Chapter 82: Additional Expansion (3)
TL: Hanguk
The second-floor gallery hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
Beneath golden chandeliers, silver wine buckets and crystal glasses stretched in long rows. The Met Gala Wine Invitational 2005, the eve event of the Met Gala. At this gathering, where New York's high society and cultural figures came together, wine was not merely alcohol but the language of status.
French Bordeaux and Burgundy bottles lined the walls like sculptures on display, and the small "American Wine Corner" set in front of them looked like an experimental piece tucked away in a corner.
Michael Lowell stood in that corner holding a glass. As a senior editor at Wine Enthusiast, he was one of the few journalists invited.
The bottle beside him bore a familiar name on its label. Echelon 2004, Redwood Winery, Napa Valley. The very wine he had reported on and written about himself.
"Still insisting on American wine, I see."
A familiar yet authoritative low voice reached him. He turned to find a man standing with a wine glass in hand. A black tuxedo with gleaming cufflinks. 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 was a man who owned Hollywood studios, record labels, fashion brands, and even luxury media outlets.
'A man who turned culture itself into a business.'
He was also the main sponsor of tonight's Wine Invitational.
"I read the latest issue. Your interest in Napa Valley wines seems considerable yet again. Going all the way to California to cover them in person."
"Ah, it's only what a journalist should do. Especially when it's a winery that's produced such standout results, my interest naturally grows."
"Oh?"
The lift of one corner of his mouth was unmistakably a sneer. As an American who nonetheless had a low opinion of American wines, this was nothing shocking to Michael.
"It's a winery that took home two Double Gold medals. Have you tried it, by any chance? If you were an owner-chef running a restaurant out west, the moment you saw the Echelon sitting here you'd be stunned and rushing to bring it back to your place."
"Of course I've tried it. For a wine aged only a year, it had decent balance, but beyond that, not really..."
"Haha, I see..."
"Wine, you see, I believe is a kind of blessing God gave to humanity."
He smiled and raised his glass.
"Just as people have different faces and different personalities, terroir varies infinitely, which is why every wine has its own unique taste and aroma. But American wine, how should I put it... it's the product of an artificial industry, isn't it? Whenever something looks like it's gaining popularity, money gets poured in to manufacture cheap thrills and call it a success. American cinema works the same way."
"That's a harsh review of your own line of work."
"I'm objective, you see. The moment I overestimate something just because I had a hand in it, I lose my objectivity, and my investments fail. The Echelon you recommended, it seemed a little different at first, but in the end, it was something I'd tasted somewhere before. A refined structure with deep aroma... but that's an engineered balance. Nothing more than a derivative of Château Margaux, which the heavens themselves blessed with environment."
"......"
"Still, I do recognize the technique. It's a quintessentially American wine. Americans who pioneered the harsh frontier of the West, mimicking the wine that France's nature itself produced. That, too, is why I love America. They never bow to adversity. Overcoming a deficient foundation is a matter of human effort."
"... You didn't read that part, then. That wine was made by a Korean immigrant to America."
The corner of Richard Spencer's mouth, which had been raised endlessly, slowly came down. Watching it, Michael felt a strange surge of satisfaction.
"What did you say?"
"It's a wine made by an Asian, and a Korean at that."
"... Surprising. Ah, right, Koreans... a country that developed at breakneck speed after the war. In a way, they resemble Americans, so it wouldn't be strange for them to produce a wine like this."
"......"
Watching him bestow plausibility upon his own words with bizarre logic, Michael felt the satisfying taste of victory melt away from him.
"Still, it'll be easy to remember. Asians have something Americans don't, tradition etched into their souls. How they'll fold that into their wine, that I can't say."
He flashed a grin, clapped Michael on the shoulder, and walked past. As Michael stared blankly at the back of this American who somehow harbored contempt for Americans, his phone rang. It was his friend David Hoffman, whom he'd met not long ago.
Wondering what was up, he answered the call, and his friend's strangely elated voice came through.
"Looks like this miserable grind is finally about to end."
"What's that supposed to mean, calling out of the blue like this?"
"I went to the year-end Napa Valley farm owners' meeting earlier, and you'll never guess, I ran into that Redwood farm owner you told me about."
"Huh? Really?"
"Heh heh heh... It was so ridiculous. After winning a Double Gold, his head was so far up in the clouds you couldn't see it. Like he thought he'd become a master himself. He was even chatting with Robert Mondavi."
"......"
The petty jealousy seeping through his friend's tone. But Michael couldn't bring himself to point out that it was a misguided thought. He knew just how broken his friend's spirit had become.
"So I casually let slip that I might put the farm up for sale, and his eyes changed right then and there. The way he showed his greed so openly, it was hilarious. Hahaha!"
"Are you actually planning to sell?"
David's voice came through low and flat, as if he were a different person.
"Yeah. I don't need this kind of land anymore. People who don't know their own palate won't even properly evaluate my wine. They just keep saying it's lacking. But what can you do? The terroir is what it is."
"David..."
"Forget it. But you want to hear something funny? Fifteen years ago, I bought this place for one million dollars. You know what it's worth now? Don't be shocked. Over three and a half million dollars. Heh heh heh heh... I just sat on the land, and my net worth is over three and a half million. Hahahaha!"
He was laughing like a madman, but Michael could feel the sadness in his friend's laughter as plainly as anything. The awareness of being a defeated man leaving in failure was woven through every note of that crazed laughter.
"I see. That's good. You'll be able to get a fair price."
"I'll ask for four million. Of course it'd be great if I could sell at that price, but even if I only get three and a half, I can live the rest of my life without worrying about money."
If even one of the countless wines he'd attempted had truly hit, he'd have made three and a half million easily.
"I'm jealous. You better treat me properly when you come to New York."
"Damn right. I'll take you somewhere amazing and make sure you have a blast."
"Sure, give me a call when you get here."
After hanging up, Michael Lowell wore a bitter smile. He had just witnessed another winemaker abandon his dream and choose reality.
Two days after the winter rain stopped, I drove down a red dirt road. Outside the window, the rain clouds had dispersed and sunlight was quietly pouring over the vineyards on the northern hillsides of Napa Valley.
Iron-rich red soil, gentle slopes with good drainage, and a south-facing aspect. The terrain alone was enough to guess what kind of wine this land would yield.
At the end of the road, a worn-out sign swayed in the wind.
IRONWOOD CELLARS.
Beneath the chipped black paint, the marks of years showed plainly. When I pulled the truck up in front of the warehouse, the door opened and a heavyset middle-aged man emerged. Hair streaked with silver, cracked knuckles, deep wrinkles...
It was David Hoffman.
"Brian... right? I thought your father was the one coming."
Disappointment colored his voice. I smiled and held out my hand.
"I wanted to see it for myself. I'm the one who makes the wine."
His eyes flicked briefly over my hand. He shook it with a small snort.
"Oh? You make the wine, you?"
He already wore an expression that didn't think much of Redwood wines, and now that I'd said I made them, he seemed even less convinced.
"Yes."
"... How peculiar. Well, none of my business. Come on."
I followed him straight to the vineyard behind the warehouse. The winter vines had shed all their leaves, but the roots and stems still carried life within them. As I crouched down and picked up a handful of soil, David stopped.
"You can read soil?"
He raised his eyebrows. The dirt in my hand was red and firm, and a faint scent of iron at the tip of my nose told me it was rich in minerals.
I dusted off my hand as I spoke.
"Just taking a look."
"Hmph, young people these days..."
"Could I take a quick look at the aging cellar too?"
"Sure."
We stopped by the winery's aging cellar before stepping into the old office, where the smell of the warehouse mingled with the aroma of aged wine barrels. He spread a map across the worn table and laid his finger on it.
"From here, eighteen acres to the south are hillside. Drainage is perfect. The twelve acres above are clay layer, which is better for Merlot than Cabernet. With this location... you'd have to pay at least four million dollars."
I nodded calmly.
"Good terms. But there's a lot that needs repair."
"What?"
"On the way in, I noticed parts of the drainage ditch have collapsed and the drip irrigation lines are old. The aging cellar's insulation is weak, so the interior temperature will exceed seventy-seven degrees in summer."
He furrowed his brow. He couldn't quite believe I'd picked up on all that with just a quick look.
I pulled a notepad from my bag and skimmed the notes I'd written down.
"Thirty acres of vineyard... average yield is three and a half tons per acre, so it should produce nearly a hundred tons annually. But from what I know, this winery's wine output is about a third of that. Is the bottling line so old its efficiency has dropped? Or has the yield itself gone down?"
"More than half I sold off as raw fruit to other wineries."
It was a humiliating confession for a winemaker. He was admitting that, rather than make wine himself, he'd sold the grapes to other wineries to keep the farm afloat.
"I see."
"Still, I won't go below four million."
His voice dropped low.
"The price itself isn't unreasonable, but taking it over will cost a fortune. There's not just one or two places that need work."
"...... If you're just looking to lowball me..."
"Three point six million, and we sign on the spot."
He stared straight at my face.
"That's too low."
"Then think it over by tomorrow and give me a call. I don't wait long."
I closed the notepad and rose from my seat. His expression wavered subtly. His eyes seemed to flicker between wondering whether I was bluffing or in earnest.
"Wait."
He stood up.
"Are you really going to buy?"
"I mean it. I'll have the contract ready soon. Three point six million."
After a brief silence, and his shoulders slowly lowered.
"Fine. Three point six. Let's do it."
"Good. I'll come back tomorrow with a contract specifying three point six million and a lawyer in tow."
In that instant, his eyes widened slightly.
"Tomorrow? That's fast."
He nodded and tried to play it cool, but his fingertips were trembling faintly. Relief and joy were mixed together in his eyes. I didn't need to be told how badly he'd wanted to sell this farm.
"I'll see you tomorrow, then."
Walking out of his office, I scooped up a handful of soil and let it scatter from my palm. With soil this good, there'd be no need to overhaul the farm wholesale, the way Silver Oak did.
Three point six million was steep, but I could manage half in cash and half through a loan. An investment of this scale was more than worth it. Now Redwood was a winery with sixty acres of vineyard stretching from north of Silver Oak to south of Ironwood.
As I got in the car and headed home, my phone rang. It was Jacob. When I answered, his thoroughly excited voice came through.
"Brian! Hey, would it be okay if I tweaked the brewing ratio a bit?"
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"You know that method you taught me, the Reflux Ratio? I tried lowering the original five-to-one reflux ratio down to about four-to-one."
"You added a little more grain aroma?"
"Yeah. I wasn't sure what people would prefer. But when I did it at four-to-one, everyone absolutely loved it. So I was thinking..."
"You want to go with four-to-one?"
"Yeah, would that be okay?"
Jacob's voice carried a hint of worry. He was probably anxious that I'd be upset he'd tinkered with the ratio I'd given him.
"Of course it's okay! People love it!"
"Hahaha! Right? Everyone said to call them as soon as it's officially released so they can buy it. I... I really want to launch it for real soon!"
Jacob's voice was full of hope.
*****
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