On the morning of Christmas Eve, Redwood Winery was quiet. On any other day, the bustle of the staff would have been a given, but because it was Christmas Eve, anyone without special work had been told not to come in. And in front of me sat a somewhat special gift: Daniel’s rough-looking bottle, with no label, only the words “Answer Sheet No. 1” written on it.
Beside me stood Warren Winiarski, upright as always. In the eyes of the old master called a legend of Napa Valley, curiosity and wariness lingered at the same time.
“A Cabernet Sauvignon made by the deputy chief winemaker of France’s Domaine Leroy in a vinegar factory... Interesting. But was there really any need to put him through a test like this?”
Warren’s question was reasonable. Probably no winery in America would test and then hire someone with the career of a deputy chief winemaker from Domaine Leroy. And on top of that, to test him by telling him to make wine from grape must meant for vinegar? It was the sort of thing no one would believe.
What was even funnier was not the winery that gave such a test, but Daniel Grendel, who accepted it. He had actually done it just because I told him to...
“To be honest, it was a hassle.”
“A hassle? Heh, heh... If other winery owners heard that, they’d say you were spoiled by good fortune. Especially the Pinot Noir wineries in Sonoma—they’d all be cursing you.”
“Haha, maybe they would. But it really was a hassle. Bringing in another person... You, sir, have already reached that level, so you read all my intentions and understand with just a little explanation. But I don’t know how someone else would be. I’d have to keep explaining, keep teaching... And besides, winemakers have such strong pride, don’t they?”
“That’s true. And if he climbed all the way to deputy chief at Domaine Leroy, one can imagine without being told how much hardship he must have endured.”
It was the same in any profession, but among those who were highly recognized in their field, it was rare to find someone without a strong sense of pride.
“If someone much younger like me orders him around, would he really be able to endure it? And if he can’t and leaves, I’m the only one who ends up exhausted and drained... It just felt like an unnecessary hassle.”
At my words, Warren let out a hollow laugh.
“Heh, heh heh... It does make sense, but...”
I could understand why he was dumbfounded. He understood my reason for calling it a hassle, but that meant I could only say such a thing if I had the confidence to treat even a deputy chief winemaker from Domaine Leroy as someone who might as well be there or not.
From the outside, Domaine Leroy was a winery called the pinnacle of Pinot Noir, so it was also true that for Redwood, which produced Sylphid and Quiet Hill, he seemed like a talent needed more than anyone else.
“If he truly wants to come in, I’ll accept him. Then he’ll try to hold out as long as he can. He’ll listen to me well, too... Well, if he passes the test.”
“I suppose so. Then shall we see the skill of Domaine Leroy’s deputy chief?”
Warren pulled the cork first. With a pop, the warm air of the living room rushed into the bottle. As soon as Warren filled the glass, he narrowed his brow. An unrefined, cloudy purple liquid swayed inside the glass.
We lifted our glasses without a word.
The first sip. The liquid that passed over the tip of my tongue was rough and crude. The fishy tang of wild yeast that had just finished fermenting and the muddiness of sediment that had not yet settled threw my mouth into disarray.
“Would you like to speak first, Brian?”
Warren asked as he set down his glass. I slowly broke down the lingering aroma in my mouth and answered.
“The texture is too coarse. He hasn’t completely melted down the hot tannins of Sonoma’s Alexander Valley. The primary fermentation temperature was probably one or two degrees higher than expected, or it was due to the limitations of the cooling system. At this rate, the risk of oxidation during oak aging is high.”
At my cool assessment, Warren nodded with a strange smile.
“Precisely. In particular, there’s a point in the mid-palate where the acidity jumps out. The malolactic process, the secondary fermentation, wasn’t smooth. It’s far too wild to say it carries the soul of Leroy.”
The old man’s evaluation was harsh. But we looked into each other’s eyes and lifted our glasses again at the same time. We had pointed out its shortcomings, but even so, it was showing clear strengths.
“But this fellow’s structure is excellent. Daniel gave up the artificial brilliance that cultivated yeast provides and instead used the local wild yeast population to maximize the polysaccharide content.
“I can tell without running it through an analyzer. This heavy texture isn’t from artificial chaptalization or additives, but likely the honest result left behind by microorganisms that survived low-temperature fermentation as they broke down glucose. I’d have to check, but its glycerol levels are probably higher than those of ordinary wines.”
Glycerol is a component produced during fermentation, and it determines a wine’s smooth texture and body. It tends to be produced more abundantly when wild yeast is used in low-temperature fermentation, which was why I made that prediction.
“If others saw you, they’d think you were a chemist, not a winemaker. To drink this wine and come up with an expression like that...”
“.......”
When I shrugged, he shook his head and said,
“As I see it, Daniel deliberately maintained this cloudiness. He tried to maximize the effect of sur lie aging to fill out the body that Alexander Valley can lack. As for the protruding acidity I mentioned... Now that I consider it, with time, it may become a great support for the flavor.”
“If it ages in a good direction.”
“Indeed. That is in God’s hands.”
We looked at each other and smiled faintly. The conclusion for today was that while Daniel’s skill was worthy of recognition, it had not yet reached our standards. But even that was not bad. Anyone who perfectly met both my standards and Warren’s would already have founded a house of their own.
“So what will you do?”
“I’ll tell Daniel that I received his answer sheet well. But I’ll also tell him that if he doesn’t write down the formula for turning these rough tannins into elegant velvet on his next answer sheet, I might give him a failing grade.”
“Sometimes, when I look at you, you’re even worse than I am.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
At Warren’s joking words, I took another sip of the liquid remaining in the bottle. Within the cloudy purple liquid, the dust of Alexander Valley’s soil and the precision of French winemaking were clashing, sending up new sparks.
“And Daniel needs to know, too. That our standards are a bit... on the high side?”
“Hmph, they are. Originally, the higher one’s eye for women and wine, the better. In that respect, you seem to have both.”
“.......”
At the mention of Chloe, I felt awkward and turned my gaze away.
“It’s Christmas Eve today. Aren’t you going on a date?”
“I was just about to head out.”
“Heh heh... I’ll be left guarding the winery all alone and lonely, then.”
“I told you to rest... Have a drink with my father or something.”
“I was planning to. Your mother said she’d make some excellent snacks to go with it.”
“...... Father must be thrilled.”
I could picture exactly what would unfold at home.
After a peaceful Christmas passed, January 1 dawned.
Before the first sun of the new year had even risen, a loud clanging of metal rang out from the northern boundary of Harris Farm. Woken by the news and rushing out, Frederick and Chloe were greeted by Hartford’s workers carrying enormous chains and welding torches.
“What the hell are you doing!”
When Frederick shouted, the workers answered by wrapping the valve of the main sluice gate connected to Harris Farm with chains and locking it shut. They were even scorching the valve joint with a welding torch so it would not turn at all.
“Orders from the cooperative chairman. As of today, Harris Farm is a non-member, so it has no right to use this waterway, which is a cooperative asset.”
One of the workers said flatly. At those words, Frederick deeply furrowed his brow.
The waterways of Brentwood could be broadly divided into two branches. If the California Aqueduct, the great canal managed by the California state government, was the aorta, then the private irrigation channels branching off from it like capillaries to each farm had been built a hundred years ago with the farmers’ own money.
The problem was that ownership and management rights of these private channels currently belonged to the Cherry Growers Cooperative.
“It’s okay. We knew it would come to this.”
When Chloe spoke quietly to her upset father, Frederick whispered to his daughter.
“I have to get angry like this so they won’t suspect anything.”
“Ah...”
In winter, even if the irrigation channel was shut off immediately, it would not deal a major blow to the farm. California had originally received frequent winter rain, so there was no reason for the farm to run short of water.
Still, they might need water in the spring, so they had to prepare starting now.
“Let’s go back.”
“Yes.”
Not long after they returned home, a black sedan entered Deer Ridge Country Club. The man who stepped out of the car had such a massive build that one wondered how he had fit inside.
“It’s been a while, Ms. Chloe.”
“It’s been a while, Mr. Harry.”
The person who had come to see Chloe was the long-awaited Rainmaker, Howard “Harry” Montis. Perhaps because of the cold weather, the sight of him not wiping away sweat with a handkerchief even felt unfamiliar.
“Please come in.”
After shaking hands with Frederick as well, Harry sat down in the living room. He carefully examined the notice sent by Hartford. One minute, two minutes... As the silence stretched on, Frederick’s lips grew dry. At last, Harry tossed the documents down and opened his mouth.
“A typical case of a cooperative abusing its power. William Hartford—this fellow is rather clever. He’s twisted the operating regulations of the California Irrigation District quite artfully.”
“Is there any way to stop him legally?”
Seeing Chloe’s somewhat tense expression, Harry took an old map from his briefcase and unfolded it.
“There is a way. But what Hartford touched is the ‘cooperative’s operating rights.’ On the surface, the argument that ‘we cannot charge waterway maintenance fees to a non-member, so we will cut off the water’ looks like a lawful administrative procedure. Even if we file for an injunction in court immediately, it will take at least a month for a judge to decide. Can you hold out?”
“We have winter rain, so it isn’t urgent right away.”
“Then there’s no problem. Mr. Frederick, do you still have the farm’s land registry from the 1800s and the original documents for the water rights established at the time?”
“Ah, yes. There should be documents my grandfather left in the warehouse safe.”
“We need to find those. In California, there is something called riparian rights. The right to use water flowing beneath the land or water from an adjacent stream is a prior right that belonged to the landowner even before the cooperative was formed. They can block a channel managed by the cooperative, but blocking the actual watercourse that passes through your land could be a violation of federal law.”
Then Harry strongly tapped a specific point on the map with his ballpoint pen.
“Right in front of the sluice gate Hartford locked, inside Harris Farm, we’ll drill an emergency well. Normally, drilling a new well requires the consent of surrounding farms, so Hartford could block it administratively. But if he cut off the water first, that changes the story. The county has no grounds to refuse emergency drilling for the right to survive.”
At his smooth, unstoppable explanation, the two of them nodded. Hartford’s act of locking the sluice gate had instead given us a legal excuse to drill an independent well.
“Harry, how long will the drilling permit take?”
“Normally, two months. But because Hartford actually locked the sluice gate on January 1, I’ll immediately argue that ‘farmers are dying because of the cooperative’s tyranny.’ The court will probably stamp the permit within a week.”
Harry then gathered the documents and rose from his seat.
“Ms. Chloe, Mr. Frederick. Go out right now and record video of them blocking and welding the sluice gate. That will become our strongest evidence for digging the well.”
As befitted the nickname Rainmaker, Harry had clearly opened a path to victory even amid a desperate situation. Hartford had tried to kill Harris Farm by cutting off its water, but instead, he had opened a passage for Harris Farm to escape the cooperative’s control forever.