[The Old Man in the Vineyard]
Warren Winiarski’s face was far from bright as he returned to Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars. His mind was a tangled web of complex thoughts, and just then, the door swung open with a bang.
“Father! I heard you went to the Mondavi winery today?”
At thirty-eight, a father of two, his son Jonathan Winiarski still had eyes that sparkled with the shallow expectation of what opportunities might arise if they sold the winery.
“I did.”
“What did you talk about?”
Warren stared blankly at his son before sinking into his study chair. “Didn’t you hear that his health isn’t good?”
“Oh...”
Jonathan, seemingly uninterested in such trivial matters, nodded indifferently and placed his hands on the desk. “Father, if Stag’s Leap is sold, we can proceed with the investment firm we planned, right? I talked to my brother, and he says there’s still huge room for growth in San Jose real estate.”
“I heard the real estate market is in a dangerous spot right now.”
“The housing market, sure. But land is different. Even though there’s already a lot of development, IT companies are going to keep flowing in. We have to invest quickly. It’s definitely an opportunity precisely because the market is stalling.”
“Hmm...”
Warren let out a deep sigh, watching his son’s flushed, excited face calmly before speaking.
“Jonathan.”
“Yes?”
“If we sell the winery... do you really want to do that kind of thing?”
Jonathan chuckled as if it were obvious. “Father, there’s a clear limit to how much money you can make with wine. We need to aim bigger. I’ll make you like Trump—a real estate tycoon.”
“Do you think your father will live as long as Mondavi?”
“Of course! If you live to be 93 like Mr. Mondavi, you’ll be able to see your son as a tycoon. I’ve already selected the targets for investment. Everyone is jealous, saying I’m buying them at such a great price.”
“Well, I’m not so sure.”
Fearing his father might change his mind due to his negative attitude, Jonathan pleaded in a desperate, persuasive voice.
“Why are you trying to bring up a finished conversation again? I’m not interested in wine. Even my brother doesn’t touch the stuff. I respect you, Father, but don’t ask me to take over your work.”
“...I understand for now.”
As Warren waved his hand as if to say there was nothing more to discuss, Jonathan shook his head with a disappointed look and left the study.
A while later, just past 5:00 PM, a guest arrived at the mansion. It was Brad Duncan, the Vice President of MW Estates and a man famous in the Washington wine industry for his flamboyant eloquence.
In his mid-forties, with sports sunglasses perched on his head, he approached Warren with a bright, witty smile.
“Mr. Winiarski! It’s always an honor.”
Warren extended his hand out of courtesy. “Welcome, Brad. I heard the kids invited you.”
“Haha, Kaylin’s cooking is always moving. I couldn’t refuse the invitation.”
Kaylin was Jonathan’s wife and Warren’s second daughter-in-law. Having already established a significant rapport with the family, it was no longer strange for Brad Duncan to visit, even if there was nothing specific to discuss regarding the winery acquisition.
At the dinner table sat the guest Brad Duncan, the second son Jonathan, his wife, and their daughter Jenny. Since the eldest son’s family was currently traveling in France, it was a rather modest gathering compared to usual.
“Stag’s Leap wine is the best, no matter when I drink it. You can already see the level of quality in the first aroma. The balance of acidity and concentration—this truly feels like genius.”
Everyone else wore proud expressions at his praise, but Warren just offered a bitter smile and said nothing.
Knowing Warren had been lukewarm about the sale from the beginning, Brad wasn’t offended. The only things left were minor details and a bit of price haggling, but since the gap in their desired price range wasn’t large, the sale was practically a done deal.
There was no need to be anxious or try to cajole him, so Brad Duncan spoke as comfortably as a friend’s father would.
“Actually, it’s a bit of a shame. If the acquisition had happened early last year, I would have made a documentary about the 30th-anniversary re-tasting of the Judgment of Paris. It would have been a massive sensation.”
“A documentary?”
When Jenny asked with wide eyes, Brad gave a gentle smile.
“Yes. Showing the history of how America perfectly defeated France. It would have been a huge topic, right?”
“That’s cool!”
Brad burst into laughter and turned his head to Warren. “Hahaha, it’s a pity, but I’m thinking of producing a documentary by interviewing the participants. It would re-publicize the greatness of American wine and Stag’s Leap.”
“That sounds interesting,” Jonathan said, tapping his steak with the knife he was using to cut his meat.
“It’ll get a huge reaction. Oh, the building I’m investing in in San Jose—I checked it out yesterday, too. The price was really cheap. How did you find out about it?”
“Don’t even ask. Jennifer found out that the investment firm that owned the building had made a mistake with derivatives and suffered a huge loss.”
“Ah! That real estate management firm? They seemed capable.”
“Right. So...”
The conversation about real estate continued. Warren found it increasingly uncomfortable to listen to. The money, the property, and the sight of his children blinded by it all made his stomach churn.
“I’ll excuse myself first, so enjoy the rest of your meal.”
“Understood.”
Having finished the meal out of obligation, Warren glanced at his children, who were engrossed in Brad Duncan, and returned to his study.
“Whew...”
Sitting in his chair, Warren closed his eyes and massaged his stiff neck. He felt an unspeakable frustration that everything he had built until now had been reduced to mere monetary value. And Mondavi’s advice kept echoing in his ears.
In March, I was checking the ground at the Silveroak farm site with an Auger. An auger is a tool with a T-shaped handle and a long metal rod with a spiral tip that digs into the ground like a screw. As I turned the steel auger to dig, layers of wet loam and gravel came up in long, coiled strips.
“Hmm... this part isn’t quite right...”
Since drainage is the core of the To-Kalon terroir, I used an infiltrometer to check the drainage speed across the entire farm, even though I had confirmed the gravel was densely laid. I had discovered a spot that didn’t meet the standards and was checking the subsoil.
“Do I have to redo the construction...”
As I shook my head and checked the area lacking the gravel layer with the auger, an old man I’d never seen before suddenly appeared.
“Oh? How did you get here?”
Instead of answering my question, he glanced at the ground and asked, “Why did you dig up the earth?”
“I was checking the subsoil (30–100cm deep).”
“Why check that?”
“To see if the drainage is good.”
“I see.”
Nodding, he looked at the other equipment nearby—a portable pH meter, an EC meter, and water buckets—and asked, “What are all these?”
I roughly grasped the old man’s identity. He was undoubtedly a farm owner who grew grapes nearby. Only large farms had started applying SWP, and there were still small farms that didn’t even know what SWP was. So, it wasn’t unusual for a farmer to be curious about why I was using such equipment.
“This is for checking acidity and salinity levels. And this is to check soil texture...”
I gestured toward the buckets and loaded the heavy auger onto the tractor.
“You’re checking both topsoil (up to 30cm deep) and subsoil? This whole large farm?”
“Well, I’m not checking every single inch myself... I have the workers check it too.”
“But that still means you’re checking everything, right?”
“It’s not like I’m checking every meter. The intervals are... quite wide.”
I spread my arms to show the distance, but the old man’s skeptical expression didn’t change.
“Why check all of that?”
“To make good grapes.”
“What kind of good grapes do you want?”
I tilted my head and said, “Good grapes? Hmm... Brix, Total Acidity (TA), Anthocyanin, seed maturity, skin tannin maturity, grape size... if I get into specifics, there are too many...?”
His eyes changed strangely at the unexpected answer.
“What did you say?”
“Why? Is it strange?”
“No... usually, there are standard answers to that question. Things like, ‘Grapes that reveal the taste the land created without hiding it,’ or ‘Grapes that speak for themselves when they become wine,’ or ‘Grapes that taste like only this land can produce.’”
“Ah...”
“Then I ask more specifically, and get more specific answers. They might say, ‘The aroma bursts just by chewing the skin, regardless of fermentation,’ or ‘The acidity and sugar are naturally balanced, and when you bite the seeds, you feel solid tannins instead of a grassy taste...’”
“That’s also true.”
“It’s just that I’ve never met anyone who answers like you.”
I just nodded. It wasn’t strange for people who farm to be unable to research and dig into details like I do, so this reaction wasn’t surprising.
“Then what is the target Brix?”
“Between 24.5 and 26?”
“The reason?”
“But doesn’t everyone know this much as a basic?”
“Some do, some don’t. I’m curious about your answer.”
He seemed to know the answer already, but I decided to answer as he wished. This level of information wasn’t exactly a secret.
“At this sugar level, it becomes 13.8–14.8% alcohol after fermentation, which is the most appropriate. It’s also the range where concentration and acidity are balanced without over-ripening or an explosion of sweetness.”
“Then what about the Total Acidity (amount of sourness)?”
I looked closely at the sharp-eyed old man again and shook my head.
“That’s a secret.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Find out for yourself. You shouldn’t try to get someone else’s knowledge for free so easily.”
“Huh... Look here, do you know how many professors I know at UC Davis? If I call them, they’ll answer right away!”
“Then you can just ask those professors.”
“I’m just curious if you really know.”
“Liar.”
When I looked at him with disbelief, the old man made an absurd expression. And as I gathered all my equipment, he said hurriedly, “It should be 5–7g/L.”
I turned around in surprise. My exact target was 5.5–6.5g/L, but regardless, that was an answer that could only come from someone who knew what they were aiming for.
“Oh? You know?”
“Hmph, do you think I’m a fool?”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I told you. I was curious if you knew or not.”
“Yes, I knew.”
As I turned back, he asked again, “What about pH and anthocyanin?”
I looked at him, still not leaving, and asked, “Why do you keep trying to dig up secrets? Even if you know, I won’t teach you.”
“Fine. Then let’s ask just one thing. I know this area doesn’t have bad drainage, so why did you bother checking it?”
“To make it even better.”
The old man, having caught a significant fact from this answer, was greatly surprised.
“Make it better? Are you saying you artificially constructed the subsoil?”
I was also slightly surprised by the old man’s unexpectedly sharp response.
“Wow, you figured that out.”
In a way, it seemed like an important secret, but in reality, the artificial construction of the subsoil wasn’t really a secret. All the workers were mobilized to construct the subsoil in this area, so it was impossible not to know.
The real secrets were the ratio of gravel, the depth of the roots, and, most importantly, how the organic matter was composed.
“Why reconstruct it? This area is also a part of Napa Valley, and it’s land worth that much as it is.”
“It’s good. I don’t think it’s bad either. It’s just to make even better grapes.”
“What kind of better grapes...”
The old man couldn’t continue his sentence. He must have remembered that I had refused to tell him the criteria for those ‘good grapes’ because it was a secret.
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Still, you’re quite knowledgeable. You must have studied a lot.”
“...Not a little.”
“Don’t try to get things for free; if you study harder, you’ll do well.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Now go. Don’t even think about taking any soil.”
He flinched, backed away hesitantly, and soon walked far away. I instructed the worker who had just approached to keep an eye on him so he wouldn’t take any soil, then drove the tractor away.
Thinking that I had to redo the construction, a wave of annoyance suddenly surged over me.
{@PIC:803174}