Second-floor gallery hall, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Beneath the golden chandeliers, silver wine buckets and crystal glasses stretched in long rows. The Met Gala Wine Invitational 2005, an eve-of event for the Met Gala. At this gathering where New York’s upper class and cultural figures came together, wine was not merely liquor, but a language of status.
Bottles of French Bordeaux and Burgundy lined the walls like sculptures on display, while the small “American Wine Corner” set before them looked almost like an experimental piece tucked away in a corner.
Michael Lowell stood in that corner, holding a glass. He was a senior editor at Wine Enthusiast, one of the few journalists who had been invited.
On the label of the bottle beside him was a familiar name. Echelon 2004, Redwood Winery, Napa Valley. It was a wine he had personally covered and written about.
“So you still insist on American wine, I see.”
A familiar, authoritative baritone reached his ears. When he turned, a man was standing there with a wineglass in hand. A black tuxedo and gleaming cuff links. His silver hair swept back, he was smiling.
“Mr. Richard Spencer.”
Richard Spencer was the chairman of Apex Creative Holdings, America’s largest entertainment group. He owned Hollywood studios, record labels, fashion brands, and even luxury media.
‘A man who turned culture itself into a business.’
He was also the main sponsor of today’s Wine Invitational.
“I read the latest issue. Your interest in Napa Valley wine was considerable this time as well. You even went all the way to California to cover it yourself.”
“Ah, as a journalist, it was only natural. Especially when it’s a winery that achieved results as conspicuous as this one.”
“Is that so?”
The way one corner of his mouth lifted was clearly a sneer. Since Spencer was an American who had always been harsh in his assessment of American wine, Michael was not particularly shocked.
“It’s a winery that won two Double Gold Medals. Have you tasted it, by any chance? If a chef-owner running a restaurant out West saw the Echelon here right now, he’d be startled enough to insist on bringing it back to his establishment.”
“Of course I tasted it. For something aged only a year, it was fairly well balanced, but beyond that... not especially.”
“Haha, yes...”
“Wine, you see, is something I believe to be like a blessing God bestowed upon mankind.”
He smiled and raised his glass.
“Just as people differ in appearance and personality, terroir varies beyond measure, and so every wine differs in taste and aroma. But American wine is, how should I put it... the product of an artificial industry? Much like America’s film industry, which, whenever something seems popular, pours money into it to create shallow amusement and succeeds that way.”
“To think you would be so scathing about your own line of work.”
“I’m objective. The moment I overvalue something just because I did it, I lose that objectivity, and my investments fail. The Echelon you recommended was somewhat different, but in the end, it arrived at a point I’d felt somewhere before. A refined structure and deep aroma... But that is an engineered balance. It is nothing more than an imitation of Château Margaux, born from a blessed natural environment.”
“......”
“Still, I acknowledge the technique. It’s a quintessentially American wine. A wine in which Americans, who pioneered the harsh environment of the West, imitated the French wines created by nature. This, too, is why I like America. It does not submit to adversity. Overcoming a lacking foundation is the work of human effort, after all.”
“... You didn’t read that part, I see. That wine was made by a Korean who immigrated to America.”
The corner of Richard Spencer’s mouth, which had been lifted endlessly, slid down. At the sight, Michael felt an odd sense of gratification.
“What did you say?”
“It’s a wine made by an Asian, and a Korean at that.”
“... Remarkable. Ah, yes, Koreans... A country that developed rapidly after the war. In a sense, they resemble Americans, so it isn’t strange that they could make a wine like this.”
“......”
Watching him lend persuasiveness to his own words through that bizarre logic, Michael felt the satisfying sense of victory he had just experienced melt away.
“Still, that will make it easy to remember. Asians have something called tradition engraved into their souls, something Americans do not possess. One can’t know how they’ll dissolve that into wine.”
With a broad grin, Spencer patted Michael on the shoulder and walked past. As Michael stared blankly at the retreating figure of a man who, despite being American, harbored a hatred for Americans, his phone rang. It was his friend David Hoffman, whom he had met not long ago.
Wondering what was going on, he answered the call and heard his friend’s strangely excited voice.
“I think this damn business is finally about to end.”
“What are you talking about, calling me out of nowhere like this?”
“I went to the Napa Valley year-end growers’ meeting earlier, and would you believe it? I met that Redwood vineyard owner you told me about.”
“Huh? Really?”
“Heh heh heh... It was hilarious. After winning Double Gold, his shoulders were practically up in the clouds. He was even talking to Robert Mondavi as if he thought he was some kind of master.”
“......”
The base jealousy in his friend’s tone. But Michael could not bring himself to say it was wrong. He knew just how broken his friend’s mind had become.
“So I casually let slip that I might put my vineyard up for sale, and his eyes changed right away. It was so funny how quickly he showed his greed. Hahaha!”
“You’re thinking of putting the vineyard up for sale?”
David’s voice came through, subdued as if he had become a different person.
“Yeah, I don’t need this worthless land anymore. Those people with no palate don’t even evaluate my wine properly. All they ever say is that it’s lacking. But what can I do? That’s how the terroir is.”
“David...”
“Forget it. But want to hear something funny? Fifteen years ago, I bought this place for one million dollars. You know how much it’s worth now? Don’t be shocked. It’s over three and a half million dollars. Heh heh heh heh... I did nothing but hold on to the land, and my assets are worth over three and a half million. Hahahaha!”
He was laughing like a madman, but Michael could feel the sorrow in his friend’s laughter in full. The perception that he was a loser leaving after failure was contained entirely in that crazed laugh.
“I see. That’s a relief. You should be able to get a good price for it.”
“I’m going to ask four million dollars. Of course, it’d be nice if I could sell it for that, but even if I get three and a half million, I’ll be able to live the rest of my life without worrying about money.”
If even one of the countless wines he had attempted had properly taken off, he probably could have earned three and a half million dollars with ease.
“I’m jealous. When you come to New York, you’d better treat me properly.”
“Of course. I’ll make sure we have a proper time somewhere amazing.”
“Yeah. Call me when you get here.”
After hanging up, Michael Lowell smiled bitterly. It was because he had just witnessed the sight of one more winemaker giving up on his dream and choosing reality.
---
Two days after the winter rain stopped, I drove down a red dirt road. Outside the window, the rain clouds had disappeared, and sunlight was quietly pouring over the vineyards on the northern hills of Napa Valley.
Red soil mixed with iron, a gentle slope with good drainage, and a south-facing hillside. From the terrain alone, I could guess what kind of wine this land would produce.
At the end of the road, an old sign swayed in the wind.
IRONWOOD CELLARS.
Beneath the peeling black paint, the traces of time were exposed as they were. When I parked the truck in front of the warehouse, the door opened and a large middle-aged man appeared. Hair threaded with silver, the backs of his hands cracked, deep wrinkles...
It was David Hoffman.
“Brian... right? I thought your father would come.”
Disappointment was mixed into his voice. I smiled and held out my hand.
“I wanted to see it for myself. I’m the one making the wine, after all.”
His gaze briefly swept over my hand. He snorted as he shook it.
“Really? You make wine?”
His expression already suggested that he didn’t think much of Redwood’s wine, but hearing that I was the one who made it seemed to make it even harder for him to believe.
“Yes.”
“... Interesting. Well, it’s none of my business. Come this way.”
I immediately followed him toward the vineyard behind the warehouse. The winter vineyard had shed all its leaves, but its roots and trunks still held vitality. When I bent down and picked up a handful of soil, David stopped.
“You know how to read soil?”
He asked, raising an eyebrow. The soil in my hand was red and firm, and the faint scent of iron at the tip of my nose told me it was rich in minerals.
I brushed off the dirt and said,
“I just took a look.”
“Hmph. Young people...”
“Could I also take a look at the aging room for a moment?”
“Go ahead.”
We stopped by the winery’s aging room and then entered the old office, where the smell of the warehouse mixed with the scent of aged wine barrels. He placed a finger on a map spread out across a worn table.
“The eighteen acres to the south here are hillside. The drainage is perfect. The twelve acres above that are clay layers, better for Merlot than Cabernet. With this location... I should get at least four million dollars.”
I nodded calmly.
“The conditions are good. But there’s a lot that needs repairs.”
“What?”
“On the way here, I saw that part of the drainage ditch has collapsed, and the drip irrigation lines are old. The insulation in the aging room is weak too, so in summer the interior temperature probably exceeds twenty-five degrees.”
He furrowed his brow. He seemed puzzled as to how I had noticed all of that from such a brief look.
I took a notebook from my bag and skimmed through the notes I had written down.
“Thirty acres of vineyard... With an average yield of three and a half tons per acre, it should produce close to a hundred tons a year, but as far as I know, the production volume of this winery’s wine is only about a third of that. Is it because the bottling line is old and inefficient? Or has the production volume itself fallen?”
“More than half was sold to other wineries as raw grapes.”
For a winemaker, those were humiliating words. It meant he had sold the grapes to other wineries for the stable finances of the farm rather than making wine himself.
“I see.”
“Still, I won’t go below four million.”
His voice sank low.
“The price itself isn’t unreasonable, but if I acquire it, it’ll take too much money. There are more than a few places that need work.”
“...... If you’re only trying to lower the price like that...”
“Three point six million dollars, and I’ll sign right away.”
He stared fixedly at my face.
“That’s too low.”
“Then think it over and contact me tomorrow. I don’t wait long.”
I closed my notebook and rose from my seat. His expression wavered subtly. His eyes were unsure whether this was a probe or my genuine intention.
“Wait.”
He stood up.
“You’re really thinking of buying it?”
“I’m serious. I’ll prepare the contract soon. Three point six million dollars.”
A short silence passed, and his shoulders slowly lowered.
“Fine. Three point six million. Let’s do that.”
“Good. Tomorrow, I’ll come back with a lawyer and a contract stating three point six million dollars.”
At that moment, his eyes widened slightly.
“Tomorrow? That’s fast.”
He nodded and pretended to be composed, but his fingertips were trembling faintly. Relief and joy were mixed together in his eyes. Even without him saying it, I could tell how badly he had wanted to sell this farm.
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I left his office, I lifted a handful of soil and let it scatter over my palm. With soil this good, there would be no need to completely overhaul the vineyard on a massive scale like Silver Oak.
Three point six million dollars was expensive, but I could manage half in cash and half with a loan. An investment of this scale was well worth making. Now Redwood had become a winery with sixty acres of vineyard stretching from north of Silver Oak to south of Ironwood.
I was driving home when my phone rang at just the right time. It was Jacob. When I answered, I heard his voice, flushed with excitement.
“Brian! Listen, would it be okay if I changed the brewing ratio a little?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“You know the method you told me about, the Reflux Ratio? I tried lowering the reflux ratio a little from the existing five-to-one to around four-to-one.”
“You added a bit more grain aroma?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure what people would like. But when I did it at about four-to-one, everyone loved it. So, what I’m saying is...”
“You want to go with four-to-one?”
“Yeah. Would that be okay?”
Jacob’s voice sounded slightly worried. He was probably concerned that I might be upset if he adjusted the ratio I had taught him on his own.
“Of course it’s okay! People like it, don’t they?”
“Hahaha! Right? Everyone said to let them know when it’s officially released because they’ll definitely buy it. I... I want to release it officially as soon as possible!”
Jacob’s voice was filled with hope.