes did meet, but...”
“I’m telling you, it’s us.”
“What if it’s not?”
“Oh, come on, I said it is.”
I was muttering while keeping my expression under control, afraid I would embarrass myself if I got excited for no reason and it turned out not to be us, when Robert opened his mouth with a meaningful expression.
“Blind No. 402. Redwood Winery... Astra Vale!”
With an explosive roar, thousands of audience members rose to their feet all at once. Camera flashes more dazzling than the chandelier lights illuminated my face.
“Congratulations, Brian. You did it. See? I told you.”
Warren tapped Brian on the shoulder and rose from his seat.
“Thank you. It’s all thanks to you, sir.”
“Hurry up and go. Go on!”
I waved my hand and walked toward the podium, and along every step of the path I took, Napa’s great figures made way for me and sent me gazes of awe.
I climbed onto the stage and received the heavy trophy from Robert Parker. Robert clasped my hand and whispered in my ear.
“Now I understand why Warren Winiarski went to Redwood.”
With a faint smile, I stood before the microphone. After taking a moment to catch my breath, I spoke in a low voice.
“Many people speak of terroir. They speak of the history and tradition of the land. I, too, respect that value. But rather than simply accept the gift given by the land, I calculated the numerical measure of the pain the land exhaled. I captured, as data, the will to survive that grapevines release under extreme conditions, and with Mr. Warren’s intuition, I merely breathed life into that equation. Going forward, Redwood will continue to devote its utmost efforts to making the finest wines. Thank you.”
When I finished speaking, thunderous applause burst forth. And among it, the sight that stood out especially in my vision was William Harlan’s back as he quietly rose, unable to bring himself to applaud, then turned and walked away.