Quiet Hill (3)
‘What on earth is this...?’
Arcadia Farm, located in Coombsville, Napa Valley, is a vineyard Warren owns privately. Its location, however, is in the southeast, quite a distance from Oakville, which is often referred to as the To Kalon of the region. Geographically speaking, it isn't exactly a high-profile spot.
Yet, there was only one reason Mark had his eyes on it: it was a vineyard that none other than Warren Winiarski had spent over a decade meticulously cultivating.
Although Mark Harrington runs one of the top three massive wineries in Sonoma, he still possessed a burning desire to improve, and his ultimate target was Napa Valley. No matter how well-crafted his wines were, they could never touch the price points commanded by Napa’s Cabernet-based cult wines.
While it is said that there are quite a few good properties at good prices currently available in Napa Valley, the best possible acquisition for Mark was undoubtedly the vineyard Warren had built. Hearing rumors that Warren was stepping back, Mark had moved aggressively.
But to be told that if he could make a wine better than the one in front of him, he would hand over the vineyard?
It was a truly heart-pounding proposition.
“Go on... why are you trembling like that?”
Warren chuckled, took a sip of the wine, wore a satisfied smile, and then brought a piece of high-end cheese to his lips.
At that sight, Mark brought his glass to the tip of his nose to catch the aroma. Startled, he took a sip with trembling eyes. Warren watched him with great interest.
“......”
Mark Harrington remained frozen for a long time, unable to take the glass away from his lips. Even after the wine had vanished from his mouth, the sensation lingering between his tongue and gums refused to be easily processed.
“... This doesn’t feel like Sylphide.”
As he muttered low, Warren picked up another piece of cheese and spoke.
“Your instincts haven’t completely dulled yet.”
Without realizing it, Mark swirled his glass once more and took another sip.
“Usually, a Pinot Noir with this level of density grabs you with the first aroma... but this is the opposite. It doesn’t unfold on the nose; it unfolds inside the mouth.”
“So, what do you think?”
Mark, with a slight frown, caught his breath as if choosing his words carefully, then replied.
“It’s uncomfortable.”
At that answer, Warren nodded as if he found it quite interesting.
“Uncomfortable... that’s actually a pretty good assessment.”
“Yes. It’s not an easy wine. It’s not friendly, either. But... strangely, I keep wanting to drink more. I see more in the second glass than the first.”
He looked down at his glass and continued.
“The acidity isn’t sharp, and the tannins aren’t at the forefront, yet the structure is clear. On top of that, how should I put it... several new aromas keep knocking on the palate. Looking at the quality of the Pinot Noir, it’s undoubtedly from the Russian River, but I’ve never seen Pinot Noir handled this way.”
“It’s not the first time. You’re just unaware of it.”
“... I see.”
“So, what’s the conclusion?”
Mark, biting his lip, asked.
“I have to send the Pinot Noir from my winery to you, sir, right?”
“That’s right. Just send me a wine you’re confident in.”
“......”
“None, then.”
“To my shame, that is correct.”
Wine is a subject with various dimensions of preference where no single answer exists, yet there is undeniably a hierarchy of quality. Especially when the person judging is Warren Winiarski, one dare not force the claim that their own wine is superior.
“What a pity.”
Naturally, the one feeling the pity was Mark Harrington, and Warren watched his slightly distorted face as if it were amusing. No matter how successful a winery owner Mark was in Sonoma, to Warren, he was little more than a child.
That was why it was so fun; he could read Mark’s inner thoughts just by looking at his face.
“Is this the new brand for Redwood this year?”
“That’s right. It’ll be released in about a month.”
“......”
“Do you know whose grapes these are?”
He had already guessed. He knew which farm in the Russian River Valley Redwood had been receiving grapes from.
“They’re Grendel Hill grapes.”
“Hoho, you knew. I’ve heard the owner there is a stubborn man, and you can feel that stubbornness right from the grapes. Once it’s released, if you savor this wine and compare it to the wines from your own winery, you’ll be able to draw great inspiration.”
“Thank you. I feel like I’ve learned a lot by visiting your home today, sir.”
“It’s not difficult to give this much advice to a junior.”
“Then I shall take my leave. If I deplete your wine any further, I fear I might earn your resentment.”
“Hahaha! You’re quick on the uptake. Do as you will.”
As Mark left the study, leaving his regret behind, Warren’s smile deepened.
“Greedy fellow...”
Warren knew there were many who coveted his vineyard. But that vineyard was like an attic where he had hidden his toys; he just wasn't touching it right now. Who would he sell that to?
Warren had never intended to give it away from the start.
“Still, at least he has self-objectivity.”
That much, he acknowledged.
Mark Harrington maintained his composure perfectly until he passed the front gate, a faint smile lingering on his lips. But the moment he got into his car and closed the door, Mark sat still, gripping the steering wheel without a word for a long time.
After sitting with his eyes closed in silence for a while, he quietly started the engine and pulled away.
“Damn it...”
A curse slipped out in his miserable state of mind. The afterimage of the wine he had just tasted wouldn't leave his head. It had no label, no brand, no vintage, and no description, yet its presence was more intense than anything else.
After driving for about an hour, Mark Harrington arrived home, but he couldn't get out of the car for a long time. The aroma he had smelled in Warren’s study and the layers of sensation from that Pinot were still lingering in his mouth.
But he couldn't stay like this forever, so he straightened his expression as if nothing were wrong and walked into the house.
“Dad!”
“What are you doing home at this hour?”
To his wife’s question, Mark replied, “Just because...” and then, seeing Sienna’s beaming face, he asked:
“Why are you here instead of at work?”
Sienna had been working at Harrington Winery since graduation. It was closer to conducting deeper research at the winery based on her studies rather than the concept of applying what she learned in school.
The technical prowess of a winery that had already reached a certain level of quality and scale was, in some aspects of their flagship wines, even superior to that of any university.
“I came to report that we’ve selected the naming today.”
“Oh? Ah...”
Mark’s face stiffened for a moment. The wine they had created with all their might at Harrington Winery after nearly two years of research. The wine he had thought would be responsible for the next 10 years of the winery’s future...
They had bundled only 12 premier barrels, kept the yield down to 1.2 tons per acre, and balanced it with 40% new French oak and the rest in second-year barrels... He had been confident that everything was perfect, with the acidity set exactly at 3.55.
“SOVEREIGN NOIR. How is it? It’s the highest authority for Pinot Noir... it carries the strongest message a Pinot Noir can have right from the name, so it received an overwhelming number of votes. Doesn’t it really suit it?”
If he hadn’t visited Warren’s house today, Mark would have thought the same. In fact, if you really look at it, it’s not such a massive difference. Some might even evaluate it as a wine worthy of competing for the top spot.
But he knew. It was a subtle difference, hard to distinguish, but there was clearly a difference in value as a wine.
“Let’s change the name.”
At Mark’s firm words, Sienna hesitated.
“Why?”
“Instead of SOVEREIGN NOIR, let’s go with something a bit more normal.”
After a brief silence, the smile vanished from Sienna’s face.
“Dad, don’t joke. We’ve already decided on the label concept, price positioning, and distribution presentation with this name. You know the market only reacts when there’s confidence.”
Mark took off his coat, hung it on a chair, and shook his head.
“I don’t not know that. If it were just for immediate sales, you’d be right, but...”
“Then why on earth are you doing this?”
Watching his daughter shout, Mark lowered his voice with a sunken gaze.
“It’s not enough.”
“What?”
“It’s still not enough. We have to make a better Pinot Noir. Only then...”
“......?”
“Only then can we preserve the honor of our winery.”
How humiliating would it be to release it with a name like that only to be surpassed by a wine with a plain name? And if the opponent happened to be that old man from Grendel Hill? He felt the strength draining from his hands and feet just thinking about it. That was why Mark decided to tone down the naming.
But that was Mark’s thought; his daughter, Sienna, couldn't understand why her father was acting like this at all.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Make it something simple like Harrington Estate Pinot Noir. Or maybe Riverbend. And let’s look at the harvest timing again. We focused on acidity stabilization this year, but there’s still room for seed maturity. We should experiment with 10% whole-cluster fermentation for the entire lot and refine the extraction process further. We need to split the fermentation tanks by size, too.”
Seeing her father’s face, which looked somehow driven yet heavy, Sienna realized there was a reason she couldn't be told.
“Haa... I understand. We’re going to make a better Pinot, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll change the name. Instead, the next brand...”
Mark smiled.
“Then, you can name it.”
The father and daughter looked at each other in silence.
That night, the lights at Harrington Winery did not go out until late.
The next day.
On a morning when the fog characteristic of the Russian River Valley lay low, I drove my car along the narrow access road between the vineyards. Far from being flashy, this place made one’s heart feel at peace, perhaps because of the mysterious and wonderful natural environment.
After arriving in front of the farm and getting out of the car, an old man standing at the gate raised his head slowly, leaning on his cane.
Elias Grendel, the farm owner who had been growing grapes on this hill for over half a century.
“You’ve come.”
A short, calm greeting. I bowed to greet him and then carefully took out a long wooden box.
“I’ve come to harvest the grapes. A bit late, isn’t it?”
“The weather was a bit chilly this year, so it’s no surprise the harvest timing is a little delayed. Besides, it’s a decision you make, so what would I have to say about it?”
“Let’s go inside first.”
Entering the warehouse-like office of Grendel Hill Farm, a cozy yet musty air welcomed us.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a wine made from the grapes you gave me.”
For a moment, Elias’s gaze wavered. He stared intently at the wooden box containing the wine and asked.
“The release is faster than I thought?”
“For Pinot Noir, one year is enough.”
“Is that the technical prowess of Redwood?”
“Yes.”
Elias, slowly sitting in an old chair, instructed an employee to bring wine glasses and an opener. I placed the box on the table and opened the lid. A single bottle revealed itself from within.
The name written on the label in a clean, no-nonsense font.
QUIET HILL
He looked at the label, which featured a restrained design with a very faint silhouette of a hill on a warm ivory tone, with a faint smile on his lips.
As if he were reading not the letters, but the story contained within them.
“... The name is good. This hill is always quiet, after all.”
“I’m glad you like it. I hope the wine is the same. Shall we have a tasting? For your information, I bottled this three weeks ago just in case it needed stabilization.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Since I’ve already submitted the application for the label, it will take nearly a month for the permit to be granted and for it to be released.”
“You wanted to handle everything at once so you wouldn’t have to come twice?”
“I’m just so busy, you see.”
“Hahaha, yes. A person who needs to be busy should save their time.”
Nodding with a laugh, he held the wine I poured up to the sunlight. After examining the transparent ruby hue and taking a sniff of the aroma, he closed his eyes and took a sip.
“Hmm...”
Quietly savoring the wine and fully feeling the lingering finish, he looked me straight in the eye with a calm expression. Then, he said in a low voice.
“Thank you.”
“......”
“Thank you very much.”
Before I knew it, his eyes were a little red.