Astra Vale
It was exactly four weeks since the bottling. Warren walked out of the winery, carrying a bottle of wine that had been resting in the aging room.
"You could have just had it inside..."
I followed behind Warren with a look of annoyance. Even though he knew I was grumbling, Warren kept walking with a faint, satisfied smile, as if he were in the best mood imaginable.
"Do you know why I decided to start making wine in the first place?"
"Why is that?"
"Because the vineyards were just so magnificent."
"......"
"I was studying in Naples and Florence, Italy, to research Niccolò Machiavelli. I was deeply moved by the way Italians enjoyed wine with every meal. But the moment I truly decided I had to make wine myself was when I visited L’Albergaccio, the farm where Machiavelli wrote The Prince."
"It must have left quite an impression."
"It did. At sunset, the Tuscan sun bathed the land in gold, and the Sangiovese vineyards stretched endlessly across the rolling hills. It was shockingly beautiful."
I nodded. It was true—while running a vineyard came with countless hardships, the scenery was enough to make anyone appreciate the work.
Objectively speaking, Armando’s Laguna Creek farm, which overlooked the Russian River, was probably the most beautiful, but our Redwood farm, stretching from the foothills to the flatlands near Silveroak, was no slouch either.
"I can imagine."
"I remember drinking wine on that farm, just like Machiavelli, while studying The Prince. Back then, we didn't even have corks. It was a Fiasco—a round-bellied bottle wrapped in straw. We’d eat hard, stale bread, a slice of salted ham, and pasta drenched in olive oil. Then, we’d drink the sour, rough liquid the owner brought out, and suddenly the dry bread would go down smoothly, and the greasiness of the ham would be washed away by the acidity."
I thought to myself, 'The old man is off on another trip down memory lane...' but I just nodded silently. I didn't want to ruin the mood by bursting his bubble. Still, I couldn't help but be curious.
"Wasn't that basically the Middle Ages?"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... you youngsters know nothing..."
"No, I just..."
"Listen here. It was over a decade after the end of World War II. And it was the Tuscan countryside, so you shouldn't think of it as the environment you know today."
"I see."
"At the time, Tuscany still maintained the feudal Mezzadria sharecropping system. Italy had lost the war, so it was poor, and the sanitation in Naples and the rural villages wasn't great. Supplies were scarce, so wine wasn't a luxury—it was the safest drinking water, a substitute for contaminated water."
"Ah..."
"That’s why it was so shocking. Back in America, wine was something you drank at restaurants to look sophisticated, but in Italy, it was life itself. Everything was scarce and harsh, but it was so beautiful."
"So that’s why you started making wine."
"Exactly. I wanted to cultivate a farm of my own. But after finally getting one, to drink wine in a place without a single ray of sunlight... that would defeat the whole purpose of running a farm and a winery."
It was a long-winded explanation, but it ultimately meant he wanted to drink on the hill because the atmosphere was better. It was no different from the elders who insisted you had to have makgeolli after a hike. I sighed, but I had no choice but to follow.
We sat down on a spot on the hill—hardly a mountain—and Warren silently pulled a corkscrew from his pocket. He cut the capsule, drove the screw into the cork, and the 'pop' sound as it came out made his eyes sparkle.
"Give me your glass."
I held out the glass I’d brought along, and he poured. A deep, ruby-colored liquid flowed into the clear glass, and a rich aroma began to spread immediately.
"Good."
"Pour me some, too."
"Oh, right."
He had been about to drink it himself, but seeing my glass, he chuckled and tilted the bottle. He swirled the wine once, holding the bottle between his legs. The legs—the streaks of wine running down the side of the glass—were well-defined; not too syrupy, but not thin either. The moderate viscosity meant the alcohol wasn't overpowering.
With a faint smile, he nodded slightly and took a sip. A very small sip. He let it rest on the tip of his tongue, rolled it to the center, and instead of swallowing it immediately, he held it against the roof of his mouth before exhaling.
I watched his expression and didn't say a word.
"This is insane."
There was a slight tremor in Warren's voice.
"How can this combination be so balanced? Usually, with this ratio, one element is bound to stick out. Either the Cab hits too hard, the Merlot melts away into mush, or the Petit Verdot draws too sharp a line."
He lifted his glass, framing the vineyard scenery within it, and continued.
"This blending produces such a result. The Meritage is a success, even more than I thought..."
Satisfied with the result, I tasted the wine myself. It certainly had a heavy, structured foundation, yet the appropriate acidity and intense aroma surged forward, showing a powerful presence.
It felt like the pinnacle of what a Cabernet-based blend should be.
"Not bad."
He looked at me with an incredulous expression at my assessment.
"Just... 'not bad'? That’s incredible."
"Haha, for me, that’s an expression of complete satisfaction. I believe we reached this level because you helped me, sir. I’m truly grateful."
"Perhaps you were able to reach this level because you never knew satisfaction and kept looking upward. No need to feel sorry. I’m the same way. And stop sitting so uncomfortably—why don't you sit like me?"
As I plopped down next to him, he pointed to the vineyard in front of us.
"Isn't it wonderful to look at it like this? Seeing the vineyards soaking up the sunlight makes me feel like my soul is being purified."
"...It is nice."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... You’ve mastered the technique, but your emotions are bone-dry."
"Anyone watching would think you’re about to paint a picture."
"I wouldn't rule that out. I could even sing a song, couldn't I?"
"Please, do that when I'm not around."
"Hahaha! Don't worry. I enjoy that when I'm alone, too. Anyway, what did you decide to name this one?"
He picked up the bottle he’d wedged between his legs, poured himself another glass, and tucked the bottle back in. It looked like a declaration that he intended to drink the whole thing himself.
"Astra Vale. The name you recommended, sir."
At my words, he grinned and took a sip. Looking down at his wine glass, he said,
"Now that you've given it a name, doesn't it fit perfectly? It’s as intense as if a star had fallen into your mouth. When are you planning to release it?"
"The label application has been in for a while, so it should be out by next week. I’m planning to release it before November. I’ll be busy with Serasia by then..."
Even Warren shook his head at Redwood’s explosive production volume.
"It’s amazing that you’re pulling wine from here and there, and every single one of them is getting good reviews... Even in my prime, this would have been difficult."
"What are you saying? You’re the one who created Stag’s Leap."
"That volume is nothing now, but considering the scale of Redwood, it’s absurd. Originally, you should be struggling just to process all the grapes from your own farm. Most people can't even do that, which is why they drag in tourists for tours and the like..."
"Ah, I’d like to bring this wine to Mr. Robert to try as well. Have you heard anything?"
When Robert Mondavi’s name came up, Warren’s face stiffened slightly. He looked out at the vineyard scenery, sipped his wine, and said,
"I was thinking the same thing, but I’m not sure if the atmosphere is right for it. Let’s wait and see."
The cult wine we were about to release held many meanings for Redwood. It was a wine that showcased not only Redwood’s identity but also its direction and potential. Moreover, as the first cult wine released since Warren Winiarski joined the team, everyone was watching.
If we could get an assessment from Robert Mondavi, it would grant us even stronger credibility among wine enthusiasts.
Of course, it wouldn't be a huge deal if we didn't get it. It would be nice to have, but it wouldn't matter much if we didn't...
"But are you really going to drink that all by yourself?"
"If you wanted some, why didn't you bring your own?"
"......"
Warren pulled a crumpled piece of cheese from his pocket and began to enjoy his wine alone, accompanied by the beautiful scenery.
---
At first, Siena didn't understand why her father had asked her to change the brand name he was about to launch. She had been certain that after long preparations, it had become much better, and the results weren't bad. No, they weren't just 'not bad'—she had no doubt it would become the new flagship line for Harrington Winery.
She only fully understood her father's intentions when she heard that Redwood was releasing a new wine—and a Pinot Noir at that.
"Is that it?"
The meeting was for The Rootstock, a group of winery heirs. Named after the rootstock that forms the base of a grapevine, the group took pride in being the foundation and roots of the wine industry, while simultaneously projecting a sense of exclusivity.
The group included not only Siena, but also Matthew of Castello Winery and Emily Mondavi of the Robert Mondavi family.
"Yeah, they said the official release is in two days."
Matthew brought out two bottles of wine. Seeing the modern naming on the deep ivory background, Siena instinctively sensed that this was what had made her father change his mind.
"Why do they keep messing with Pinot Noir? It’s so annoying..."
"Exactly. They should just stick to making Cabernet."
"They’re already making that well, too."
"......"
They each muttered a word or two while waiting for the wine to be opened. Matthew expertly uncorked the bottles and poured an equal amount into a dozen glasses.
After each of them took a glass and tasted the aroma and flavor, they glanced at each other, unable to speak for a moment. They were particularly wary of the heirs of the Sonoma-side wineries, and Siena was the most prominent among them.
But Siena set her wine glass down as if nothing were wrong and said,
"It’s good. I suppose it’s enough to justify them overstepping and making wine with other grapes."
As soon as she spoke, everyone chimed in.
"It’s not exactly outstanding... but it tastes just like Russian River Valley grapes, right?"
"Honestly, I was a bit surprised. I wondered if Redwood’s technology was really at this level... I guess it’s no coincidence that Warren Winiarski joined them, right?"
"Isn't it just this good because Warren’s hands touched it?"
"How long has he been there? Does the guy making the wine not even know the basics?"
While the kids were chattering, Siena stood up.
"I’m going to head out first. I have something to take care of."
Without waiting for a response, Siena walked away, and a few others followed her, hurrying to leave the meeting. They were all heirs to Sonoma wineries. The remaining kids looked disappointed, but among them, only Emily spoke with a hardened expression.
"I heard Redwood acquired another new farm recently. If we don't all work hard, we might be their next target. I have experience, so I think I’m allowed to say that, right?"
At the words of Emily, whose family had sold their winery due to management mistakes, the faces of the other heirs stiffened.
They had thought it was just the emergence of a small winery, but they were beginning to feel the weight of its presence.