It was early March, after a spring rain. The fog that had rolled in along the river overnight blanketed the vast vineyard in white, and the grapevines, their bare branches exposed, lay submerged within it. This spectacular place was none other than the Russian River Valley.
Two vehicles came to a stop side by side where the iron trellises wound on and on. One was a sedan, the other an old pickup truck. Dad and I got out of the pickup that had followed behind, while Mr. Christopher stepped out of the sedan up ahead.
He pointed toward the entrance to the farm and said,
“This is Grendel Hill Vineyard. It’s one of the highest-quality Independent Vineyards in the Russian River Valley—meaning they don’t make wine themselves, but sell the grapes they harvest to various wineries.”
One might wonder why they produced such fine grapes and didn’t make wine with them, but there were several reasons for that.
First, wine production was not agriculture but a manufacturing and branding industry, an extremely dangerous and challenging field for someone who had specialized solely in farming to touch. From all sorts of facility investments ranging from hundreds of thousands to over a million dollars, to the winemaker who formed the core of wine production, the other staff, and even building a brand...
It was by no means an easy undertaking.
Second was the slow cash flow. If you sold grapes, you could turn them into cash immediately after harvest, but if you made wine yourself, the process from fermentation to aging—one or two years—then bottling, marketing, and sales took at least two to five years. There couldn’t be many farms with the financial strength to endure that.
Third was the wine itself. To begin with, making wine was never easy, and even a place that made good wine had to produce a certain level of quality every year. One wrong move, and it was common to ruin an entire year’s crop.
Because of that, farms that could earn stable income every year simply by selling grapes didn’t bother attempting the challenge of becoming a winery, and instead operated their vineyards exclusively as suppliers like this.
“What’s the owner’s name?”
“Elias Grendel. They say he’s so exacting he won’t even sell a vine he hasn’t personally tended. Well, that’s just talk—apparently he’s old now, so he’s handed everything over to his children.”
“Still, he must be quite particular about grapes.”
“At one time, people called him a man obsessed with Pinot Noir. And even now, Grendel Hill’s grapes are recognized as truly top-tier. They carry the scent of Russian River exactly as it is.”
Just then, the door of an old warehouse clattered open, and a man appeared. His hair was silver-white, his body thin. In his hand were leather gloves etched with the marks of time.
With the sleeves of his blue shirt rolled up, he looked at us with a weighty gaze.
“You’re... the guests from Redwood?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Come in.”
His speech was curt, and his eyes were sharp. He led us into the warehouse. Empty oak barrels lined the walls, and the scent of old wood mingled with the smell of damp earth in the air.
A bottle of wine was already set on the table, and Dad and I were so familiar with it that we looked at each other in surprise.
Elias picked up the bottle and poured the wine as he spoke.
“This is that famous Sylphid, is it? I got it through this fellow here. Impressive stuff. Sit.”
Dad and I sat across from him, while Christopher perched half on the windowsill beside the table.
“Yes. It’s a Pinot Noir made with grapes from Russian River.”
When Dad answered, Elias inhaled the aroma of Sylphid and asked,
“Which vineyard?”
“Hart Farm.”
“Ah! Stephen Hart, that fellow?”
“That’s right.”
“His grapes are quite decent.”
He nodded, then threw out an unexpected question.
“His place is close to the river, so it gets a lot more fog than most. How did you get this kind of structure?”
Dad, unable to answer for a moment, turned to look at me. When the person who was supposed to answer suddenly shifted his gaze to me, Elias and Christopher’s eyes followed.
“Hmm... I handled the destemming a bit differently.”
Elias seemed slightly surprised that a young man had answered, but soon leaned forward and asked,
“Differently? How?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“... You fermented it with some of the stems included, didn’t you?”
“......”
“It’s fine. I’m not going to make wine. I asked purely out of curiosity. The products from Hart’s farm always put forward an intense fruit aroma, but this one was a little different. That’s why it surprised me. I wondered quite a bit how something like this came out of a single vineyard, without even being blended. Now I understand where these herbal and floral notes came from.”
“I see.”
He looked at Dad and smiled faintly.
“You have an excellent son.”
“Haha... thank you.”
He set down his glass, looked me in the eyes, and said,
“Our farm is different from Hart’s. People who don’t know any better simply say the Russian River Valley is the best Pinot Noir region, but even within it, the characteristics vary. You know that, don’t you?”
“Hart Farm, as you said, has a low average temperature and a large diurnal range, but because the fog lingers for a long time, the grapes ripen slowly. Naturally, the harvest is late, and the grapes have high acidity and low sugar, with skins that are thin even for Pinot Noir. But your vineyard is a little farther inland, so it would get less fog than Hart Farm. Then of course it would receive more sunlight, which means higher sugar and less acidity than Hart Farm’s Pinot Noir.”
“Hehehe... exactly. Then what do you plan to do with them if you take them? Blend them?”
“The reason Sylphid was made as a single vineyard was because the circumstances turned out that way. If you provide us grapes, then naturally...”
“No.”
“Pardon?”
He cut me off before even hearing me out, and I was left flustered. His expression was firm, without the slightest room for compromise.
“No. If that’s what you intend to do, I can’t give you my grapes.”
Dad and I weren’t the only ones taken aback. Christopher was startled as well, lifting himself off the windowsill and raising his voice toward Elias.
“Mr. Elias! That’s not what you said! You promised we’d make a deal!”
“That was before I drank this.”
As if it were obvious, he lifted the wine he had been drinking.
“What’s wrong with Sylphid?”
“You made it as a single vineyard. From next year onward, you’ll be removing the single-vineyard designation, and that means the brand’s identity will be ruined.”
“Why are you worrying about that, sir?”
In truth, Christopher had also been slightly worried about this very point, but it was precisely why he had expectations as well. He wondered what Sylphid blended from two vineyards would feel like.
But the uncompromising vineyard owner waved his hand firmly.
“I’m not worrying. I’m saying what can’t be done, can’t be done! Wine is made by humans and heaven together. The air that land exhales, the path of the rain, the depth of the soil—all of it goes into the bottle. That’s why a single vineyard has meaning. If you’re going to mix things just to sell a product, make another brand from the start.”
Seeing a grape grower object to a winery’s policy and declare that he wouldn’t sell his grapes was both bewildering and refreshing.
“When I drank Sylphid, I thought a great deal while imagining Hart’s grapes. To me, if you mix Hart Farm’s grapes with mine, then Sylphid is no longer Sylphid. And you want me to take part in that? Are you out of your mind?”
Christopher blinked as he listened, then perhaps recalling his identity as a wine critic rather than a wine distributor, quietly sat down on a small stool.
To be honest, Elias’s attitude was something I found both worthy of respect and new. Until now, wine had been an academic subject of study to me, and now it was the result of my farming, something made for greater profit—not something I made because I loved wine itself.
But Elias’s attitude toward wine made me think differently somehow.
“Mr. Elias?”
“That’s enough. If you’re going to try persuading me to allow blending, there’s no need. You’re the winemaker, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I respect winemakers, and I admire them as well. They create things from my grapes that I could not create myself. But a winemaker must take responsibility for what he makes.”
I wondered whether he really had to go this far, but I decided to accept it.
“All right.”
“Hm?”
“I said all right. With the grapes from Hart Farm, I’ll keep the single-vineyard identity intact and make Sylphid.”
At that, Elias’s eyes widened, and a thin smile formed at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes. It’s not impossible. I can just make it that way.”
There was no reason it couldn’t be done. Even now, large wineries sometimes sold four to six single-vineyard Pinot Noirs in a year. It wouldn’t be easy for a small winery like Redwood, but as long as we paid careful attention, it was possible.
“Then what will you call it?”
Seeing the way his eyes sparkled as he asked, it was clear he had intended to steer things this way from the beginning.
“Mr. Elias, was it because you were envious of Stephen Hart?”
Christopher asked in disbelief, and Elias raised both arms as he grumbled.
“Envious? What’s there to be envious about? Do you think only one or two wineries have made masterpieces with my vineyard’s grapes? I was just a little... curious. If Hart’s grapes could produce this flavor, then what flavor would my grapes produce...”
There had been a reason he wanted it to be a single vineyard.
“I’ll decide on the name after tasting it.”
“Then you’ll pick the grapes at the end of this year, and we won’t know until the end of next year?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I suppose I can’t die before then.”
At the regretful way he said it, Dad and I burst into laughter.
“Hahaha, I suppose not. If you pass away before tasting a single-vineyard Pinot Noir made with Grendel Hill grapes, you won’t be able to close your eyes.”
“In that case, I’d better exercise diligently and live healthily. Bring the contract.”
After saying that, Elias smiled at Dad and said,
“Ah, the block you can take is about fifty acres. How much do you plan to contract?”
“All of it.”
The harvest from a fifty-acre vineyard would be about one hundred to one hundred forty tons. Considering that we received one hundred tons of cherries from Brantwood every year to make Seracia, it was an enormous amount. But I had already discussed it with Dad to some extent before coming, so there was no need to hesitate.
I had told Christopher as well, and the winery facilities attached to Redwood could now accept that much volume. Of course, that was possible because we had renovated the old winery facilities of Ironwood Cellars, which we had newly acquired.
“Heh heh, you made the right decision. Not to boast, but if you don’t secure our farm’s grapes when they come out, you won’t be able to get them.”
With a proud smile, he boldly signed the prepared contract.
Christopher smiled and cut in as well.
“You made a good choice. Everyone currently names Redwood Winery as the hottest winery in Napa. In fact, this young man has been selected for the young winemaker invitation session, New Blood of Napa, at the Judgment of Paris thirtieth anniversary re-tasting two months from now.”
“Oh, is that true?”
He let out a satisfied laugh.
“Hahaha! That’s how it should be. He has to be qualified for me to give him my grapes.”
“The unfortunate thing is that most of the wines Redwood released last year are already sold out, so there won’t be many wines to present on the day of the event. That’s what pains me.”
“Well, well... it seems the one who benefits the most is you, doesn’t it?”
Elias pointed at Christopher and laughed teasingly. In truth, he said it because, compared to the person who farmed all year and the winery that made and aged wine with its technical skill, Christopher might very well be the one who made the most money.
“That’s what business is.”
“Good grief... This is why I don’t like sending daughters to fellows who do business. Always looking for one big score.”
“One big score? I’ve staked my life on wine.”
“At least your wine criticism suits my palate perfectly, so I like it, but we’ll see this time whether it has good business sense.”
“You won’t regret it.”
At Christopher’s confidence, Elias wore a strange smile, then suddenly turned to Dad and me with a serious expression.
“As a farmer, I live with a few points of pride, and the greatest among them is Pinot Noir. But since there are things doing better than my Pinot Noir, wouldn’t I be a little upset? Let me ask one favor. With a single-vineyard Pinot Noir from my farm, I don’t care about anything else—just beat one wine, the one I name.”
“What wine do you mean?”
“Harrington Noctis Ridge Pinot Noir.”
A winery I knew well had suddenly come up in an unexpected situation.
“Harrington? Is there a reason...?”
“Don’t ask the reason. Can you do it?”
Seeing the look in his eyes, as if there was some story behind it, I nodded.
“Yes... I’m not the type who likes losing, either.”
“That makes you like me.”