Chapter 147: Astra Vale (1)
TL: Hanguk
It was exactly four weeks to the day since bottling. Warren picked up a bottle of wine that had been carefully stored in the aging cellar and stepped out of the winery.
"You could just have it inside..."
I trailed after Warren with an annoyed look on my face. Even though he knew I was grumbling behind him, Warren just kept walking, grinning to himself, pleased about who knows what.
"Do you know why I set my heart on making wine in the first place, what it was that made me decide?"
"What was it?"
"The vineyards were just magnificent."
"......"
"I studied in Naples and Florence, in Italy, to research Machiavelli (Niccolò Machiavelli). And there I was deeply moved by the way the Italians enjoyed wine with every meal, every day. But the moment I truly decided I had to make wine was when I visited L'Albergaccio, the farm where Machiavelli wrote The Prince."
"It must have made quite an impression, then?"
"It did. At sunset the Tuscan sun was staining the earth gold, and the gently curving hills that rolled on without end were covered in Sangiovese vineyards as far as the eye could see. It was so beautiful it was almost staggering."
I nodded. Running a vineyard came with no shortage of hardships, but the scenery, at least, was a genuine pleasure to the eye, something even I had to admit.
Objectively speaking, the most beautiful was probably Armando's Laguna Creek farm, which looked out over the Russian River in a single sweep, but Redwood Farm, stretching all the way from the hills down to the flatlands of Silveroak, was no less lovely.
"I can imagine."
"When I think back on studying The Prince there, I remember drinking wine on that farm just as Machiavelli would have. Back then there wasn't even a cork stopper. It came in a round, bulging bottle wrapped in straw, a fiasco. I'd be eating hard, stale bread, a slice of salt-cured ham, and pasta drenched in olive oil, and when I drank the sour, rough liquid the owner set out, the dry bread would slide down smooth, and the greasy richness of the ham would be rinsed away by the acidity."
'There goes the old man reminiscing again...', I thought, nodding along in silence. I didn't want to ruin his sentimental mood and spoil the moment for no reason.
Still, listening to him, I did find myself growing curious.
"That sounds almost medieval, doesn't it?"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... a youngster who doesn't know a thing..."
"Oh, come on..."
"Listen carefully. That was more than a decade after the Second World War ended. And it was the Tuscan countryside, so you can't go thinking the conditions were anything like they are now."
"I see."
"Back then Tuscany still had a feudal sharecropping (Mezzadria) system in place, if you can believe it. On top of that, Italy had lost the war, so it was poor, and places like Naples and the country villages had terrible sanitation too. Supplies were scarce, so wine wasn't some luxury indulgence. It was practically the safest drinking water you could get, a stand-in for water that was otherwise contaminated."
"Ah..."
"That's exactly why it was such a shock. Back in America, wine was something you drank to put on airs at a restaurant, but over there in Italy, it was life itself. Everything was scarce and barren, and yet it was so beautiful."
"So that's why you started making wine."
"That's right. It made me want to work the land myself. But to finally own a farm like that and then drink my wine in some place the sun doesn't even reach... that would defeat the whole point of running a farm and a winery."
It had been a long-winded speech, but the real reason he'd trekked all the way up the farm's hill instead of just tasting the wine down in the aging cellar was simply that a glass only truly hits the spot halfway up a mountain. It was really no different from the old-timers who insist on a cup of makgeolli after climbing a mountain, so all I could do was sigh and go along with it.
At a decent spot on the hill, which was hardly grand enough to be called a mountain, Warren spread out a place to sit, plopped down, and without a word pulled a corkscrew from his pocket. He cut away the capsule over the neck of the bottle and drove the screw into the cork. At the soft pop of the cork coming free, Warren's eyes lit up.
"Hand me a glass."
He poured the wine into the glass I'd carried up while trailing behind him. As the deep ruby liquid ran down the clear glass, a rich aroma was already spreading out.
"Good."
"Pour me some too."
"Ah, right."
About to take the first sip himself, he noticed a second glass being held out and tilted the bottle with a grin. Then he wedged the wine between his legs and gave the glass a single swirl. The legs (the streams of wine that, once it is poured into the glass and given a single swirl, climb up the inner wall and then slowly trickle back down) running down the side were well-defined, not syrupy but not thin either. That moderate viscosity meant the alcohol content wasn't too high.
With a faint smile, he gave a slight nod and took a sip. A very small one. Rather than setting it on the tip of his tongue, rolling it to the middle, and letting it slide down his throat, he pressed it against the roof of his mouth for a moment and then breathed out.
Watching his expression, I didn't say a word.
"This is insane."
There was a faint tremor in Warren's voice.
"Can a combination like this really come together this cleanly? Normally, at this ratio, one of them is bound to stand out. The Franc suddenly spikes up and pokes through, or the Merlot goes soft and dissolves into mush, or the Petit Verdot cuts a hard line through it all."
He raised the glass, letting the farm's scenery fill it completely, and went on.
"So this is the kind of result the blending gives. The marriage is a success, more than I expected..."
Pleased with the outcome, I too finally let myself taste the wine at ease. It had a solid, weighty structure, and yet the balanced acidity and the powerful aroma rising up gave it a commanding presence.
Was this what the pinnacle of a Cabernet-based blend was supposed to feel like?
"Not bad."
My assessment left him dumbfounded.
"Just... 'not bad'? Unbelievable."
"Ha ha, coming from me, that's my way of saying I'm perfectly satisfied. I really do think it turned out this well because you helped me. I'm plenty grateful."
"Maybe the reason you were able to reach this level is precisely that you never let yourself be satisfied and kept looking higher. There's no need to feel bad about it. I'm the same way myself. And stop sitting there so stiffly, why not sit like me?"
When I flopped down beside him, he pointed at the vineyard straight ahead.
"Isn't it wonderful, seeing it like this? When I look at the vineyard soaking up all that sunlight, I feel like even my soul is being washed clean."
"...It's nice, I guess."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... a master of the craft, but bone-dry when it comes to feeling."
"Anyone watching would think you were about to start painting up here."
"I could, at that. I might even break into song, you know?"
"Please, save that for when I'm not around."
"Ha ha ha! Don't worry. I keep that for when I'm alone too. Anyway, what did you decide to call this one?"
He picked up the wine he'd tucked between his legs, poured himself a glass, then wedged it snugly back into place. It looked like a declaration of his intent to drink the whole thing himself.
"Astra Vale. The name you recommended."
At my words he grinned and drank. Then, gazing down into the glass, he spoke.
"Now that this wine has a name, doesn't it fit perfectly? It really is intense, like a star dropped straight onto your tongue. When are you thinking of releasing it?"
"It's been a while since I submitted the label application, so it should come through around next week. I'm planning to release it before November. After that I'll probably be swamped with Cerasia..."
Warren shook his head at Redwood's explosive output.
"It's impressive enough that you're pulling grapes from all over and cranking out wine, and every last one of them gets good reviews... even I, in my prime, would have struggled with something like this."
"What are you talking about? You, the man who made Stag's Leap?"
"These days that kind of volume is nothing in itself, but when you think about Redwood's scale, it's ridiculous. By rights, just working through all the grapes from your own vineyard should already be a strain. And since most places can't even manage that much, they draw in tourists and run tours and the like..."
"Oh, I'd like to bring a bottle of this one to Mr. Robert too. Have you heard the news?"
At the mention of Robert Mondavi, Warren's face stiffened slightly. He gazed out over the farm, drinking his wine, and then spoke.
"As it happens, I'd been thinking the same thing. But I'm not sure the moment will be right for it. Let's wait and see."
The cult wine we were about to release carried a great deal of meaning for Redwood, in more ways than one. It was a wine that laid bare not only Redwood's identity but also the direction we were striving toward and every ounce of strength we had. And as the first cult wine to come out since Warren Winiarski had come aboard, it had everyone watching.
If it carried Robert Mondavi's endorsement, it would inspire even greater confidence among wine lovers.
Of course, it wouldn't matter much even if we didn't get it. Nice to have, and no great loss without it...
"But are you seriously going to drink that whole thing by yourself?"
"If you wanted some, you should've brought your own."
"......"
Warren pulled a crumpled, wrapped-up bit of cheese from his pocket and set about enjoying his wine alone, taking in the beautiful view.
At first, Sienna hadn't understood why her father had told her to change the brand name for their new release. Over the long stretch of preparation she'd been sure it had improved more than enough, and the result was far from bad. No, not just far from bad, she'd had absolutely no doubt that it would become Harrington Winery's new flagship line.
She only fully grasped what her father had meant when she heard that Redwood was putting out a new wine, and a Pinot Noir at that.
"Is that it?"
The Rootstock, a society for the heirs of wineries. Named for the rootstock, the part that forms a grapevine's very roots, the group carried a pride in being the foundation and roots of the wine industry, while at the same time betraying a streak of exclusivity.
Its members included not only Sienna but also Matthew of Castello Winery and Emily Mondavi of the Robert Mondavi family.
"Yeah, word is the official release is two days from now."
Matthew brought out two bottles of wine. Looking at the modern-styled name set against a rich ivory background, Sienna instinctively sensed that this was the very thing that had changed her father's mind.
"Why do they keep messing with Pinot Noir over there? God, it's obnoxious..."
"Right? They should just stick to their Cabernet."
"They already make it well enough, though."
"......"
Each of them tossed in a remark as they waited for the wine to be opened. Matthew uncorked it with practiced ease and poured roughly equal amounts into a dozen or so glasses.
After everyone had taken a glass and tasted the nose and the flavor, they all fell silent for a moment, stealing glances at one another, unable to speak. They were especially watching the reactions of the heirs from the Sonoma-side wineries, chief among them Sienna herself.
But Sienna set her glass down as if it were nothing and said,
"It's good. Seems they've got just enough skill to have the gall to make a wine out of a grape that isn't even theirs."
The moment the words left her mouth, everyone chimed in.
"It's not outstanding or anything... but it's got exactly that Russian River Valley fruit character to it, hasn't it?"
"Honestly, I was a little surprised. Made me wonder if Redwood's technique is really this good... Seems Warren Winiarski didn't join them for nothing after all, right?"
"Isn't it only this good because Warren had a hand in it?"
"How long's it even been since he joined? You make wine yourself and you don't know something that basic?"
While the others were still chattering, Sienna rose from her seat.
"I'm going to head out first, I've got something to take care of."
Without waiting for anyone's reply, Sienna swept off, and a few of the others hurried after her, leaving the gathering. They were all heirs from the Sonoma-side wineries. The ones who stayed behind wore rueful expressions, but among them only Emily spoke, her face hard.
"You heard Redwood acquired yet another new farm not long ago? If we don't all step it up, we might be the next ones on the block. I've been through it myself, so I get to say this, don't I?"
At these words from Emily, of the Mondavi family that had once sold off its winery over a management blunder, the others' faces stiffened.
They had thought of it as nothing more than the arrival of some small winery, but its weight was making itself felt, more and more.
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