Quiet Hill (2)
"Good. Very good."
Warren nodded and set his glass down, closing his eyes as if to savor the lingering finish. For my part, I didn't feel particularly relieved by his praise; I had been monitoring the wine's progress in the barrel constantly. I was only interested in how closely his thoughts aligned with my own.
"Does it feel different from the Sylphid?" I asked.
"Of course. The aroma doesn't leap upward; it seems to seep downward, wouldn't you say? It feels like layer upon thin layer stacked together. That's why the finish lasts so long."
His assessment was packed with the nuances of a true wine enthusiast—the kind of talk that would baffle a layman—but I understood him perfectly. It meant that the initial volatile esters weren't overpowering, and the focus was on mid-to-high molecular weight aromatic compounds, causing the scent to unfurl slowly in the mouth rather than exploding in the nose.
"The grapes from Grendel Hill had small, uniform berries with a high pulp-to-skin ratio. The sugar content was a bit lower than the grapes from the Hart farm that we used for Sylphid, but the acidity retention was better, and the seed maturity wasn't excessive. I judged that these grapes hadn't been pushed to over-ripeness; rather, their growth had been naturally slowed while minimizing stress. I aged them accordingly."
"I see. You adjusted your approach based on the state of the grapes... Appropriate, very appropriate. That's why, if Sylphid is a wine you fall in love with at the first glass, this one... this is a wine that reveals its true identity at the third."
"That's why I don't think it's for parties. A wine to drink alone, or perhaps with someone who doesn't talk much?"
"Perfect for an old man like me. Have you decided on a name?"
"I've settled on Quiet Hill. Now that I've named it, it suits the wine perfectly."
"Indeed it does. A wine that is quiet, yet leaves an unforgettable impression. We call that a masterpiece. This will be a new milestone for single-vineyard Pinot Noir."
Just then, Mom entered with a large tray, carrying a golden-brown roast chicken, looking as if she had stepped out of a movie scene.
"Please, have some food."
"Oh, such fantastic food... I wonder if I deserve such luxury in my twilight years."
"Please, don't say that. My child is still lacking in many ways, so I ask for your continued guidance."
"What are you talking about? If anything, I am the one receiving much teaching."
"Ho ho ho! Warren, you have such a wonderful sense of humor. Enjoy your meal!"
After Mom laughed and left the aging room, Warren settled into his seat and said, "Your mother seems to think what I said was a joke."
"It wasn't entirely a lie. I haven't taught you all that much, after all."
He used a large knife to carve a generous portion of the roast chicken breast and placed it on his plate. The fragrant, savory aroma of the roasted chicken tickled my nose.
"Sometimes," he began, "the sheer volume of knowledge isn't what's important. The world is overflowing with information. My sons probably think the most important knowledge is how to buy good real estate cheaply and turn it into great value. For stock traders, the important knowledge is how to make money in the market. And for laborers working day to day, the vital know-how is which farm pays the most for the least amount of effort."
I sat across from him, cut a leg off the roast chicken, and placed it on my plate.
"I suppose so."
"All that valuable knowledge and information can be completely useless to someone else. Or, conversely, a single piece of knowledge—something I truly needed—can change a life. And that knowledge might not even be all that grand. Things like 'the sun rises in the east' or 'everyone dies when they get old.' For me, your teaching was exactly that. The realization that wine is made by the terroir, and that if I want to make the wine I desire, I can actually alter that terroir."
"Hmm..."
"Because of that, the amount of knowledge I need to acquire has increased exponentially. I have a clear goal now. So, even if the amount of knowledge you've shared doesn't seem vast, it has been a profound lesson for me."
Honestly, when I first told him about creating terroir, I hadn't been thinking that deeply. Whether it was when I was turning over the soil at Silveroak or now, I had only been thinking about creating soil like To Kalon, which is recognized for its immense future value.
But Warren's words now were like an expression of will—as if, should there be a wine approaching the Drops of God, he would seek out the very terroir that created it. It was as if I had pointed at the moon, and Warren had realized there was a whole new universe out there.
This changed the narrative entirely, and the effort and knowledge required would be astronomical. Warren was excitedly discussing a hypothesis that anyone else would have discarded as nonsense.
It was a truly genius, hard-to-follow passion.
"No, I wouldn't go that far..."
"As expected... the pairing is perfect."
He didn't listen to me, munching on the chicken and sipping the wine. Realizing he was already lost in his own world, I closed my mouth and focused on my meal.
Honestly, with Mom's excellent cooking and the wine pairing being so superb, it was hard to pay attention to anything else.
After we finished the meal, Warren asked, "Have you applied for the label?"
"Yes. I sent the request for approval to the TTB (Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau)."
"What? You were agonizing over the name, and you've already sent the request?"
"I moved as quickly as possible. I have a design firm I know, so we looked at two drafts, and once we decided on one, we pushed it through. I should get the COLA (Certificate of Label Approval) by the week after next at the latest."
Even though a wine needs at least three or four weeks after bottling before it can be released, the reason I was moving so fast was that even after federal label approval, I still needed state government approval to sell wine in California.
"Good, I like that you're quick to act. But why haven't you applied for our blending project yet?"
"I want to check its state after the marriage process first. Then I'll give it a fitting name... there's no rush."
"Huh, so Quiet Hill is urgent, but that isn't? Aren't you being a bit discriminatory?"
He twitched his lips in dissatisfaction. I gave him a look of disbelief.
"I'm doing things sequentially. It's harvest season, so I have to pick the grapes, Echelon and Sylphid are coming out soon, and Serasia is coming in November. Even if I only release one wine in between, I'll have a mountain of work. I'm taking the blending project slowly."
"Eh..."
"Hahaha, I understand you're eager to see the reaction."
I did understand his feelings. This was the first time his sensibilities had been applied to a wine since he came to Redwood, at a point where a proper cult-level blended wine was being released. It was only natural that he was dying to know how the market would react.
Since it had been quite a while since he released a new brand at Stag's Leap, wine enthusiasts were likely dying of curiosity about what kind of wine would come out of Redwood with Warren Winiarski's touch. He wanted to show it off as soon as possible.
Looking at it from another angle, it showed just how sincere Warren was about this blended wine. If the quality were poor, he would never want to show it to anyone.
Warren lowered his gaze slightly, then said with a frown, "I just want to show it to Robert as soon as possible."
"Ah..."
There was a reason, after all. Rumors were circulating in Napa Valley that Robert Mondavi's health was deteriorating. Was it true that his doctor was visiting him every day?
It seemed he wanted to show something—anything—to Robert Mondavi, who was essentially his mentor, before he passed away.
"Don't worry too much. He'll make it through this year."
"Old men whose strength has faded never know when they'll go. Honestly, I'm anxious."
"No. He will definitely make it through this year in good health."
The reason I could say this with such certainty was that I knew the year of his passing was next year. And Warren Winiarski himself would live a long life, only ending his journey in 2024.
Ironically, it was fascinating that both of them lived past ninety, despite creating alcohol—the worst thing for one's health—and living their entire lives with wine by their sides.
"*Sigh*, alright. I shouldn't be impatient. Can I head home a bit early today?"
"Of course. Please, go ahead."
"Instead... could I take some of what's in that barrel?"
He was pointing at the barrel of Quiet Hill, which was being carefully kept, not even released yet.
"...Honestly, you're going home early because you just want to drink as much of this wine as you want, aren't you?"
"What are you talking about? I'm just feeling a bit down and want to rest. Quiet Hill is just perfect for soothing my heart. If you don't like it, I'll just drink the wine I have at home. It's the perfect match for my mood today, but if you insist on opposing it, I can't force you, can I?"
He looked so slumped and bitter. On the surface, he looked like the most pitiful old man in the world, but I was speechless. Judging by his silver tongue, he must have been quite the ladies' man in his youth.
"Take it."
I waved my hand dismissively, and Warren drew a thin arc at the corner of his mouth before turning glum again. "If you say so... I'll take a little to soothe my heavy heart today. What else does an old man have to look forward to?"
"..."
And so, Warren had an employee fill a one-liter bottle with the unlabelled barrel wine and left.
"Heh heh heh..."
"Where should I put this, sir?"
"Bring it to the study."
Watching the employee head to the study with the large bottle, Warren wore a deep smile as he headed to the kitchen. He grabbed some Comté cheese and prosciutto to pair with the Pinot Noir and headed to the study.
However, with snacks in both hands, Warren ran into his son and daughter-in-law, who had just arrived home, accompanied by a strange man.
"Father, you're back already?"
"Greetings, sir."
The man who had followed his eldest son Andrew and his wife was, surprisingly, Mark Harrington, the owner of a large winery in Sonoma.
"Oh, Mark, what brings you to my house?"
"Actually, I had been meaning to visit and pay my respects. I didn't expect to see you so early, as I was planning to wait until dinner time."
"Hmm? You came because of me?"
"Yes."
As Warren looked puzzled, Andrew cut in. "I played golf with Mark this morning. He said he wanted to see you after dinner, so I brought him along."
"You're not in San Jose? You're just out playing golf?"
"Father, connections are incredibly important in real estate. Besides, Jonathan is there today."
"*Ahem*... But why me?"
Mark, about to answer, noticed the cheese and ham in Warren's hands and asked, "Were you about to have some wine?"
"That I was."
"Then, might I join you?"
"Suit yourself. Have someone bring you a glass."
When Warren told Andrew to bring a suitable wine, Mark tilted his head. "The wine you're drinking... must be quite precious, sir?"
"That one is mine."
Thinking he might be being too stingy, he added, "I'll only give you one glass."
"Thank you. Shall we go in?"
Warren, having entered the study with Mark, pulled the tightly sealed cork and asked, "Why did you want to see me?"
But instead of answering, Mark stared at the pitch-black wine bottle, devoid of a label, and asked, "What kind of wine is that? Did you bring it from Redwood?"
"...You're not unobservant, are you?"
"If it's a wine without a label, it must be a pre-release wine, and since you're working at Redwood, even a middle schooler could make that guess."
"True. If you're not a fool, you should be able to guess that much. Enough of that, get to the point. When you get to my age, you get impatient and don't like people beating around the bush."
As he poured the wine, Mark answered, "I know that you originally intended to sell Stag's Leap and continue your personal grape cultivation. I heard you've left everything to your staff and stepped back entirely..."
"Hmph! That loose-lipped Andrew must have told you that."
"I was wondering if you might have any thoughts of selling."
Warren didn't answer, instead handing the wine to Mark with an inscrutable look in his eyes. Then he said, "Drink."
Just as Mark reached for the glass, Warren added, "If you can honestly claim that your winery has a wine better than what you're drinking right now, I'll sell you my Arcadia Vineyards."
At the unexpected words, Mark's pupils shook violently.