Immediately after the Nobel Banquet officially came to an end, a strange current flowed through the splendid corridors of City Hall. In the place where some 1,300 distinguished guests had departed, half-emptied glasses of “Unity (L’Unité) 2008” remained forlornly on the tables.
Normally, critics and aristocrats would have drunk a Nobel Banquet wine as if they meant to lick the bottom of the glass. But there was no denying that tonight, the conversations of those leaving were filled with questions about the wine.
“Well, it wasn’t bad. No, to be honest, it was an excellent wine.”
“Right. If someone told me they’d bought it at a department store for around three hundred euros, I would’ve said they’d struck gold.”
A renowned Swiss wine collector whispered to his companion. His voice was thick with disappointment.
“But this is the Five Great Châteaux’s ‘united cuvée,’ isn’t it? If Lafite’s elegance and Latour’s structure were combined, shouldn’t it at least feel as if the Milky Way were exploding in your mouth? This was… just a well-made Bordeaux blend, nothing more and nothing less. A bit regrettable.”
The rumor spread in an instant. “Unity” was certainly not a terrible wine. Since it contained the base wines of first-growth châteaux, a basic level of quality was guaranteed. The problem, however, was the weight of expectation carried by its name. Compared with the promotional material proclaiming it a symbol of human peace, blending together centuries of pride, the result was far too ordinary and poorly harmonized.
The next morning, the Swedish Royal Palace.
Count Magnus von Engström read through the report with a cup of stone-cold coffee before him. The media headlines were praising the historic reconciliation, but the unofficial assessments being quietly passed around high society were disastrous.
“The authority of the Nobel Banquet was exploited for Bordeaux marketing.” “The Swedish royal family was swayed by the French wine world.”
Count Engström’s hand trembled faintly. To the Swedish royal family, who valued dignity more than life itself, the criticism that they lacked discernment and had foolishly been played by the French wine world cut deeper than any insult. He immediately placed a call to Bordeaux, France. On the other end was Baron Eric of Château Lafite Rothschild, who had led this alliance.
“Baron, do you know what the mood in Stockholm is like right now?”
The count’s voice was as cold as ice, while from beyond the receiver came Baron Eric’s unhurried breathing.
“Oh, Count. I heard the banquet was a success. Surely the flavor of Unity made the walls of City Hall resound?”
No matter how much Count Magnus was a high-ranking noble of the Swedish royal family and the man in charge of practical affairs, to put it bluntly, he was still only a servant to the king. By contrast, Eric de Rothschild was one of the heads of the Rothschild family, which held global financial and wine power, and for the past several centuries his family had lent money to Europe’s royal houses, even determining war and peace.
Their family standings were too different to be placed on the same level.
“A success? Right now, high society is mocking the royal family for being blinded by a name and serving an ordinary wine! You boasted that the essence of the Five Great Châteaux had been combined, yet what actually ended up in the glass was nothing but a characterless mixture!”
At the count’s rebuke, silence fell for a moment. But Baron Eric was by no means an easy man to deal with. Instead, he raised his voice with confidence.
“That must be an issue with the banquet environment, Count. Unity is an extremely sensitive wine. Was the serving temperature adjusted to exactly 18.2 degrees? And the decanting time? Serving it to 1,300 people at once must certainly have stressed the wine. To expect to experience Unity’s true aroma in a place like some large-scale catering site—if anything, I find the royal family’s lack of preparation disappointing!”
“What did you say?”
“If you had drunk it in a proper tasting room, from selected crystal glasses, under perfect humidity conditions, you would have fallen to your knees. Our Bordeaux masterpiece is particular about its setting.”
Baron Eric blamed the royal family’s protocol failures instead and hung up first. An attitude of sheer arrogance.
“Damn it…!”
Count Magnus hurled the phone aside and spent some time huffing with rage, spewing curses at the Five Great Châteaux of Bordeaux. But there was nothing he could do now. Nothing except announce to the outside world that the united cuvée, Unity, had been a success.
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Bordeaux, the office of Château Lafite Rothschild.
The moment he hung up, Baron Eric threw the crystal ashtray on his desk at the wall.
Crash!
Shards flew in every direction, and his face had flushed dark red with anger.
“That fool Engström… How dare he lecture me!”
Breathing roughly, Eric glared at the glass of “Unity” on the table. In truth, he knew. No—it was more accurate to say he could not possibly be unaware. He had done the blending himself; how could he not know its aroma, tannins, acidity, and depth?
Wine was honest. The grapes forced together were invading one another’s territory and screaming. The aroma was splendid, but it had no center, and the finish was far too heavy. Even with Bordeaux’s finest winemakers involved, the blending ratio apportioned through political compromise was an act that ignored the science of wine.
If, among the five châteaux, the base wine of one château had taken up a major portion while another’s had participated only in a very small amount to achieve balance, perhaps an extraordinary thing might have been born. But because of political issues, that had been impossible. Perhaps this tragedy had been inevitable from the start.
‘If… if this wine had been sold on the market…’
It was horrifying just to imagine. If critics around the world had formally reviewed this wine, the reputation of the Five Great Châteaux would have fallen into the abyss in a single day. The gamble-like premise of a commemorative wine for an event, not for sale, had instead prevented the fall of their houses.
“Damn it… Because of Brian Choi, that Napa Valley brat…”
Baron Eric ground his teeth. Before that young man appeared, Bordeaux had been peaceful. They could each play king in their own castle, competing moderately and reigning moderately, and that would have been enough. But because of a wager that had suddenly come about in the most unexpected way, what humiliation was this…?
Thinking this, the face of Christian Moueix of Château Pétrus suddenly came to mind. He had always looked upon him quite favorably as a gentlemanly man of cool reason, but now, just recalling that face made irritation surge within him.
“I should never have gone there that day… No, why did he have to invite that little Asian brat of all people…”
If Christian had not brought in Warren Winiarski of Redwood and Brian Choi to that place, none of this would have happened. As things stood, Château Pétrus had slipped neatly out of it, while only the other Five Great Châteaux had lost face.
---
The underground aging cellar of Laguna Creek in Napa Valley.
The underground scenery here was a little different from that of other wineries. Instead of enormous stainless-steel tanks, small, sturdy Slovenian oak barrels were stacked in tiers like steps.
It was an aging room where a modified version of the Solera system Brian had passed on was being used. The air here held a mixture of sour, sharp pungency that seemed to prick the tip of the nose, the sweetness of ripe black fruit, and the vanilla scent of oak.
“Armando, I think the time has really come.”
Sienna spoke carefully as she opened the stopper of an oak barrel. In her hand was a thief, a long, slender glass pipette.
Armando stood beside her with a tense expression. Quite some time had already passed since that day in 2008 when he had despaired at the sight of grapes burned by the record-breaking heat wave. At the time, Brian had advised him not to throw away the scorched grapes, but to use the concentrated sugar and minerals within them to make a legendary vinegar.
“This is the final inspection. If it doesn’t pass here, there will be no bottling.”
Armando spoke solemnly. It was time for the Organoleptic & Acidity Balance Audit, the most important final stage in vinegar brewing.
Sienna drew up the thick liquid from the barrel on the lowest level, which contained the oldest aged Mother. The liquid rising through the glass tube was a deep ruby color close to black, and like syrup, it slowly flowed down the walls.
“Wow… look at that viscosity.”
Sienna, impressed, dropped the liquid into a small crystal glass. Armando lifted the glass and swirled it carefully. This was the power of glycerol Brian had spoken of. That sticky sweetness, squeezed out of the acetic acid bacteria through temperature shock, clung to the walls of the glass and slowly shed tears.
“The aroma first.”
Armando brought his nose close. In that instant, an intense acidity stimulated his nasal cavity, but soon a vibrant fragrance of plum, raisins, and the savory scent of freshly baked bread followed. It was the essence of oxidative esters created by the union of alcohol and acid.
“It passes. There’s none of that acetaldehyde smell like paint. Only the pure essence of fruit.”
The two brought the glasses to their lips and placed a very small amount of the liquid on their tongues.
Startled, Sienna’s eyes widened. The first taste awakened the tongue with acidity sharp enough to tingle, but 0.5 seconds later, the concentrated sugar produced by the heat wave softly enveloped the entire mouth. Even after swallowing, the complex flavor created by the oak tannins and the grape polyphenols continued for more than a minute.
“Wow… this is insane. Armando, you did it. That thousand-dollar traditional vinegar from Modena, Italy that Brian talked about… No, this might be beyond that.”
Armando, who had been anxious that it might fail, finally let out a sigh of relief and embraced Sienna.
“You helped me so much, Sienna.”
Sienna’s face flushed slightly as she remained in Armando’s arms and spoke.
“What help…? You’re the one who did it well. I was just there beside you, cheering you on.”
“What are you talking about? You even handled the branding strategy. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still be wracking my brains over how to brand it.”
The two smiled as they looked at the label sample lying on the workbench. Written on the label in elegant lettering were the words “Solstice Noir.”
She had said that “Solstice” meant the summer solstice, when the sun rises highest, and “Noir” symbolized the deep, black color of the vinegar. Interpreted, the name meant that this vinegar held the essence of the sun at its longest moment.
With a satisfied smile, Sienna said,
“I just… wanted to put your story of turning disaster into a blessing into this name.”
At Sienna’s explanation, Armando’s eyes reddened. She continued explaining the label design.
“I stripped the design down as much as possible. On a jet-black bottle, we’ll put only a minimalist gold-foil logo shaped like a sunspot. So it doesn’t feel like a vinegar bottle, but like an exceptionally rare perfume bottle. It would be a waste to use this only for salad dressing. It’ll be perfect as a finishing sauce—just one drop on top-grade steak, aged cheese, or vanilla ice cream.”
“The chefs at high-end restaurants will go crazy for it.”
While the two were engaged in a heated conversation about the value of the finished vinegar, the door of the aging cellar connected to the surface opened, and the sound of someone’s footsteps came down.
“Boss! You have a visitor!”
When the two immediately went outside, a man in a stylish suit was extending his hand.
“Am I too early?”
It was Marco, the distribution manager in charge of specialty ingredients at Bristol Farms.
“Marco! You came at the perfect time.”
“Well then… has the item that will calm my trembling heart been completed?”
Marco was someone introduced by Brian’s girlfriend, Chloe. When her Korean pears entered Bristol Farms and she mentioned to Jeffrey Banks, the head of fresh foods, that they needed a supplier for high-end balsamic vinegar, Marco was the one he had connected her with.
Even before this, Laguna Creek’s vinegar had already earned quite a reputation in California for its quality. Since it was effectively inheriting Redwood Reserve Vinegar, it had a substantial base of enthusiasts
behind it. So it was only natural that Bristol Farms trusted them as well.
“I’ll give you a sample.”
Armando hurried down and returned with vinegar in a very small crystal glass, which he offered. Marco accepted the crystal glass from Armando and savored the aroma for a long while before letting out a short exclamation.
“Wow! What kind of balsamic is this…? Even for me, this is the first time I’ve encountered quality of this level. Astonishing.”
Impressed, Marco took contract documents from the leather bag he had brought and added,
“The unit price will start at one hundred dollars per ounce, just as you proposed, Mr. Armando. A 100 ml bottle will be at least two hundred fifty dollars, and those with limited-edition numbers will command more than double that.”
This was a price on par with Italy’s Modena “25-year-aged Extra Vecchio.” Marco’s mouth and nose had acknowledged that level of quality.
“Good. Let’s do that.”
He thought of the sun of the valley. The cursed heat wave that had burned his grapes had now transformed into black pearls that would fill his bank account.
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Solstice Noir
Aceto Balsamico
Redwood Atelier
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