The thought of going there already made it hard to breathe, but in truth, even before my regression, I had known that Mendoza’s high-altitude Malbecs boasted a quality unrivaled in the world.
“We’ll be taking a car up, right?”
“Hahaha, of course. You can’t get there on foot.”
“That’s a relief.”
I had lived in America, but it wasn’t as though I had visited many travel destinations. Even before my regression, while devoting myself to wine research, I had gone to Bordeaux once, but other than that, I had only made a few trips that could really be called travel. At most, perhaps there was the one time I took my mother to Yellowstone National Park.
Since I had to do almost everything sitting down, I had spent my life holed up in one place. So the thought of visiting Argentina for the first time made me excited, but also a little afraid. Compared to America, it was still an underdeveloped country, and I had heard public safety wasn’t great either.
On top of that, getting from Bordeaux to Mendoza, Argentina, meant a long journey diagonally across the Atlantic. Naturally, I couldn’t help but be worried, but Warren, on the contrary, looked as excited as a child before a picnic.
“Have you ever been there, sir?”
At my question, Warren looked out at the night sky beyond the window and smiled strangely.
“I’ve never been there in person either. But my nose and tongue have already been there dozens of times.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t forget the samples sent to me by a winemaker friend who left for Argentina back when I was busy making wine in Napa. It was a liquid as dark as ink, full of minerals to the point that it smelled like gunpowder. Back then, I thought this: if anything could one day put to rest the arrogance of Napa Cabernet, it would be that rough fellow.”
Warren’s eyes seemed to already be gazing at the eternal snows of the Andes. His excitement went beyond the thrill of travel; he looked full of fighting spirit, as if he were going to complete the blending he had envisioned in his mind.
“Is that friend of yours famous?”
“Very famous. A Flying Winemaker.”
The moment I heard that, one person’s name came to mind.
“Michel Rolland?”
“That’s right.”
“Ah... come to think of it, I think I’ve heard that Michel Rolland went to Argentina.”
The pioneer of modern wine, using fully ripened grapes to soften tannins, maximize fruit aromas, and apply an elegant touch of oak, was none other than Michel Rolland. Though he was criticized for making every wine similar in what was called the “Rolland style,” he remained the person wineries all over the world most wanted to invite.
“He’s an incredible fellow.”
“It’s a relief to hear you’ve already tasted Malbec samples through him.”
Seeing me pat my chest in relief, he grinned.
“Why? Are you anxious because we’re going to Argentina?”
“Honestly... a little?”
“Hahaha! Don’t worry. The mountain keepers of the Andes are surprisingly kind to old men crazy about wine.”
“I’ll book a rental car on the way. As for a guide...”
“We don’t need a guide. The best guide is already there.”
“Pardon?”
“Michel Rolland. He’s in Mendoza right now.”
And so Warren and I hastily had lunch and left Château Belle Époque.
---
“Oh, I’m dying.”
After arriving in Mendoza, Warren clutched his lower back and groaned. We had arrived at Madrid Airport from Bordeaux, then flown sixteen hours to Buenos Aires, and then boarded yet another plane bound for Mendoza. The travel time alone had been a staggering twenty-four hours. It was no wonder Warren was suffering like that.
“Are you all right?”
“If we make the Silver Oak wine this time and hit it big, let’s make sure the first thing we buy is a private jet. At this rate, I think I’ll die from my back giving out before I die of old age.”
“All right.”
I had thought that if you ran a winery, you would simply stay in one place and farm, but once I actually started making wine, I found myself constantly moving all over the world. Now that we had even acquired a great estate of 150 acres in Bordeaux, getting a private jet wasn’t necessarily such a strange idea.
The problem was money. A private jet was a bit... no, very expensive.
“In any case, the air is really clear.”
Mendoza’s climate was dry and clear. The sunlight was strong, but the heat wasn’t intense, giving it a somehow warm feeling. The climate alone was enough to put a person in a good mood.
Just then, a plump, middle-aged gentleman with a half-bald head, stylishly dressed in a linen shirt, was approaching us.
“Warren! You old fox! I really didn’t think you’d come all this way.”
It was Michel Rolland. The man called the god of modern wine embraced Warren warmly. Michel soon turned his gaze to me, standing beside him.
“Is this the Napa idol? The one even the owners of the five great châteaux are said to be interested in?”
“I’m Brian. It’s an honor to meet you, Michel.”
Michel Rolland clasped my hand and looked me over with sharp eyes. His hand seemed to be steeped in the deep scent of grapes and oak.
“I’ve heard about you. You’re looking for the finest Malbec?”
“Yes, that’s right. Elder Warren told me that if I wanted the best Malbec, I had to go to Mendoza, Argentina.”
“He knows exactly what he’s talking about. That’s right. If you want the finest Malbec, you’ve come to the right place. Let’s go. We’ll talk on the way.”
Michel put us in his four-wheel-drive truck and drove west. Outside the window, the grand scenery of the Uco Valley, over 1,100 meters above sea level, unfolded before us.
“Altamira, where we’re headed, is one of the greatest terroirs I’ve discovered in Argentina. Many people think of Malbec as a fruit wine, but that’s a story about Malbec made on the plains. In the highlands of the Andes, the story changes. The Malbec here possesses both power and balance.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
After traveling for quite some time along winding roads, the truck finally stopped in the middle of a barren vineyard full of gravel just as my stomach was beginning to churn. Michel got out of the car, picked up a handful of soil from underfoot, and showed it to me.
“Look. Huge gravel and limestone washed down from the Andes. Malbec grown in this barren land is on a different level from Napa’s.”
Before I could answer, Warren, who had gotten out while thumping his lower back, stepped in.
“I know that well. I came all the way here because I still remember the aroma of the Malbec you sent me.”
“You know, but this young man might not.”
“He’s the fellow who dug up land in Napa Valley to artificially create To Kalon. His understanding of soil is probably greater than yours.”
What Warren mentioned could no longer be called a secret. After I first purchased part of the burned Silver Oak land, the fact that I had carried out large-scale work on the soil had become famous in Napa Valley. Later, when I dug up all the additional Silver Oak land I bought, nearby winegrowers were puzzled and even laughed at me. They must not have understood why I would uproot existing old vines—trees over forty years old capable of producing concentrated grapes—that had not been exposed to the fire and were perfectly fine, only to plant saplings instead.
Now, the first Cabernet Sauvignon from Silver Oak’s land would come out, and a proper wine would be released at the end of this year. When that happened, people would have no choice but to know, even if they didn’t want to. They would know that by doing something artificial to the land, I had dramatically raised the quality of the Cabernet.
“What? Artificially create To Kalon? You’re saying you changed the terroir however you liked?”
He looked me up and down with an expression of disbelief, then asked,
“Why did you think of doing that?”
“Because I wanted to make the grapes I desired.”
“So you wanted to make the grapes you desired, but the terroir couldn’t support it, so you remodeled the land?”
“That’s right.”
Michel Rolland was the man who recognized Argentina’s potential and elevated Malbec here to a world-class level. But hearing that I had artificially created terroir, it was only natural that he would find it difficult to accept.
A brief silence flowed between us, and then Michel let out a wry laugh.
“If you’d said that in Bordeaux, you would probably have been chased out of the vineyard.”
Warren, who had been watching, burst into laughter.
“That’s why I brought this fellow to you.”
At that, Rolland looked straight at me.
“Good. Then explain it.”
He rolled a piece of gravel once with his foot and continued.
“This so-called artificial terroir you created... how on earth is it possible?”
But before I could answer, Warren cut in.
“How could he tell you such a secret so easily? That’s why I joined Redwood Winery. Because I wanted to know that secret.”
“So? Did you find out?”
“That’s right. I found out.”
“Ha...”
Since it was none other than Warren Winiarski saying he had confirmed the secret of artificial terroir, even Michel Rolland fell silent.
“If you want to know too, you can join Redwood. Of course, the chief winemaker position is mine, so you’d have to become deputy chief.”
“No, thanks! Do you think I’m insane enough to leave a perfectly good life here and go live in Napa Valley?”
“Hehehe, if you don’t want to, then forget it. Why get angry? Hurry up and lead the way.”
In the end, Michel had no choice but to lead us toward the building used to manage the vineyard. Even so, he kept glancing at me until, as if he could no longer hold back, he asked,
“Did you really produce grapes on the level of To Kalon? By creating artificial terroir?”
“Well. That’s something people may think about differently... It would be more accurate for you to experience the wine we’ll release this year for yourself.”
I deliberately avoided giving a clear answer, but Michel seemed to feel trust from that ambiguous response instead and asked again.
“I’ve had Astra Vale before.”
“Oh, have you? It must have been difficult to get.”
“Ha, are you bragging? Well, I suppose it’s something worth bragging about. In any case, as you said, it wasn’t easy to obtain, but someone who happened to visit here gave me a bottle as a gift. My impression was... honestly, it was very impressive. I admit it. That softness, brilliance, and complexity were truly superb.”
“Thank you.”
“Then were those grapes produced without even the slightest alteration of terroir?”
I answered honestly.
“I can’t say there was none at all. I did provide a bit of help in terms of the soil. But that much could be considered basic for someone farming...”
In truth, in this era, biochar compound fertilizer and air fertilizer packs could be called cheating, so “a bit of help” was far too modest a description. Still, it wasn’t on the level of completely overturning the soil like at Silver Oak.
“Then what is the concept of the wine you’re going to present this time?”
“Overwhelming structure. We’ll be presenting Cabernet Sauvignon at 95% purity.”
He looked shocked.
“You’re that confident? Hmm... Then the Malbec will be responsible for the lacking color, aroma, and harmony.”
“That’s right.”
“Good, good... If you’re looking for Malbec for that, then of course you had to come here.”
He strode forward and stood at the edge of a small hill overlooking the vineyard at a glance. Then he pointed at the sea of Malbec stretching all the way to the horizon and opened his mouth.
“Altamira is blessed land. But if you truly have the ability to artificially create terroir, then I believe you must have felt some sense of disharmony in this scenery. What do you think? Can you see this place’s flaw?”
His question looked like a test, but in those confident eyes, I glimpsed a certain longing. I was certain it was a sincere question. I slowly turned my head and scanned the vineyard’s panorama. Ancient trees over a hundred years old were standing firm beneath the Andean sun, and the color of their leaves was healthy. I slowly walked into the vineyard and lightly scraped the surface soil with the tip of my shoe. Coarse gravel and limestone soil. Dry air seeping through it. I carefully observed the slope of the vineyard, the drainage facilities, and the spacing between the vines before answering.
“The concentration of the vines is excellent. But... you’re failing to control water stress.”
Michel’s eyebrow twitched. Warren, who had been watching from the side, also looked at me with interest.
“Continue.”
“This place is too dry. That’s why you’re artificially supplying water from the melted snow of the Andes. But there’s too much gravel, so drainage is excessively fast. The intense ultraviolet rays during the day make the grape skins thicker, but they also force the roots to spend too much energy searching for water. As a result, there’s a high risk that the texture of the tannins will become as rough as grains of sand. Well, there should be variation from block to block, so some areas will be like that and others won’t.”
Perhaps he was surprised, because Michel Rolland was silent for a long while. He put his hands on his hips and stared into the air, then let out a hollow laugh.
“Warren, this young man is truly frightening.”
Then Michel came right up to me and asked,
“You’re right. The greatest enemy of Altamira Malbec is rough tannin. The higher the altitude, the more the acidity survives, but when there isn’t enough moisture, the tannins turn aggressive. The tannin of the grapes can spike dramatically with just one vine’s difference. Do you happen to have a solution?”
“......”
Of course I did, but I didn’t open my mouth rashly. Perhaps my silence made him anxious, because he swallowed and said,
“Brian, let me make you a proposal. If you can solve this problem, I’ll give you a permanent right of first purchase for the Grand Vin Malbec produced from this Altamira vineyard. What do you say?”