Mid-February, Festival Pavilion, San Francisco.
Unlike the cold sea breeze outside in San Francisco, the heat inside the exhibition hall was so intense it put the weather beyond to shame.
[San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition (SFCWC) Public Tasting]
The anticipation radiating from tens of thousands of wine lovers and industry insiders who had gathered from across North America seemed to raise the indoor temperature by several degrees.
“Brian, there are really a lot of people today. The line for the Redwood booth already stretches all the way to the end of the hall.”
Chloe, her arm linked through mine, looked around with a flushed face and whispered. Today she wore an elegant black dress befitting the First Lady of Napa Valley. Warren Winiarski, standing at my side, had also traded his usual work clothes for a neat tuxedo.
“Of course. Ether, with Parker’s 100 points, and Astra Veil, champion two years running, are in the same place. Who wouldn’t stop by?”
Just as Warren said, Redwood Winery’s booth was located in the center of the venue, in the most prominent spot. Across from us were the legendary names of Napa’s traditional powerhouses—Harlan Estate, Screaming Eagle, Opus One, and Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars—creating a strange sense of tension.
“Look over there. That’s William Harlan. He’s been conscious of us since earlier, hasn’t he?”
Where Chloe’s gaze rested, William Harlan, a white-haired elderly gentleman, was speaking with his winemaker with a grave expression. Even to him, a living legend of Napa, Redwood—who had appeared like a comet and was aiming for the top prize for the third year in a row—was clearly a threatening presence.
The moment the official tasting began, the Redwood booth turned into a battlefield. Leo and the cellar staff served wine nonstop, but it was not enough to handle the crowd pouring in.
“Echelon is the true essence of Redwood. Look at this solid structure and intense aroma. This is wine.”
“Well, I think the smooth Sylphid is the best.”
“I like Quiet Hill. You can really feel the fragrant fruitiness and elegance.”
Most of the ordinary visitors who came here could taste mid-to-high-priced wines under 100 dollars. There were some people looking for Ceracia, but they were few, and most wanted red wine.
Of course, it wasn’t that they didn’t want cult wines like Astra Veil or Ether, but the problem was that if such expensive wines were offered for tasting to the general public, even a few hundred cases would obviously not be enough.
However, a few VIPs were exceptions. Only San Francisco Chronicle event officials, influential local politicians, critics, and winery owners were allowed to taste Astra Veil and Ether.
“So this is that Ether! The one Robert Parker praised as ‘a liquid distillation of Napa’s soul’!”
I didn’t know if Robert Parker had really gone that far, but in any case, a San Francisco city councilman held out his glass with a look full of awe. Smiling, I slowly poured Ether 2008. In the glass, the ink-dark purple liquid gave off a radiant gleam.
“The aroma... My God, this isn’t wine. It’s like an entire forest bottled up.”
He pushed his nose deep into the glass and exclaimed in admiration. Ether’s distinctive graphite, violet, and cool mineral aromas overwhelmed the surrounding air. Those who tasted Astra Veil afterward showered praise on the splendid fruitiness and silken texture granted by its 22% Merlot.
After watching Leo and the staff hand out wine at the tasting, I walked around the venue with Chloe.
Since the San Francisco Chronicle mainly featured wineries from North America, wineries from Bordeaux, where Château Margaux and Lafite Rothschild belonged, or from Burgundy, where Romanée-Conti was located, did not participate. Even so, the number of North American wineries alone was countless, so there was plenty for Chloe and me to see. Warren, however, said his legs hurt and remained at the booth, chatting lightly with guests who came by.
After we spent several hours that way, the lights throughout the exhibition hall finally dimmed, and Carrie Gardner, chairman of the SFCWC organizing committee, went up onto the main stage. I quickly brought Chloe back to Redwood’s booth, and hundreds of eyes focused on the center of the stage.
“This year’s San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition was fiercer than ever. Among more than 5,000 entries, we will now announce the wine that stood at the very pinnacle.”
A taut silence settled over the hall. Chloe gripped my hand tightly, and Warren crossed his arms and quietly closed his eyes.
“First, the nominee for Best of Show in the Red Blend category. Screaming Eagle 2008 from Screaming Eagle.”
Applause burst out. But the announcement did not stop there.
“The nominee for Best of Show in the Cabernet Sauvignon category. Redwood Winery, Ether 2008.”
Murmurs broke out all across the venue. Redwood’s Astra Veil had finally failed to win an award this year, but another cult wine called Ether had been sent into the finals instead.
At that, the winery representatives who had released cult-class Napa wines, including Harlan Estate, looked at one another with hollow expressions.
“These are the results of the vote by our 60 final judges. The 2010 San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition’s overall Best of Show champion is...”
Chairman Gardner tore open the envelope.
“This is astonishing. Congratulations. Redwood Winery, Ether 2008!”
Waaaaaaaah!
With an explosive roar, gold confetti poured down from the ceiling. For the winery, it was a third consecutive grand prize. It was the moment an unprecedented record, one that had never once occurred in the history of the San Francisco Chronicle, was achieved.
Still dazed, I lightly kissed Chloe on the forehead as she applauded, then went up onto the stage. Warren raised his thumb toward me from below the stage. Holding the trophy, I stood before the microphone. In the distance, I could see Julian Boyd watching me with a frown.
“Thank you. Many people say Redwood’s success is luck. But today, I would like to dedicate this award to our family, who fought against the brutal frost and heat wave that struck Napa in 2008.”
I paused briefly and looked at the Napa owners in the audience.
“Today’s result is not the end of Redwood, but another new beginning. Redwood will continue to improve every year and show you a depth beyond anything you can imagine.”
When the speech ended, Napa’s heavyweights began to rise one by one and give a standing ovation. Winning Best of Show three times in a row was essentially the same as acknowledging that the throne of Napa Valley’s emperor had passed to Redwood.
As I came down from the stage, Chloe ran over and hugged me.
“Brian, congratulations! You’re incredible!”
“Thanks. It’s all thanks to you.”
I hugged her and returned to my seat with a smile. In the distance, I could see Sienna and Armando approaching, excited after having already received gold ratings. It looked like we would have to throw another party today.
The parties that continued for several days after the results of the San Francisco Chronicle Competition once again left me with a hangover that felt like it would split my head open. But I couldn’t rest just because my head hurt. For a farmer, there was no such thing as a job being finished. Besides, for Redwood, the glory of a three-peat was already in the past. Now that we had been enthroned as Napa’s emperor, I had to continue advancing and never allow the other wineries to catch up.
Full-scale planting began. On top of soil where the strata design two meters below ground and microbial transplantation had been completed, carefully selected Cabernet Sauvignon seedlings stood in orderly rows.
“Is it because you’re young? You look lively enough.”
Warren approached in work clothes and stood beside me. He was carefully observing as I soaked the roots of each seedling in a special culture solution before planting it.
“I look lively? Can’t you see I’m breaking out in a cold sweat because my hangover still hasn’t worn off?”
“That much is nothing... When I was your age, I drank until dawn and worked in the morning while drinking wine. I’m telling you, wine never left my lips for an entire week.”
“... How can you drink like that and still be this hale and hearty now?”
“Good liquor isn’t bad for the body. You didn’t know?”
Sometimes, when talking with old men, there were moments you couldn’t understand them, but at times like that, you shouldn’t try to force yourself to teach them otherwise. Even if you thought, What on earth is he saying? you just had to accept it.
“I see. Anyway, I think the current temperature is optimal for the roots to take hold.”
I carefully lifted one seedling. This was different from ordinary planting. I guided the seedling’s roots to stretch long on a diagonal, positioning them near the perforated sub-air pipes we had buried in advance.
“There’s something I’m curious about. Usually, don’t we want roots to go straight down as deeply as possible? But you’re artificially twisting the direction of the roots right now. What’s the reason?”
At Warren’s sharp observation, I smiled and answered.
“If the roots just go downward, they won’t be able to evenly receive the benefits of the ‘multi-layer’ we designed. I’m going to guide the roots so that they spiral downward as they grow. That way, the entire surface area of the roots can evenly absorb the different mineral components and moisture content in each layer.”
“You’re deliberately guiding them to spiral downward? Huh... That’s a first for me.”
It was only natural. According to current common sense, leaving roots alone was considered the natural way.
“I’m trying to teach the roots the shortest route.”
His curiosity thoroughly piqued, Warren bent his knees and sat down, examining the angle of the seedling I had planted.
“Teaching roots a route... I’ve never heard such a thing in my life. But it makes sense. You mean to maximize the surface area where the roots come into contact with the soil?”
“That’s right. If left alone, roots spread randomly. But I want the roots to coil downward in a spiral along the nutrient pathway between the perforated sub-air pipes we buried and the marine sediment layer. If we guide them that way, the surface area where the roots contact the strata becomes more than 1.5 times larger than if they simply went straight down.”
At the unique idea, Warren fell silent for a while, as if drawing the blueprint in his head.
“Spiral Root Induction... In theory, it may be possible, but will a living thing move according to your design? Plants are far more stubborn than you think.”
“That’s why we set different temperatures and moisture contents for each stratum. Roots instinctively seek out the band with the most comfortable environment. And we arranged that band in a spiral. The tree will think it’s growing freely, but in reality, it’s running along a precisely designed energy rail.”
At my explanation, Warren let out a hollow laugh, as if dumbfounded.
“Good grief, you really are relentless. As if burying pipes two meters underground and controlling geothermal heat weren’t enough, now you’re going to control the growth path of the roots too. This isn’t farming. It’s like drawing a gigantic semiconductor circuit into the earth. I wonder if there’s anyone else in the entire world who farms the way you do.”
“Even if there isn’t anyone now, this kind of method will become the mainstream in the future. Agriculture is science, and it also aligns with the philosophy of UC Davis.”
“That is true.”
If he had learned about the artificial microbiome ecosystem that would form around the roots, he might have treated me not as a winemaker, but as an alien or an alchemist.
The physical route design I explained to Warren was a kind of hardware. And the microbes I had planted at night could be called the software that would run that hardware.
I picked up the next seedling and changed the subject.
“Warren, if this method succeeds, these vines will produce the concentration of a thirty-year-old old vine within three years.”
“Amazing. But when I think of the taste of that Ether you showed in San Francisco, this insane plan doesn’t sound entirely absurd. If anything, it’s frightening. I wonder how shabby the true result you’ll show will make the traditions of Napa Valley look.”
With a pleased expression, Warren picked up a shovel and began covering the soil beside me. The sight of a master over seventy silently following the young winemaker’s lead and covering the earth was reverent in itself.
Together with the workers, we planted thousands of seedlings. Under the daytime sun, I assembled the skeleton of the land with Warren, and at night, I alone injected a cocktail of mycorrhizal fungi and glomalin-producing bacteria. The vast expanse of fifteen acres was being filled, little by little each day, with green vitality.