The autumn sunlight was passing beyond midday, and the broad rice paddies of the Brentwood plain had already been harvested, leaving only rice straw swaying in the wind. Where the golden waves had vanished, neatly ordered earth and scattered, dried clumps of straw lay forlornly.
Jacob, standing at the edge of the field, crossed his arms and let out a satisfied breath.
“It’s finally over. There was more to do this year than last year, but strangely, it was less exhausting.”
Standing beside him, I looked out over the paddies and nodded. If you knew exactly what you had to do and understood the effects it would bring, it was only natural that it would feel less taxing.
“Last year, it was a little over four tons per acre, right?”
“Yeah. This year, the average is five tons. Just like you saw. Switching the variety and stopping the rice from lodging made a huge difference. We supplemented the silicate fertilizer properly too. What you said back then... that if the rice falls over, the yield gets cut in half. Honestly, I was half skeptical, but it really was different. I had no idea the variety could make this much of a difference. Applying fertilizer at the right time also raised the yield by a lot.”
Leaving the paddies behind, we headed for the warehouse. When the door opened, the hot scent of grain rushed out. Inside, sacks of freshly milled rice were stacked in layers nearly to the ceiling. Toward the back of the warehouse, sacks sorted by harvest period stood in rows, and stamped on their surfaces were the words “2005 HARVEST.”
Jacob placed a hand on one of the sacks and said in a low voice,
“For now, the place we’ve been dealing with wants two hundred ninety dollars per ton. I’m still thinking about what to do.”
“How much do you have right now?”
“About four hundred tons.”
“Four hundred tons at two hundred ninety dollars a ton means...?”
“I did the math, and it comes out to about one hundred sixteen thousand dollars. That’s twenty thousand more than last year. It’s amazing. After changing the variety and doing what you said, production increased by nearly twenty percent. On top of that, we used less water, less pesticide, and less fertilizer. Costs went down while production went up. It’s practically magic.”
Even as he said that, a bitter look appeared on Jacob’s face. Because even after all that, the money he would earn was not much.
The money I made from selling vinegar alone easily exceeded two hundred thousand dollars, and this time, Sylphid had produced around three thousand cases in total. If all of them sold out, including the five hundred cases set aside for local sales, the amount we would bring in would be around 1.2 million dollars.
Considering that the expenses Jacob incurred farming eighty acres of paddies for a year and the expenses I incurred doing custom crush probably were not all that different, I could understand just how hard it must be for him.
“You worked hard.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“Should we try using half?”
“Half means... securing fifty-five thousand dollars in cash, right?”
“Honestly, if you want to play it safer, it’d be better to make liquor with only thirty percent and sell the rest to secure cash.”
Jacob thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“No. Like you said, let’s sell half and gamble with the other half. With the government subsidy and fifty-five thousand dollars, it’ll be just enough to prepare for next year.”
“Good. Let’s do this right.”
Jacob and I bumped fists, strengthening our resolve.
We walked over to the small building newly built beside the warehouse. When the door opened, what came into view was a brewery with stainless-steel fermentation tanks, a gleaming copper-colored still, drainage facilities, and ventilation ducts, all neatly arranged.
Just as its name said, it was the Golden Grain Soju House.
“Looks great.”
Jacob slowly stroked the body of the still.
“I barely managed to build this place with a bank loan and even the money my mom had saved up. The debt’s terrifying, like a mountain... but I don’t know. For some reason, I don’t feel like I’m going to fail. Lately, I’ve been trying every Asian liquor that’s come into California, you know? I think we can at least manage that level.”
“That’s right. We can get at least that much.”
It was then. A worker came running over and told us a guest had arrived. When we went outside, a middle-aged man in a suit was walking toward us from afar, carrying a briefcase. It had to be the person scheduled to visit today.
He handed us his business card and introduced himself.
“I’m Lawrence, with the TTB, the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau. As you know, I’ll be conducting the final inspection today.”
Jacob was clearly nervous, but for the moment, he smiled and accepted the card.
Just because a TTB DSP permit had been issued for the distillery before did not mean we could make alcohol. The permit issued then had been a conditional approval, a form in which a permit number was granted once the paperwork, blueprints, ownership structure, tax bond, and so on were deemed lawful. With that, you could secure loans and install equipment.
But before actual distillation could begin, a TTB officer had to visit the site and confirm that the facility had been set up according to the blueprints. This was the final gate.
“Welcome. Everything is ready.”
The inspection was meticulous. The officer first looked around the grain storage warehouse. Pressing the sacks with his fingers, he checked for moisture or traces of mold. He also examined each temperature and humidity record sheet posted inside the warehouse.
“The grain management is in good condition. Ventilation and temperature control are being handled properly.”
Next, we moved to the fermentation room. He opened the lids of the stainless-steel fermentation tanks and examined the sanitary condition inside, then checked the floor drains and ventilation facilities as well. Since the brewery had just been built, he was not checking whether the facility was clean, but whether it had been built properly and could operate without problems.
“You must have equipment for measuring alcohol proof. Without it, you cannot legally manage distilled spirits.”
“Of course. We have it ready.”
“Good. Is that the still?”
“Yes.”
Following the pipes of the gleaming copper still, he inspected whether the thermometer and pressure gauge were operating properly. Then he took a Proof & Tralle Hydrometer from a small box and examined it.
“Hmm. It’s well set up according to the blueprints.”
Jacob held his breath and waited for the words to leave his lips. The officer took a thick stack of documents from his bag and placed it on the desk. He stamped it, signed it, and handed it to Jacob.
“Golden Grain Soju House has now officially received approval for a distilling license.”
For a moment, Jacob’s eyes widened. After checking the document in his hands over and over, he shouted toward me.
“Finally...!”
“Yeah. You can finally make liquor. Congratulations.”
“Ghhh...! I’m so moved!”
As Jacob clenched his fist and cheered, my eyes fell on the sacks of rice filling the warehouse. Now these grains would be reborn as liquor and go out into the world.
After the officer left, Jacob looked around the distillery, now fully recognized by the government, rubbed his hands together, and asked,
“So, now we’re going to make liquor with this monster of a machine?”
“Yeah. Let’s do a steam test.”
Since we had received certification, we needed to confirm that clear water would condense properly through the cooling line.
“We’ll start by running water through it. Distillation is basically a process of boiling, collecting, and separating. There won’t be any aroma or alcohol today, but the flow is the same.”
When we filled the boiler with water and flipped the ignition switch, a low hum echoed from inside the metal as pressure began to build.
A little while later, the steam line vibrated, and clear droplets of water fell from the end of the copper pipe, drip, drip. I pointed at the end of the pipe with my finger as I spoke, and Jacob nodded as if fascinated.
“Look. Right now it’s water, but if we do it like this, alcohol and various components come out one after another in order of their boiling points. We divide that flow into three sections: heads, hearts, and tails. Right now this is the heads section. When you’re actually distilling liquor, you have to throw away the heads that come out first no matter what. There are a lot of impurities like methanol in it.”
“I’ll remember.”
It was not a camcorder, but Jacob had somehow taken out a notebook and was writing things down.
“Next comes the hearts section, and that’s what you need to collect. It’s the central section you want most in distillation, because that’s where the pure ethanol and fragrant esters mainly come out. You could call it the body of the liquor.”
“Aah...”
“The proof usually starts around seventy to sixty percent and gradually drops, and you collect only this section to make the final product. And the part that comes out at the very end is the tails. The taste is rough and heavy. You can collect it separately and redistill it with the next batch.”
“So you don’t throw it away?”
“Right.”
I caught the water dripping from the condenser and opened and closed the valve, showing him how to control the flow.
“Soon, we’ll ferment the rice and make an actual wash. A wash means preparing the fermented mash to be put into the still.”
“That’s a technical term?”
“Yeah. If we handle this equipment properly, this Sacramento Valley rice won’t just be grain anymore. It’ll transform into a liquor that doesn’t exist anywhere else in America. Something with real competitive power.”
Jacob looked at the steam rising from the still and smiled.
“I believe it. I think we’re going to make something better than any Asian-style liquor I’ve tasted in California.”
Watching the liquid drip steadily, Jacob’s large frame seemed to gleam with excitement in his eyes.
---
A week later, on October 17, 2005, the convention center where the San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition was being held was already packed with people from the morning.
Hundreds of winery representatives, judges, and reporters had gathered in one place, and inside the hall, thousands of wine samples were already neatly arranged. Befitting its name as the largest wine competition in the western United States, the atmosphere was heated.
“Wow... I heard there are even more participants this year than last year?”
“They say there are over two thousand entries. Just winning a gold medal among these would be incredible.”
The voices of the participants, the clicking of camera shutters, and the popping sounds of wine openers pulling corks mingled into a continuous buzz. Among these people were Joseph Haggins of Castello Winery and Mark Harrington of Harrington Winery.
“It’s as grand as ever today. It feels like more people gather every year.”
Joseph Haggins, with his deep, dignified voice, swept his calm gaze over the many wines participating in the event. Perhaps because all of these wines were competitors to his own, his expression was rather tense.
“Exactly. Especially this time, Sideways seems to have set people’s interest in wine on fire.”
“Hoho, you must be pleased.”
Since Harrington Winery focused on Pinot Noir, it was easy to guess that they had earned tremendous profits. No matter how much Castello, called Napa Valley’s largest winery after Mondavi, prided itself on being a major player, one had to admit that the places that benefited most from this Pinot Noir incident(?) were the Sonoma wineries whose main product was Pinot Noir.
“Well. How long do you think this mood will last?”
“Who knows. But one thing will become certain. The profits of our California wineries will rise even higher.”
“That’s true. That much is certain.”
The owners of large wineries watched market fluctuations with great care, so they viewed the steady, gradual increase in wine consumption caused by the Sideways craze in a very positive light.
“By the way, who do you think will take first place today?”
At Joseph’s question, Mark shrugged.
“Hard to say. There are so many variables here...”
Even the famous Mondavi did not take first place every year, and almost once every two years, a completely unexpected wine would take the top spot.
“Still, you must have a guess.”
“Hmm... Joseph Phelps Insignia, or Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon, or... Heritage Oak Pinot Noir 2003?”
At those words, Joseph burst into hearty laughter.
“Hahaha! Are you slipping your own wine in among them?”
Heritage Oak Pinot Noir 2003 was the very wine Harrington Winery had ambitiously put forward this time.
“Then what wine do you think will receive the highest evaluation?”
“I’d also like to pick Insignia as the strongest candidate. If there’s a wine that can rival it, perhaps it would be Castello Reserve Meritage 2003.”
Castello Reserve Meritage 2003 was likewise Castello Winery’s ambitious work.
“I’m looking forward to it. To seeing how the results turn out.”
The two of them looked toward the judges’ table with intrigued expressions. Seated there were familiar faces—sommeliers, critics, journalists, and the like.
They were not looking at wines with name tags attached; instead, they opened bottles marked only with numbers and tasted them blind, one by one. In the end, every evaluation was made solely by the mouth and the nose.
How long had the wines been passed along and scored one after another?
At last, in the afternoon, the awards ceremony began.
On the screen above the stage in the convention center, the competition logo appeared, and the winning entries in each category were announced in sequence. Since there were not just one but dozens of wines corresponding to each medal, the announcements proceeded quickly. Then one name was called.
“Silver Medal, Heritage Oak Pinot Noir 2003, Harrington Winery!”
Mark Harrington’s face stiffened at a ranking lower than he had expected. Still, he forced a smile and shook hands with the people around him, though his fingertips had gone rigid.
Yet, surprisingly, there was someone even more shocked than he was.
“Bronze Medal, Castello Reserve Meritage 2003, Castello Winery!”
Joseph Haggins’s face flushed red.
He spoke to Mark beside him as if chewing the words.
“The judges are playing games with us.”
It was because his expectation that he would receive at least a gold medal at this event had been neatly overturned. After that, the gold medals went to several wines, including Mondavi, making the participants nod in agreement. That much was understandable, but the next name that appeared on the screen completely shattered their expectations.
“Double Gold Medal, Echelon 2004, Redwood Winery!”
For an instant, the audience stirred.
“Redwood? I heard they’re a new winery.”
“Echelon? Is that the wine that came out not long ago?”
“A 2004 vintage—only one year of aging—and it got Double Gold? I can’t believe it.”
Even the head judge added from the stage,
“Despite its short aging period, this is a wine that shows outstanding completeness in balance, structure, and aroma. We judge it to have presented a new possibility for Napa Valley. Would someone from Redwood Winery please come forward?”
As people looked around in surprise, a young Asian man raised both arms high and headed toward the podium.
And watching him, two men’s faces twisted.
“Impossible...”
“Damn it...!”
Having risen to Double Gold and entered Best of Class, he had earned a place to compete among the finest wines. That alone was already an immense honor.
But the surprises were not over.
“Double Gold Medal, Sylphide 2004, Redwood Winery!”
When two Double Gold medals came from a single winery, the hall, which had been noisy, instead fell silent as a grave.
“What on earth is that place...?”
Someone’s murmur spoke for everyone in the hall, and the announcements of the next Double Gold medal wines no longer registered in their minds.