David Hoffman, waiting at Ironwood Cellars for the appointed time, stared blankly out at the vineyard.
‘I made it.’
At first, he had merely scoffed, but strangely, the words of his young Asian friend lingered in his ears. Had he heard that the boy was currently a sophomore at UC Davis?
‘Ridiculous... A mere college sophomore taking Double Gold? Ha! It would be impossible even if Mondavi were reincarnated.’
But he gradually began to think that the story might actually be true. The rumors filtering through the workers said that the one holed up in the aging cellar was not the father, but the son.
Truthfully, who made the wine was not important to him. It had happened at someone else’s winery, and he intended to wash his hands of wine now that he was selling the farm. So what did it matter if it was made by a twenty-year-old or a ten-year-old?
But the funny thing was, despite knowing that, it continued to nag at him. Perhaps it was the sense of inferiority that came from witnessing overwhelming talent.
Perhaps that was why, even though he would soon hold $3.6 million in his hands, he could not feel much thrill at becoming a rich man, and simply waited in a daze for his guests to arrive.
---
My father, I, and a lawyer who had come to help with the contract arrived at the old building of Ironwood Cellars. On the table were the contract and pens, and beside them, instead of coffee, three cups of water had been placed.
David Hoffman looked at us with a strangely tense expression, and the lawyer adjusted his glasses and spread out the documents.
“Let me briefly confirm the main clauses of the contract. First, the subject of the transaction is the Ironwood Cellars vineyard and all accompanying buildings, totaling thirty acres. Second, the purchase price is USD 3,600,000. Third, the warranty period for defects in the land and facilities is six months. Fourth, the current grape cultivation license and wine production permit shall be transferred to the name of Redwood Winery. Finally, this contract shall take effect after approval by the Napa Valley Agricultural Board.”
Silence hung for a moment. The lawyers exchanged contracts, confirmed the signatures, and on the final page, my father lifted the pen and signed. The scratch of the nib echoed through the office.
“All done.”
After the contract was concluded, my father, David Hoffman, and the lawyers shook hands. As all the procedures ended and we were about to leave, David caught me and asked.
“I have a favor to ask. Can you do it?”
“...Yes.”
“Will you come with me to the aging cellar? Just the two of us.”
I exchanged glances with my father, told him to wait in the car with the lawyer, and then followed David.
I had been to the aging cellar once before, but now the wine remained in unsold barrels. Since the wine was unsold, the winery had been valued as a whole, but David drew a little wine from one of the barrels and poured it into a glass.
“Would you mind tasting this?”
“Sure.”
The glass he offered had a problem detectable from the aroma alone. There were dense aromas of plum and blackcurrant, but behind them lurked faint notes of vinegar and a musty, wet-leather scent.
“Acetic acid has risen. It seems some acetic acid fermentation has occurred.”
“Acetic acid fermentation?”
“I believe there was secondary air exposure after fermentation. Either the top of the oak barrel failed to seal completely during aging, or temperature fluctuations caused slight oxidation.”
He hung his head low. He had known there was a problem, but had not known exactly where—yet this young man had identified the approximate issue just by smelling it.
How could this be?
I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip. The moment it touched the tip of my tongue, I could tell the wine’s balance was broken; the sweetness hit first, and the trailing acidity was blunt. I tilted the wineglass slightly and spoke.
“Look. The sugar is good, but the acid is dull. It means the grapes had too much water. You probably didn’t stop irrigation even right before harvest, did you?”
David’s eyes widened.
“How did you...?”
“Two weeks before harvest, you need to check the stem water potential (SWP) and make the vines ‘thirsty.’ That way, the berries shrink and the flavors concentrate. But here, the flesh is watery. It means there was too much water inside the berries. In other words, you overwatered them.”
David bit his lip. He had judged the irrigation schedule solely by the weather. When it was dry, he gave more; when it was hot, he gave double.
“How could...”
“UC Davis or the Agricultural Extension Office gave seminars on this, didn’t they? Last year? The year before last?”
“I think it was probably the year before last. I think there was an educational program with that kind of content.”
“The year before last would be 2003?”
The academic conclusion that using a pressure chamber to measure stem water potential was the most accurate way to determine irrigation timing had been established in 2002.
“That’s right. But...”
“You must have thought it was pointless. Did you believe that terroir determines everything in wine?”
“You read me like a book.”
“I’m a farmer. A farmer doesn’t believe he must simply accept his fate according to the heavens. He must do his utmost and struggle desperately to survive by any means necessary. From that perspective, David, you blindly believed in conventional methods and ignored the latest research.”
David had been biting his lip with a pained expression, but soon he looked at me with calm eyes and asked.
“Did I really...? If I were to study grape cultivation professionally even now, like you, do you think I could succeed?”
“Of course. Knowledge is fair to everyone.”
He pondered deeply for a while, then a faint smile formed at the corners of his mouth.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I gave him a slight bow and then went to my father, who was waiting.
“What did he want to show you?”
When my father, who had been waiting in the car, asked, I shrugged.
“It was nothing. Let’s go.”
“Okay.”
I quietly watched the sign for Ironwood Cellars—which would soon become Redwood Farm—grow smaller and smaller.
Meanwhile, David Hoffman, watching the car carrying the Asian father and son gradually drive away, made a phone call. The recipient was Michael Lowell.
“That was fast. Did the farm already sell? Are you coming to New York now?”
David Hoffman’s hands trembled slightly. He steadied his shaking voice with effort.
“I’m not going to New York. I’m sorry.”
“Huh? Why? Is something wrong? Didn’t the farm sell?”
“No. The farm sold. For 3.6 million dollars.”
“Great sale! But why?”
“I... I’m going to study.”
“Study?”
“Yeah. I’ve come to want to study wine.”
“You mean go back to college?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know yet... But I want to try again properly. I have money now, so I want to use it to become a vineyard owner again. You must think I’m foolish, saying this right after selling the farm...”
But Michael’s voice over the receiver was firm.
“No, David. I don’t think you’re foolish. I think you’re brave.”
“...You think so?”
“Yeah, I mean it. You don’t have to come to New York. Rather, I’m looking forward to it?”
“Looking forward to it?”
“Of course. I’m talking about the day I come to cover your wine. A vineyard owner who once failed and despaired overcoming himself and rising again. It’ll be a brilliant comeback story. If you do that and win Double Gold... no, Wine of the Year, just imagining it makes my heart swell.”
David wiped away tears he hadn’t realized were falling and grinned.
“Thank you, for understanding... I’ll call again.”
“Yeah. I’ll be rooting for you.”
Ending the call, David Hoffman looked around the farm one last time—now that it had passed into another’s hands—and smiled brightly. Then he quickly went to the warehouse to pack his belongings.
For the first time in a long while, he felt heat kindling in his chest.
---
At winter’s end, when the air of northern Sacramento was still cold, the inside of Jacob’s distillery was strangely warm. The aroma of freshly distilled vodka from the stainless-steel tanks drifted through the air, and its unique grain scent faintly brushed against my nose.
“It’s finally the first shipment.”
Jacob wiped the alcohol from his hands and lifted a new white bottle. The transparent liquid shone clearly inside the glass, reflecting the sunlight, and on the label was written a single word in elegant golden letters.
The One.
Below, in smaller letters, it read: Premium Rice Vodka, Distilled from California Grain.
“‘Hana’ in Korean, and ‘One’ in English. It’s a good name. How did you think to use Korean?”
“Because it’s Korean-style liquor. I wanted to preserve the concept as much as possible.”
“Why did you choose the name Hana?”
“It has many meanings. Beginning, harmony, and the only one.”
“Have you been studying Korean?”
Jacob smiled shyly and said.
“No, actually I went to the library, looked at a Korean dictionary, and found something that sounded plausible.”
“That’s impressive enough.”
“It’s nothing special. This is my first liquor, and the only liquor I want to make.”
His fingertips trembled slightly. All the preparation, experimentation, surveys, and repeated attempts up until now were contained within this bottle today.
“Let’s go.”
We packed up the liquor and headed to the cocktail bar The Copper Glass in downtown Sacramento. The very place where Jacob had first asked for a tasting. Rachel, the owner, was waiting after receiving advance notice.
Several glasses were already set on the bar counter.
“So, it’s finally finished?”
“Yes, this time it’s the official product.”
She took the bottle and examined the label.
“‘The One’... is this the name?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nice. Easy to remember, too.”
Rachel poured the vodka and swirled the glass. Light reflected off the glass walls, creating white circles. She smelled it and gently closed her eyes.
“Mmm—it’s exactly that same taste from before. Much smoother than conventional vodka, with a savory grain aroma lingering at the finish. This isn’t just for cocktails; it can be enjoyed straight. Actually, the vodka market is already completely dominated by existing brands, so there’s no real reason to replace it. But this one... I think I can create various expressions with it.”
“I hope people react well.”
Until now, it had been a period of gathering opinions from bar owners, but today was an occasion to evaluate the liquor released to the general public. It would have been stranger if he weren’t nervous.
Gradually, people gathered in the shop and tasted the liquor Jacob made.
“Hmm? What kind of liquor is this?”
“It feels somewhat similar to Japanese liquor?”
At first, people cocked their heads in bewilderment, but gradually, as they paired it with food, they began to grow accustomed to The One.
“The aroma subtly builds. I like it?”
“Clean. Sometimes distilled spirits have an excessively strong aroma, you know? This one doesn’t. It’s good?”
“Damn, this stuff just keeps going down.”
People began accepting something new, and Jacob’s frozen expression gradually relaxed.
“The reaction isn’t bad.”
I reached up and patted Jacob’s shoulder, and he rubbed his nose, suppressing his excitement. He had been thinking that breaking even in the first year would be fortunate enough, so it was only natural that his heart trembled now that the reaction wasn’t bad.
A few days later, I received a call from Jacob early in the morning.
“Brian! Come to the distillery today!”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“You told me to send samples to distributors, right? But today a distributor said they’re coming to meet me!”
“Really? That’s great.”
Unlike wineries, distilleries selling spirits had to select a distributor due to the Three-Tier System connecting producers, middlemen, and consumers.
But that wasn’t the surprising part.
“That’s not it... I got contacted by two places!”
“Huh?”
“Two distributors contacted me saying they want to distribute our The One!”
Only then did I realize why Jacob was so excited.
“I need your help. I don’t know which one to choose.”
“Got it. I’ll be there.”
Two distributors were eyeing Jacob’s liquor. It was a good sign right from the start.