Time passed quickly. After the bankruptcy of Lehman Brothers, Napa Valley’s once-radiant glory cooled in an instant. The moment the lifeline of financial capital was cut off, the cult wines that had once fetched thousands of dollars a bottle were met with a cold shoulder in the auction market.
At Sotheby’s and Christie’s, high-priced wines worth several thousand dollars or more were tagged one after another with “Passed.” Wineries starved of cash began so-called bankruptcy sales, offering up their pride and joy—their “library wines” (old vintages)—at bargain prices in order to avoid going under. The glamorous parties once held in San Francisco penthouses vanished, and foreclosure notices began arriving at luxury apartments and mansions.
Yet even amid that chaos, Redwood’s movements were strangely unparalleled. Because the wines it possessed each had distinct personalities and therefore dedicated enthusiast bases, even its vaguely priced wines under one hundred dollars did not suffer as sharp a drop in sales as those of other wineries.
Astra Vale in particular became one of the only wines to successfully defend its price on the auction market, thanks to the concentration of attention caused by its high ratings and its solidly established list of actual buyers not only domestically but also in Japan, Korea, and elsewhere.
Rather, in a time when asset values were unstable, Redwood wines, which guaranteed reliable quality, began to be treated as safe assets. Thanks to that, the market’s gaze was still fixed on Redwood.
Just how far would Redwood’s growth go?
Would they, who launched a new wine every year, present yet another miracle?
To find the answer, and to confirm the direction of wine capital around the world, I boarded a plane bound for Bordeaux, France, with Warren in April 2009.
In early April, all of Bordeaux was buzzing with the heat of “En Primeur.” En Primeur is Bordeaux’s unique tradition of presenting and pre-selling the new wines to experts and buyers before bottling—that is, while they are still aging in oak barrels.
During this period, when the year’s most ruthless and glamorous tastings were held, renowned critics and négociants from all over the world descended like clouds upon Bordeaux’s Médoc district.
The place we arrived at was the legend of Pauillac, Château Mouton Rothschild. At the entrance to the grand tasting hall decorated in marble, hundreds of experts from around the world stood in line in black suits.
“Doesn’t this feel different from when you came to Belle Époque? Especially entering the heart of the Médoc in such troubled times.”
Warren asked, turning up the collar of his luxury trench coat. In his eyes was the grim resolve of an old master carrying Napa’s pride on his shoulders.
“It does. Back then, I felt like an owner coming to look after my own domain. Now I feel like a scout who’s come to assess the firepower of enemy territory.”
As we stepped inside, the faint scent of oak and the vibrant aroma unique to wine that had just finished fermentation stimulated my nose. Throughout the venue, Robert Parker’s aides, conservative European winemakers, and massive capitalists from Hong Kong and London had gathered, whispering in their respective languages.
Then, in the distance, I saw a familiar silhouette. It was Joseph Haggins and his son Matthew.
“Hm? Joseph and his boy are here?”
Warren tilted his head.
“Why? Is it strange that they came?”
“Not exactly strange… but it does make me curious.”
“......?”
“Think about it. Why did we come here?”
“Well…”
At Warren’s question, I thought for a moment. We had not come all this way today merely to taste Bordeaux wines. We had come to see where the world’s greatest capital still chose to open its wallet amid this dreadful economic crisis, and to gauge where Astra Vale and the wine soon to reveal its identity would stand in comparison.
“Well… We came to see firsthand the point reached by the world’s greatest technical prowess and to confirm the relative coordinates of our wine.”
At my answer, Warren pointed with his chin toward where Joseph Haggins and his son were standing.
“Exactly. But Joseph is a man whose pride pierces the sky. For a man who believes without a doubt that his vineyard, To Kalon, is the best in the world, to go out of his way to get on a plane and fly all the way to this distant Médoc to attend someone else’s feast—it means he didn’t simply come here to study.”
“Ah…”
I understood what Warren meant. I had not thought deeply about it because I had no interest in other people’s affairs, but when I considered it from Castello Winery’s perspective, they were in a situation where the fate of the winery had to be staked on this year because of the pressure of that enormous sum of seventeen million dollars.
In normal times, seventeen million dollars would not have been easy to deal with, but it would have been only somewhat difficult. But now, with the high-end wine market having taken a tremendous blow from the subprime crisis, if they could not be rated at the very top, it would be hard to expect overwhelming sales capable of reversing this difficulty in one stroke.
Only an overwhelming evaluation would give him a chance to turn things around.
“Desperation, then. He’ll want to watch the evaluations here and think he has to make an overwhelming wine that can at least surpass the wines here.”
“Ordinary winemakers spend each year with the simple expectation of what kind of wine will come out, but for a winery aiming for the highest evaluation, every moment is stressful. In truth, that goes beyond stress and is no different from fear. Isn’t everyone watching only Robert Parker’s lips?”
“That’s true.”
“So he must have come to test the waters. Honestly, I thought, ‘Won’t Castello make its move last year?’ But when they came out with the same existing lineup, I found it a little surprising. Which means…”
“They intend to make their move this year.”
After hearing Warren’s words, I looked again and saw that Joseph’s shoulders were stiffer than usual, and the hand swirling his glass was excessively mechanical. He had not come to enjoy himself. He looked just like I had when I was absorbed in wine research before my regression.
At that moment, my eyes met Joseph Haggins’s just as he was about to bring the glass to his lips. A brief silence.
In his eyes flashed bewilderment and an unmistakable displeasure he could not hide. But perhaps because this was the heart of Bordeaux, where wine giants from around the world had gathered, he immediately put a smile on his lips, and I gave him a slight nod.
Joseph stared at me for a moment, then very slowly, and reluctantly, gave a small nod in return. His mouth remained stiff, and beside him, Matthew avoided my gaze entirely, merely fiddling with his wineglass.
When the tasting began, the hall was instantly filled with silence and short exclamations of admiration. Bordeaux wines from the 2008 vintage were poured into glasses. In truth, the mood in Bordeaux in the fall of 2008 had also been poor because of the economic crisis, so everyone was hoping that at least the wine would prove to be a good vintage.
I took a sip of the 2008 sample from Château Latour.
The intense acidity that struck my brain and the texture of tannins as dense as silk delivered a powerful shock. While the world was collapsing under the economic crisis, the skies of Bordeaux had bestowed miraculous weather and created a perfect wine.
“Good Lord… This is no ordinary thing. It has the finest structure since 1982. This is quality Parker won’t rate below 98 points.”
Warren’s voice trembled low. I, too, pictured the figures of Bordeaux’s 2008 vintage in my mind. At this level, the anthocyanin concentration and polyphenol levels were undoubtedly approaching the golden ratio. Looking around, I heard the sound of critics’ laptop keyboards ringing out without pause.
“Bordeaux 2008 is a gift from God!”
“The birth of a miraculous vintage that will save the economic crisis!”
Through real-time newsletters, Bordeaux’s lavish praise began spreading around the world. Buyers who had been tightening their purse strings only minutes earlier began frantically placing purchase orders with négociants. Capital began to move again, and its destination was not Napa, but Bordeaux.
‘If this happens…?’
The first person I looked for was Joseph Haggins. If Bordeaux’s 2008 vintage was receiving evaluations this good, then it meant a crisis for Castello, which had likely been planning to make its move this year.
After turning my head a few times, I found Joseph Haggins, and as expected, his face was growing paler and paler, like that of a corpse.
“Well now… what a pity.”
Warren, who had approached at some point, shook his head in a voice full of regret.
“No, it may be a pity for us as well. This isn’t the time to worry only about Castello, you know?”
“Heh heh… Normally, that would be true, but I happen to think the grapes from Silver Oak are no less impressive. I’m not particularly worried.”
At times like this, he really did feel more like the owner of the winery than I was. But that was not the end of it.
Just as the En Primeur event reached its climax, another rumor began to spread.
“Next year, the 2009 vintage will be the vintage of the century, far surpassing 2008!”
Critics were already predicting a vintage of the century for the 2009 grapes, which had not even sprouted yet. This was also strategic promotion leaked by Bordeaux’s négociants to dominate the market, but in reality, Bordeaux’s meteorological data was pointing to an almost strangely perfect year.
Warren shook his head, saying he could not believe it, but I knew. Robert Parker had chosen either the 2008 or 2009 vintage as the greatest vintage of his life. I could not remember exactly, but I recalled that both had probably been excellent.
The reason I had deliberately come all the way here despite knowing that was to experience firsthand what the wine that would be so highly praised in the future had been like before bottling. And as expected, once I tasted it, I had no choice but to acknowledge it.
That was when it happened. An elderly gentleman quietly holding a sample glass in one corner of the tasting hall approached us. When I looked to see who it was, it was the emperor of Bordeaux wine, Christian Moueix.
“Oh, Brian! I didn’t expect you to come all the way here.”
Moueix strode over without caring about the gazes of the crowd, looked at me with interest, and then gave Warren a slight greeting with his eyes. After expressing his respect toward the master that was Warren, he spoke in a calm yet dignified tone.
“Welcome to Bordeaux. I’d say you were fortunate to come at a truly good time. Last year and this year are truly… it feels as though God has bestowed His blessing upon Bordeaux.”
“It certainly is impressive.”
“Impressive?”
His face held disbelief. He must not have liked that I had described the wines presented at this En Primeur with no more than the word “impressive.”
“Since you’ve come all the way to the Médoc, I can’t simply let you leave. Aren’t you a fellow owner of a Bordelais château? Tonight, there will be a small soirée at my residence in Libourne. Warren, I would be pleased if you joined us as well. There is a great deal I would like to show you.”
Moueix took a neatly patterned invitation from his pocket, handed it to me, and disappeared with a smile.
“Are you going?”
Warren asked with a strange smile, and I shrugged.
“There’s no reason not to, is there?”
“True. Two men representing American wine appearing at a gathering of Bordeaux aristocrats… I’m already excited.”
“My heart’s heating up too. I wonder just how warm a welcome they’ll give us.”
“It will be very warm, in many senses…”
When evening came, I changed into a neat suit according to Warren’s advice and headed to Moueix’s residence. I had thought from the beginning that it would not be an ordinary gathering, but once I stepped inside the mansion, it exceeded my expectations.
Beneath a massive chandelier were the owners of the five First Growth châteaux of Bordeaux’s Left Bank and négociants who controlled European wine capital.
The air I felt from the entrance was on an entirely different level from that of the tasting hall. The sound of crystal glasses reflecting the light of the splendid chandelier and the low symphony of French made me realize that I had entered the vast fortress called Bordeaux.
As we entered, the conversations in the salon briefly subsided, as if everyone had arranged it in advance. When an unfamiliar young Asian man and Napa’s old master appeared, the gazes of those who had reigned as masters of this land for hundreds of years fixed on us all at once.
“Oh, you’ve finally arrived. The main characters are always supposed to appear last.”
Christian Moueix, who had been greeting guests at the center, approached with delight. He lightly wrapped an arm around my shoulder and began introducing me to the people gathered around.
“Everyone, say hello. This young man is the Napa revolutionary I told you about, Brian. And beside him stands the legendary Warren Winiarski, who once crushed us mercilessly.”
Following Moueix’s gesture, my gaze landed on figures whose names alone would send a thrill through anyone with even the slightest interest in wine.
There was Corinne Mentzelopoulos, responsible for the elegance of Château Margaux; a representative of the Philippine de Rothschild family, appearing in place of the baroness of Château Mouton Rothschild; and the owners of Château Latour and Château Haut-Brion, known as the pinnacle of Bordeaux’s Left Bank.
The living myths of Bordeaux, the so-called “Five Great Châteaux,” were gathered in one place, observing me intently.
“I wanted to meet you.”
Corinne Mentzelopoulos, owner of Château Margaux and called the Queen of Bordeaux, looked at me with shining eyes.