Soft candlelight flickered over the antique mahogany table. Once I had taken my seat under Christian Moueix’s guidance, the first to break the silence was Baron Éric de Rothschild of Château Lafite Rothschild. He courteously raised his glass toward Warren, who was seated beside him.
“Warren, it is an honor to see you again. That deep wound you inflicted on the pride of our Bordeaux in ’76... now it feels almost like a medal. Thanks to you, we were able to spend the past thirty years fiercely refusing to grow complacent.”
A low laugh rippled through those present. It was a pointed joke, but within it lay sincere respect for a legendary craftsman. Warren answered with his characteristic relaxed smile.
“Baron, if the wound from back then was so deep, I apologize. But isn’t it thanks to that that the 2008 vintage we’re drinking today has become so refined? Sometimes bad things bring about good results.”
The taut tension slackened somewhat under Warren’s seasoned handling. Only then did everyone’s gazes naturally turn toward me. Corinne Mentzelopoulos, the owner of Château Margaux, set down her fork with elegance and looked at me.
“Brian Choi? I’ve heard quite a lot about you. Your dazzling growth in Napa in particular has been a topic of conversation even here in Bordeaux.”
Known as the queen of Bordeaux, she was the person who had inherited the failing Château Margaux at the young age of twenty-seven and kept it at the summit for decades. Outwardly, she gave off the generous impression of a kindly person, but her background and experience were more than enough to grant her overwhelming authority in the world of wine.
“Thank you for thinking well of me.”
“Indeed. How did you find this En Primeur, seeing it in person? I’m curious how Bordeaux’s April appeared to those precise eyes of yours.”
I took a sip of the water in my glass and answered slowly.
“It was beautiful. Beyond the quality of the wine, I could feel your tenacity in preserving this tradition for hundreds of years. If Napa is a dynamic challenger, then this place is like a great fortress. In particular, looking at this year’s climate data... it seemed to prove why Bordeaux still remains the standard of the world.”
At my courteous answer, the expressions of the owners, who had not lowered their guard, softened slightly.
At that point, Jean-Philippe Delmas, the manager of Château Haut-Brion and a man called the living history of Bordeaux, posed a question that was gentle yet sharp.
“Then I am curious. Why would someone like you, who has already reached the summit in Napa, go out of your way to establish a small foothold called Belle Époque on our Right Bank? Is it for the expansion of capital? Or another desire for conquest?”
His question seemed to go beyond curiosity, carrying an intent to gauge what sort of influence a young outsider would have on Bordeaux’s ecosystem.
“I would say it is closer to learning than conquest. The strength given by Napa’s gravel beds and the elegance given by Bordeaux’s clay... I see them as speaking different languages. I simply want to become perfectly fluent in both. Belle Époque is the ground on which I can learn and put that language into practice.”
At my confident answer disguised as humility, Christian smiled an inscrutable smile. The meal deepened, and the topic naturally shifted to practical matters concerning the vineyards.
By the time another glass of wine had been poured and everyone’s faces had grown familiar, Jean-Philippe Delmas finally set down his glass as if to get to the point and looked straight at me.
“You said earlier that it was learning... But the method you showed at Belle Époque was far beyond the category of learning as we know it. I heard from Christian. You drilled holes directly into that hard limestone stratum and revived the vines? Is it true that you prescribed some bizarre treatment no expert in Bordeaux would have dared even consider?”
I thought, Here it comes. Because when I wondered why the owners of Bordeaux’s five great châteaux would have called me here and seated me among them, only one thing came to mind.
For them, Bordeaux was a land blessed by nature to such a degree that it would not be an exaggeration to say it had been formed for the making of wine, yet even so, there were several factors that troubled them. One of them was the limestone underground. It would have been stranger if they were not surprised and curious that an Asian with American nationality, who had come from a foreign place, had overcome it.
But even so, I did not think they had called me here because they truly wished to learn. The masters of this place were neither innocent nor broad-minded enough to accept learning purely.
Already, the looks directed at me revealed suspicion and contempt far more strongly than any desire to learn.
Just as I was wondering how I should answer, Corinne Mentzelopoulos set down her glass and added her voice.
“That’s right. Limestone is both the blessing and the curse of the Bordeaux Right Bank. If moisture isn’t controlled, the roots rot away, and I hear you bored holes into it and forcibly changed the drainage system. How is such a thing possible?”
If one listened only to the content, it might be understood as, “Why did you do that?” but in truth, her words were not reproach but admiration. Since simply drilling holes could not solve the secret behind what I had done, she was asking what other secret there was.
The two had asked the same question, but I could clearly feel that their intentions were somewhat different.
“In the East, there is a saying: when one reaches an impasse, a path opens. At the time, I was facing a crisis where the vines were on the verge of dying because I had used the wrong rootstock, and I had to find a way no matter what. So, as an emergency measure, I drilled holes and opened a passage so the vines could breathe on their own.”
“Is that all?”
“From there, everyone has their own method. My method is a little... American, you could say, so I’m sorry to say I hesitate to share it.”
It meant that I felt embarrassed to teach the owners of French châteaux, whose pride knew no bounds, the trivial American way of doing things, but there was no one present who failed to understand that it was sarcasm.
To be honest, it was not that I had mocked the owner of Château Margaux because I wanted to. It was simply that instead of dodging this way and that because I did not want to tell them, I intended to refuse outright, and I had also struck first because I did not want to be swayed by the strangely hostile gazes in this place.
As expected, Baron Éric de Rothschild pointed out sharply, as though he had been waiting for it.
“Hmph! A single one of those holes could completely ruin the microclimate of the terroir. American wines may have grown by leaps and bounds recently, but because of those accelerated cultivation methods, there will come a day when you pay dearly.”
Beneath their words lay clear jealousy toward Napa Valley, which was chasing Bordeaux’s fame with capital and technology. Especially amid the global financial tremors caused by the Lehman Brothers crisis, the reality that Redwood’s wines had succeeded in defending their prices and were being treated as safe assets must have made them even more impatient.
I smiled faintly and continued.
“Well. I don’t believe the quality of wine is necessarily created by time alone.”
At my calm answer, an extremely faint displeasure flitted across the faces of the owners of the five great châteaux. Just then, Frédéric Engerer of Château Latour, who had been quietly watching until now, cut in.
“There is something I’m curious about... Was there any need to pull out the Merlot from Belle Époque’s land and plant Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon instead? I assume you know it won’t be recognized in the classification.”
Frédéric Engerer, the trusted man of Chairman Pinault, owner of the Gucci Group (Kering), had come from a corporate background, perhaps because of which, unlike the others, his eyes were full of curiosity.
“That’s right. But I don’t consider classification important. I replaced the Merlot solely because I believed Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon would be a perfect match for that land.”
“Hmm... As far as I know, Redwood has never had a single released line fail. Do you think it will be the same this time as well? With white wine on the Bordeaux Right Bank?”
“Of course.”
He nodded faintly, looking rather shocked. As someone from a corporate background, no matter how he thought about it, it would not be easy to make a profit, but since I said I was confident, he would naturally think he was missing something he did not know.
The others seemed to be the same, some letting out hollow laughs as if dumbfounded, others falling deep into thought. But what was certain was that none of them would be able to imitate what I had done.
Just as the mood in the room was settling with the awkward faces of the five great châteaux, Baron Éric de Rothschild fixed his gaze on Warren.
“Warren, when you made Stag’s Leap, you thoroughly deconstructed the classics of our Bordeaux. But now, thirty years later, Napa’s wines have lost that noble restraint and are obsessed only with bursting power and sweetness. As the creator, what do you think of the seed you planted becoming a mutation?”
The air over the table froze. It was an attack that pricked at the popular degradation of Napa wine. But Warren did not fluster. He slowly tore off a piece of bread, put it in his mouth, and then spoke quietly.
“I think calling me the creator is excessive... but I’ll let that pass, Baron. Children’s voices naturally grow louder as they grow up. But that is only part of the process of growth. Napa is showing off its strength now because it has the hot-blooded desire to prove its existence to the world. But in the end, as time passes, it will come to know on its own. That true strength is not oppressive muscle, but harmony. It isn’t something that will be fixed just because I teach them, and I believe such a process is necessary at times, so I am not greatly worried.”
At Warren’s plain answer, Corinne Mentzelopoulos swirled her glass and threw out the next question.
“Balance... Since we’ve met like this, I’ll ask something I’ve been curious about as well. Right now, you bring in water, inject nutrients, and change the nature of the earth all at once. What do you think Napa’s future will be?”
The fact that she was asking not about the global wine market but specifically about Napa Valley meant she was asking Warren whether they could continue to defeat Bordeaux in the future through such artificial methods.
In a way, it could have been jealous sarcasm, but Corinne’s gaze was serious. It was clear that she was sincerely curious about Napa’s future and Warren’s thoughts. So Warren, too, gathered his thoughts seriously and smiled warmly at her.
“Corinne, the soil of our Napa is much younger and hotter than Bordeaux’s. Young vines sometimes need the attentive care of parents. Our control of water is our own way of conversing with the earth. Aging potential a hundred years from now? I have not given up yet. We will continue to find a way.”
As the atmosphere flowed strangely, a representative of Château Lafite threw out the most provocative question.
“Let us be honest, Warren. I see the victory of 1976 as a momentary accident, when Bordeaux briefly let down its guard... There have been countless re-tastings since that day, but has your wine not rarely surpassed the long-term aging potential of our First Growth châteaux?”
Warren’s eyes narrowed. He looked for a long time at the red liquid in his glass, then opened his mouth.
“I, too, think that day’s victory was a miracle. But miracles come only to those who are prepared. The reason we beat you was not because our technique was superior... but because we were desperate to possess the greatness Bordeaux took for granted. You may think of it as an accident. But because of that accident, have you not also come to craft more refined wines today?”
Each time the masters’ questions tried to hack apart Warren’s philosophy, Warren received their blades with a soft shield. Then Christian Moueix pointed at me and drove in the final wedge.
“Warren, this young man beside you is of a very different grain from you. You made wine with intuition and philosophy, but as far as I know, Redwood does not work that way. For a winery with such a short history to grow so rapidly, it must be true that its techniques for handling wine are extraordinary. What do you think about your noble legacy passing to this kind of technician rather than to tradition?”
Every gaze fixed on me. It was a trick meant to belittle me as a technician and mock Warren’s choice. But Warren, who had been facing them all along with a comfortable smile, twisted the corner of his mouth.
“Technician? Well, you may want to disparage him that way... but this fellow is far too remarkable to be called merely a technician. Are you still sore from having been properly dealt a blow by him before?”
In that instant, Christian’s face stiffened. But Warren did not stop speaking.
“Bring out the finest masterpiece of the 2008 Château Pétrus. I’m curious whether it can compare to Astra Vale, which won Best of Show twice in a row at the San Francisco Chronicle.”
Even I was surprised enough to turn and look at Warren’s momentum, which did not shy away from a head-on confrontation.
“No, there’s no need to...”
Just as I was signaling to Warren that it was too much,
“If that is what you wish...”
Christian, unable to suppress his anger, rose from his seat. With flames practically shooting from his eyes.