In mid-December, I arrived in Bordeaux once again.
“Your expression is far too bright, don’t you think? We’re on our way to admit defeat.”
Warren Winiarski, who had been following me down the aircraft stairs, patted my shoulder with an incomprehending look. As he said, on paper, we were the losers. The Nobel Prize banquet wine had been decided as “Unity” by the five great châteaux of Bordeaux, and now, according to the terms of the wager, we had to print a phrase praising those five châteaux on the label of Redwood’s low-priced line to be released next year.
Normally, losing should have put me in a bad mood, but I didn’t feel that way at all. I had already heard the rumors about what Unity’s quality had been like at the Nobel banquet.
Even the fact that the five great châteaux had used their political influence to create an unprecedented event—a joint cuvée—and forced their way into becoming the banquet wine was, in my view, practically an honor. After all, for a newly established winery, the fact that the five great châteaux had taken us so seriously was an honor in itself.
But as it turned out, there had been plenty of talk about Unity even at the banquet. One scientist with a strong interest in wine had even said that perhaps the abilities of the five great châteaux ought to be called into question again.
“Come on, everyone knows. We lost, but it’s basically the same as winning.”
“Still, we’ll have to write a congratulatory message for them. Doesn’t that sting?”
“It’s a little disappointing, but it’s fine. People will wonder why Ceracia from Redwood suddenly has a tribute to the five great châteaux written on it, but won’t that be amusing in its own way?”
“You don’t intend to make it public?”
“No. Even if we allowed it, the five great châteaux wouldn’t.”
The truth about this wager was not something we could reveal to the outside world as we pleased. From the moment the wager was made, it had been agreed that it would not be disclosed publicly.
If the five great châteaux wanted, Redwood could reveal it at any time. Though we had lost, we had always had confidence in the wine itself. But would the five great châteaux truly want the details of the wager made public?
I could say with certainty that they would never try to make it public. Especially since they had gone so far as to create a joint cuvée and use political maneuvering to dedicate it to the Nobel banquet. The moment this wager became known, the authority of the five great châteaux would plummet to rock bottom.
“Heh heh… I know that. If it were me, I’d be furious that I couldn’t reveal it, but you don’t seem bothered at all, Master.”
“It’s fine. I’d be slightly embarrassed if this childish bet became public too. Ah, the car’s here. Let’s go.”
When we left the airport VIP lounge, a black Bentley sent by Château Pétrus was waiting for us. The chauffeur bowed politely and opened the door.
“They’re receiving the defeated with quite a bit of courtesy.”
“They certainly are.”
The fact that they had even arranged a car to escort us carried all sorts of implications. Even more so, considering his usual pride.
From Bordeaux–Mérignac Airport to Pomerol, where Pétrus was located, it was about a forty-minute drive. The scenery outside the car window was a strange blend of the desolation of vineyards and the grandeur of old châteaux.
After crossing the Garonne River and passing through the city of Libourne, the plains of Pomerol, revered as holy ground by wine lovers all over the world, finally appeared. If the Médoc district, where the five great châteaux were located, felt like a magnificent cathedral, then Pomerol felt like a small, solid monastery. And at its center, with no signboard at all, asserting its presence solely through its red tile roof and brick walls, stood Château Pétrus.
“Welcome, Brian. And Warren.”
Christian Moueix, who received us in his office, looked paler than I had expected. Usually a coolheaded, intellectual gentleman, he looked particularly tired today.
“First, congratulations, Christian. The wager ended in Bordeaux’s victory. As promised, we will place a phrase paying tribute to the five great châteaux at the bottom of the label of Ceracia, Redwood’s low-priced wine, next year. Baron Eric will write the wording himself, I assume?”
I sat down on the sofa and spoke calmly. Perhaps sensing that there was no servility or regret in my voice, Christian stared into my eyes for a moment before giving a bitter smile.
“I suppose so. A wager is a promise, and promises must be kept. I won’t have any hand in it, but… in any case, it was quite an interesting process. If Aether’s score had not been 100 points, the process would likely not have become so extraordinary.”
“Is that so? I liked it because it was extraordinary.”
At my words, Christian’s eyes twitched slightly.
“That extraordinary process gave quite a few people headaches.”
At that, Warren, who had been listening quietly, chuckled and cut in.
“Ah… could it be that Baron Eric gave you an earful? Saying you shouldn’t have arranged the wager in the first place?”
For a moment, as if Warren had struck the mark, Christian glared at him, then turned his head back toward me.
“In any case, I thank you for coming all the way here to confirm the result of the wager. And if anything in the process of the wager caused you discomfort, it was not my intention, so please forget it. And…”
Seeing him drag out his words while expressing an apology he didn’t need to give, I had a feeling I knew what he was about to say.
“You’re asking us not to reveal the reason for the congratulatory message to the outside world?”
I deliberately emphasized the word “asking.” Whatever else might be unclear, this had to be made clear. Doing this as a favor at their request would be beneficial in many ways later on.
“That’s right.”
As expected, I had been right. I met Warren’s eyes and smiled meaningfully.
“Very well. I’ll accept that request.”
With that, it was completely settled. I had lost the wager, but in reality, it was as good as my victory.
Christian Moueix seemed relieved that the matter had ended here as well, his expression lightening. Then he asked, as if tossing the question out casually.
“…Is the Belle Époque estate being managed well?”
I felt I understood the complicated emotions underlying his question. Right beside Pétrus, which produced the world’s greatest red wine, a genius winemaker who had received 100 points from Robert Parker had overturned the soil, saying he would make white wine. And in a way that shattered Bordeaux’s traditional rules, at that.
In the past, he would simply have snorted and thought, Let’s see how that turns out. But now, things must have changed considerably.
“Yes. The Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon saplings have taken root very healthily. By next year, I think we can look forward to a trial harvest.”
“I did think that way before. Sauvignon Blanc, in this precious soil of Pomerol… I couldn’t understand it. But now, I find myself curious. I’m very interested to see what kind of wine will emerge.”
Was he truly saying that because he was curious and looking forward to it? I couldn’t be certain.
“Thank you for looking upon it favorably.”
This time, he turned his head toward Warren.
“I imagine you must have provided considerable help with this Aether.”
“…People do tend to think that.”
Warren gave a mysterious smile, neither confirming nor denying it.
“In that spirit, I suppose I can hardly refuse to serve a celebratory wine.”
Instead of answering, Christian rang the bell on the table and called for a servant. A short while later, a bottle of wine covered in a pale layer of dust was brought in on a silver tray.
“Let’s call it a consolation wine for the defeated. A 1982 Pétrus.”
Astonishingly, he had brought out a 1982 Pétrus. Though it was presented as a consolation wine for the defeated, in reality it was no different from a gift containing his request that we not reveal the details of the wager to the outside world.
When he personally pulled the cork, the overwhelming aroma of Merlot that had endured nearly thirty years filled the reception room. Truffle, wet earth, ripe blackberry, and the scent of leather. It was the taste of the solid ramparts Bordeaux had built up over time.
As he poured the wine into the glasses, Christian added offhandedly.
“Next spring, when the saplings at Belle Époque begin to sprout, invite me once. I’m terribly curious about this new horizon you speak of. It may truly be a revelation from God that we overlooked.”
I lightly touched my glass to his. A clear crystal note rang out.
“You’re welcome anytime, Christian. When that time comes, I’ll prove that the white wine I’ve made is just as great as your Pétrus.”
Christian’s eyebrow twitched slightly, but he offered no further rebuttal.
---
Terra, a modern fine-dining restaurant perched on a hill in Silver Lake where LA’s trend-conscious gourmets gathered.
Inside Terra’s kitchen stood its owner-chef, Thiago Santos, a man born in the rough backstreets of São Paulo, Brazil, who had conquered the Michelin-starred restaurants of France’s Alsace region and built his own kingdom in LA.
But he stood there with an expression as black and lifeless as a burnt saucepot, and the reason was the “Michelin Guide California 2010” edition that had just arrived. The glory of the two stars he had firmly defended for five consecutive years was nowhere to be found, and on the page there was only one miserable star.
“One star…”
Thiago looked down at the backs of his rough hands. His cuisine, which combined Amazonian ingredients with the freshness of California, had once been praised as innovative. But over the past year, he had fallen into stagnation. Familiar flavors, predictable acidity, and above all, a lack of the decisive kick that would put the final period on a dish—the critics’ harsh reviews had lodged in him like daggers.
With deficits already piling up due to high rent and labor costs, a drop in stars was no different from a death sentence.
“Chef, next week’s dinner reservations have fallen by twenty percent.”
At the sous-chef’s cautious report, Thiago gave no answer and instead tore off his apron. His chest felt so tight it might burst. He walked out of the restaurant aimlessly and climbed into his old pickup truck. Whenever his mind was in turmoil, there was only one sanctuary he headed for.
Beverly Hills, Bristol Farms.
When the automatic doors of Bristol Farms, the high-end grocery market favored by Beverly Hills’s wealthy, opened, cool air spilled out along with a feast of rare ingredients from all over the world. As if bewitched, Thiago began wandering through the store.
When he looked at the fruits, fish, and meats in the fresh food section, the anxiety and worries in his head vanished without him realizing it.
Then, when he naturally reached the specialty ingredients section, familiar luxury ingredients such as truffle oil, Himalayan rock salt, and artisan-made saffron caught his eye. Then, among those extravagantly expensive ingredients, his steps suddenly came to a halt.
“Is this… new?”
The place where he had stopped was the balsamic vinegar section. There stood a bottle that felt entirely different from ordinary vinegar bottles, exuding an alien presence.
[Solstice Noir]
A jet-black glass bottle, as though steeped in deep darkness. The label was extremely restrained. Without a single flamboyant phrase or artisan’s signature, only a gold-foil logo was set in the exact center. At the sight of it, resembling a rare perfume or a jewel box, Thiago’s heart began to pound.
“It’s from Redwood Reserve Vinegar?”
It was a place he knew. Though its wine had now earned worldwide fame, Redwood was quite well known in the restaurant industry for its balsamic—well enough that people knew it had begun with vinegar.
Thiago picked up the bottle. Though it was a small bottle of barely 100 milliliters, it had a solid heft. When he checked the price tag, his eyes trembled faintly.
“Two hundred fifty dollars?”
There was no tasting event, no flashy promotional copy. There wasn’t even a sticker saying it was recommended by some common Michelin chef. Two hundred fifty dollars was the price of a decent bottle of top-tier vintage wine. If he bought it and it failed, it would surely sting, and yet, strangely, that minimalist design pulled powerfully at his soul.
In the end, Thiago opened his wallet as if possessed.
After returning to the restaurant, Thiago carefully broke the seal on the bottle. The moment he pulled the cork, a dense fragrance spread throughout the entire kitchen. It was not the smell of cheap vinegar that was merely sour. Freshly roasted figs, ripe blackberries, and the deep scent of leather seeped from an old oak barrel…
Closing his eyes and drawing in the aroma deeply, he felt excited for the first time in a long while as he took out the top-grade A5 Wagyu striploin that had arrived that morning. To preserve the meat’s natural flavor, he seasoned it only with salt and pepper, then seared it in a heavy cast-iron pan. While the juicy steak rested on the cutting board, he poured some “Solstice Noir” into a small sauce bowl.
The liquid flowed down thickly, like syrup. He touched the tip of a teaspoon to it and placed exactly one drop on the meat, like a black pearl.
Thiago cut off a piece of meat and brought it to his mouth.
The thrilling acidity that brushed the tip of his tongue vanished in 0.1 seconds, and an explosive sweetness took command of his mouth.
The rich fattiness of the meat met the vinegar’s acidity and achieved perfect balance. Like Columbus discovering the New World, he slammed both hands down onto the kitchen table without realizing it.
“Oh, my God…!”