The Château Pétrus we reached after racing through vineyards flushed red was unexpectedly modest. Unlike Belle Époque, which boasted a grand castle, this place was a low stone building that seemed to crouch close against the earth. Yet the dignity that emanated from that simplicity overwhelmed Belle Époque’s splendor in an instant.
A holy land where wine lovers all over the world longed to taste its wine even once in their lives. The master of that place was waiting for us.
When we got out of the car, an elderly gentleman in a suit came all the way to the entrance to greet us. It was Christian Moueix, the living legend of Bordeaux’s Right Bank.
“Welcome. I’m pleased to have you in Bordeaux.”
Christian received us with a gentle smile. His gaze immediately settled on Warren Winiarski, who stood beside me. He bowed politely and clasped Warren’s hand.
“Warren, it is truly an honor to have you at my table. Ever since that Judgment in Paris, you have been both the most fearsome enemy to us Bordelais, and the mirror we most wanted to resemble.”
“You flatter me, Christian. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Bordeaux, and even the smell of the soil feels different. Hahaha!”
When Warren joked with easy composure, Moueix laughed heartily and guided our party inside. The dining room was filled with oak furniture that had endured centuries and the soft glow of candlelight. Once we sat down, Chloe naturally took the seat beside me, and Katerina sat across from me with a subtle smile. A strange tension flowed over the table.
Christian Moueix, who looked like an elderly scholar, gazed steadily at me from behind his black horn-rimmed glasses and spoke.
“Mr. Brian, I looked into your background. You are soon to graduate from UC Davis, I believe.”
“That’s correct.”
“I was quite curious. How someone so young could become a winemaker capable of overseeing an entire winery’s wines… At first, there were rumors that your father, the winery owner, had made them, but at some point, when you stepped to the forefront, no one denied the story that you were the chief winemaker.”
“…That’s right.”
“Is that… possible?”
In truth, this was a question Warren had also been curious about, though he had not yet asked it directly. So Warren, too, watched my lips quietly, a faint smile on his face.
I shrugged and answered calmly.
“Koreans are known for their intense enthusiasm for education, though my family wasn’t quite that severe. Instead, ever since I was young, I was very interested in the kind of alcohol called wine. Why Europeans loved wine so much, and why there were so many kinds of it, things like that. For no particular reason, I wanted to take an interest in what others didn’t.”
“Since you were young?”
“Yes. At the time, Korea already had the most advanced high-speed internet network in the world, and even before I immigrated, I accessed digital academic archives like the National Center for Biotechnology Information and ProQuest through Korea’s research networks, reading every recent agricultural science paper I could get my hands on.”
Warren, who had been listening beside me, murmured in admiration.
“So that’s how you came to possess that knowledge…”
“That obsession continued, and it brought me this far. It was chance that led us to buy Redwood Winery, but the quality of the wine was never obtained by chance.”
It was also my answer to the public opinion that Astra Veil was merely the product of coincidence.
A faint ripple passed through his eyes. But he soon waved to a staff member as though nothing had happened, and red wine was immediately served. The bottle was nowhere to be seen. The wine, decanted in advance, gave off a clear ruby glow inside the transparent crystal glass.
“Please enjoy it with a light appetizer to awaken the palate.”
The wine served with the appetizer was splendid. Even without swirling the glass, the scents of rose and ripe raspberry tickled the tip of my nose. Its texture in the mouth was as smooth as silk, and its acidity was refreshing. Chloe and Daniel nodded as though satisfied as well.
He continued watching me as he asked.
“Does Redwood have a philosophy of its own?”
A winery’s philosophy is similar to a company’s brand philosophy. Just as a company that simply makes and sells good products has difficulty lasting long or receiving high praise, a winery is also recognized as more valuable the clearer its philosophy is.
In that sense, the reason European wineries with long histories looked down on American wines was because they regarded them as engineered industrial products rather than something with such philosophy. One might say they believed American wineries manipulated taste through technology to churn out 100-point wines that anyone would like.
So the question itself carried an intent to test the other party, and even Warren’s temple twitched for an instant.
But this time, too, I answered calmly.
“If winemakers of the past made wine by relying on the senses of intuition and experience, I merely use the precise dictionary called data to create more detailed wine. The essence of terroir does not change. However, I also acknowledge the fundamental appetite humans possess.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“People fundamentally want to wear good things and eat good food. Wine is the same. I am not denying terroir. On the contrary, I intend to use technology to fill the deficiencies of terroir that were neglected in the name of tradition, allowing the land’s potential to be expressed one hundred percent.”
“Fill the deficiencies?”
“That’s right. If tradition means giving up when bad weather causes the acidity to collapse, calling it the character of the vintage, then I restore, through cutting-edge filtration technology, the original structure that the land of that year was trying to show. Technology is not magic that manipulates terroir, but an auxiliary means that helps the land not lose its value. In the end, isn’t the wine people want to drink the result of that land’s value being expressed?”
At those words, Christian’s expression twisted subtly. It seemed both like a sneer and like surprise.
I had phrased it politely, but in the end, it was the most favorable way I could express the reason the wine aristocracy of Europe looked down on American wineries. In conclusion, it was because they were more American than any other winery in America.
“Then do you believe that, with that technology, you can revive Château Belle Époque, which has fallen on somewhat hard times?”
“Of course.”
“May I ask how you intend to do so?”
“I plan to change the varieties.”
His face, which had been smiling all along, stiffened at my answer.
“Change the varieties? All of them?”
“Yes.”
He gave a hollow smile.
“Haha… Remarkable. Truly astonishing. You intend to pull out the Merlot that has ruled that land for decades… Is this how American wineries treat the land?”
“Rather than America… I think it would be more accurate to say it is how I treat the land.”
“Then do you not think you are seeing the land incorrectly? The soil of Belle Époque, adjacent to Pomerol, is like holy ground for Merlot. When Viktor Karloff purchased that land back then, many people saw that act as…”
He glanced briefly at Katerina. She… no, her father, was not someone even he could openly disregard.
“Your father was overflowing with passion, but the soil of Bordeaux is not governed by passion alone.”
After softening the blow for Katerina in that way, he turned his head back to me and continued calmly.
“The reason people were concerned about that act was because they wondered whether its value could truly be brought out. As expected, the result was not good, but even so, that land still exists there.”
From his perspective, it was only natural that my actions were incomprehensible. Perhaps anyone would think the same. If someone said they would tear down all the high-rise buildings on prime land in Gangnam and suddenly plant rice paddies there instead, no one would nod and say they understood.
But what if golden grains of rice came from that paddy? That was the difference between my gaze and everyone else’s.
“……”
“Mr. Brian, I will say this in case you are unaware, but the moment you plant white varieties, Belle Époque will lose the Grand Cru status attached to its name. Legally, white wine cannot receive the highest classification. You would be lowering yourself to a cheap classification, Bordeaux Blanc. Have you not considered that this would be marketing suicide?”
“Of course I know. But with time, people will understand. That classifications do not make wine, but wine can overwhelm classifications.”
“Ha…”
At that moment, Warren cut in.
“Christian, Burgundy’s Corton-Charlemagne was also once called red wine land. But someone’s decision to read the limestone within it created the legend it is today. We are not winemakers who simply follow what others do… are we?”
In short, he was pointing out that Brian might be able to see what Christian could not. Since it was none other than Warren Winiarski saying it, the weight of those words was different. And because it was a point made with that much weight, a deep ripple appeared in Christian’s expression as well.
“Haha, Mr. Warren. If you go that far, I have nothing more to say. But Mr. Brian, you would do well to remember that the laws of Bordeaux, the AOC, are far more stubborn than your data. I look forward to seeing who will treat that white wine of yours like Pétrus when it appears on the market without even a classification.”
With a smile on his lips, he casually asked Warren.
“What have you generally thought of our wines?”
From that point on, the atmosphere returned to warmth and cheer, as if there had never been any sharp exchange.
French meals were very long, so the main course came out quite some time later. When the thick steak was served, wine from another decanter was poured once more.
If the first wine served with the appetizer had been a silk-like splendor bursting with rose and raspberry aromas, this wine was entirely different in texture. At first, it seemed blunt, as though it would not even open the door, but the more I swirled the glass, the more the scents of wet earth, graphite, and a cool forest rose faintly. Its texture was rough and its tannins still coarse, but the acidity supporting them was so sharp that it maintained an almost chilly tension.
The meal itself was extremely satisfying. The steak itself was good, but the pairing was perfect as well. Perhaps because of that, Chloe leaned closer and whispered.
“That old geezer who looks like Professor Gudnin, if nothing else, seems to employ a competent chef.”
She was referring to a certain professor at UC Davis, and I smiled, thinking that his face and Christian’s did indeed look quite similar.
“One thing’s for sure, it’s much better than the steak we eat in Napa.”
“Right? Before we go back to America, we should stop by a few more places.”
I nodded at Chloe’s resolution, and Christian, who had not even eaten half his steak, swirled his wineglass and opened his mouth.
“Mr. Brian?”
“Yes?”
“I find your confidence, that your data is more accurate than Bordeaux’s ancient traditions, quite impressive. So, if I may, would you lend me that precise data of yours and give me your opinion on these two glasses of wine to enjoy with the main course?”
He was asking for my opinion without telling me what wines they were. To a winemaker, this was no different from having a poisoned blade pressed against his throat.
If I misspoke even slightly, all the discernment and data I had spoken of until now would turn into empty boasting and wordplay.
“Ah… You want advice from me?”
“If you are the one who inherited Château Belle Époque from Viktor Karloff, then I believe you have more than enough qualification.”
There had been countless blind tastings in the wine world until now, but no one had ever made such a dangerous proposal with nothing at stake like this.
When I thought about it, everything had been designed from the beginning. Their land had been bought by a Russian tycoon, who had failed to manage it properly, and then an American winery had bought it again. They had invited us here intending to humiliate us, which was why they served the wines without showing the bottles.
Moreover, even the wine that had been paired with the appetizer had been cleared away, so I could not taste it again now to identify what it had been.
A perfectly arranged board.
“Wait…”
Unable to watch any longer, Warren stepped forward, but—
“That much is no problem. I can do it.”
When I suddenly said I could do it, Warren was the one who looked flustered.
“You will?”
“Yes. But… since you have treated us to such a fine meal… may I invite you tomorrow?”
At my proposal, his face stiffened. If I accept this blind tasting, then you must come to Belle Époque tomorrow and receive my test.
Can you do it?
At my deep smile, the corners of his eyes trembled.
“I cannot refuse.”
The deal was made.