The Birth of a Masterpiece
About ten days later, at the Redwood Winery, in the evening.
A bustle, unlike any usual night, could be felt on these peaceful hills as the cool, crisp wind of November swept across the farm. Dozens of torches flickered, pushing back the cold night air, and at their center stood a rustic wooden table set with twelve glasses.
"Hmm... I thought about hosting the tasting somewhere a bit more sophisticated since these are VIPs, but torches and wine... Now that it's all set up, it actually looks quite impressive, doesn't it?"
I adjusted my tie and marveled at the scene. Warren Winiarski, who had spearheaded the entire setup, didn't seem to like my attire; he tapped my collar and retorted.
"You've still got a lot to learn, kid. The more money people have, the more they crave the scent of earth over marble floors. You need a bit of Napa soil on the soles of their shoes so they can think, 'Ah, I'm truly at the heart of wine,' and open their wallets."
"You're quite good at marketing, too, aren't you?"
"Hardly. I just happen to understand the psychology of the wealthy."
Warren chuckled, his eyes fixed on the headlights of vehicles approaching from a distance. Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, and custom sedans of unknown make were lining up as they climbed the hill. Christopher hurried over and stood beside me. Though his poker face was usually perfect, beads of sweat were forming on his forehead today.
"Brian, are you ready? I received word that Viktor Karlov got off his private jet about 30 minutes ago and is heading straight here, so he should be arriving any moment."
"You seem more nervous than I am."
"Haha... I've never had to deal with such heavy hitters before. I'm realizing once again just how incredible Mr. Warren really is."
A moment later, car doors opened, and figures began to emerge one by one.
The first man to step out was Edward Miller, a man with a gaunt frame and sharp eyes. Known on Wall Street as the 'Man-Eating Shark,' he didn't even glance around before approaching Warren and sharing a brief hug.
"Old fox, you're still alive and kicking."
"I won't die until you've finished drinking all my wine, Edward."
Following him, Ken Satomi from San Jose offered a polite greeting, and Isabella Rossi, known as the queen of the perfume industry, looked at me with a mysterious smile and an enigmatic gaze.
The other guests who entered, hugging Warren, were all equally formidable figures: Charles Gordon, the top private banker in LA; the Olsen brothers, who dominated the California premium furniture market; and Mark Chen, the founder of a security software company hailed as a rising star in Silicon Valley. Twelve high-net-worth individuals from various walks of life, whose names alone commanded respect, filled the torch-lit hill.
Finally, the youngest of the Russian steel tycoons, Viktor Karlov, arrived. He left his bodyguards at a distance and looked at me with curious eyes. I had assumed he would be young because he was the "youngest," but I was slightly taken aback to find a balding, middle-aged man.
"Is this the kid? The monster who dragged Warren Winiarski back into the field?"
Warren tapped my shoulder and introduced me.
"This is my partner, and the heart of Redwood, Brian Choi. People might not believe it, but I call this kid 'Master.'"
"That's ridiculous... Well, let's just say that for now."
I bowed slightly and guided them to the table. Thinking about it, Warren was right—there was no need for flashy decorations. These people had already experienced every rare and precious thing in the world; I had to compete with substance rather than clumsy marketing.
I picked up the Astra Vale I had opened beforehand. The wine, which had breathed sufficiently after decanting, flowed into the glasses. Under the pitch-black night sky, the flickering of the torches reflected in the ruby-colored liquid.
"The name is Astra Vale. It was crafted primarily from the best grapes here at Redwood. It is the result of a blend of Mr. Warren's advice and my own stubbornness."
Ken Satomi lifted his glass and held it up to the light. His movements were as cautious as if he were handling precision machinery. Isabella Rossi buried her nose in the glass and didn't move for a long time.
Edward Miller was the first to empty his glass. He rolled the wine over his tongue to savor its structure, then spoke with a low, appreciative murmur.
"Hmm, impressive. Napa Cabernet is usually just powerful. It's like an athlete with lots of muscle but an empty head. But this is different. I can feel a tight tension gripping my mouth, but it's not unpleasant—it feels like listening to a finely tuned string instrument. I thought it would be a wild stallion, but I can feel the dignity of an aristocrat. Did you say your name was Brian?"
"Yes, Mr. Edward."
"What on earth did you do to this wine? This isn't farming; it's architecture. It has a structure like a meticulously calculated skyscraper."
Perhaps because he was someone who had drunk countless blended wines, his expression was as good as any wine critic's.
In truth, while he was using flowery metaphors about string instruments and aristocracy, the reality of the precision he felt stemmed from thoroughly calculated figures.
The tension he admired was actually due to the exquisite balance of Titratable Acidity and pH levels, adjusted by a difference of just a few days during the harvest. The fact that the tannin texture felt like silk rather than grit was the result of controlling the aging temperature to within 0.1 degrees to suppress catechin components (small molecules responsible for the rough, bitter taste in wine) with low degrees of polymerization and to stabilize the structure of high-molecular polyphenols.
"Thank you. I'm even surprised that you felt exactly what I wanted to express."
I smiled as if to express my gratitude for his flowery compliments.
"This must have been possible because Warren helped you, right?"
Before I could answer his question, Warren cut in.
"Oh, my... I thought you might make those kinds of assumptions. But you mustn't forget that I only joined this winery early this summer. It was Brian here who established this structure first. And this blending structure isn't my usual method. There's a reason I call this kid 'Master.'"
At those words, Edward wore an expression of disbelief.
"So... you're saying a talent has emerged in Napa Valley that surpasses you?"
"Why else do you think I came here?"
"Haha... that's a story that will drive wine lovers around the world crazy."
As he made such a fuss, the others, driven by curiosity, quickly brought the wine in their hands to their lips. Then, they all set down their glasses with expressions of astonishment and began to speak one by one. Isabella Rossi was the first to speak, her eyes sparkling.
"The layers of aroma are fantastic. At first, blackcurrant and graphite scents hit you, and as time passes, the scent of wet earth and dried roses rises. It's as if it's telling me what kind of scent the land of Napa Valley has."
Then, Ken Satomi's serious gaze turned toward Warren.
"Mr. Warren, I was a little worried when I heard the news that you had returned. I feared it might be a wine like the memoir of an old soldier trapped in past glory. But this... it's terrifyingly modern."
"Look, didn't I just say? I didn't make this; I only helped a little."
"Ah... I apologize."
"But I did receive a lot of inspiration. So I'm preparing a new liquor, and it will be a bit different from the existing ones."
When Warren mentioned a "new liquor," everyone's eyes lit up.
"Really? What kind of...?"
"You'll find out later."
As Warren tried not to discuss it further, the people in attendance didn't try to pry any more. Ken Satomi made a regretful expression before speaking.
"Anyway, it's been a long time since I've had a wine with such a centered axis. I can understand why Mr. Edward said it has a structure like a meticulously calculated skyscraper."
Warren laughed heartily beside him, patted Satomi on the shoulder, and pointed at me.
"Satomi, Brian is a guy who cares about figures more sensitively than your audio equipment. Other wineries would probably be shocked if they saw Redwood's aging room. It's like looking at a chemist, not a winemaker."
Everyone was amazed and expressed their admiration, but Viktor Karlov, who had set his glass down with a clatter, approached with his bear-like bulk, grabbed my shoulder, and asked.
"Cut the complicated talk, will you? I hate abstruse expressions I can't understand. It's just... a killer wine. How much of this precious stuff did you make? About 100 cases? I want to buy the whole thing."
To his question, I brought out the business card I had prepared. The purpose of calling them here wasn't just to sell a few boxes, but to establish the brand 'Astra Vale' at the pinnacle of the market through their word of mouth.
"Unfortunately, it would be difficult to give you the whole thing. This vintage was produced in about 3,500 cases."
"3,500 cases? That's not a small amount."
Edward Miller's eyebrows twitched. Producing thousands of cases while aiming for a cult wine status must have looked like a bad move that could potentially diminish its scarcity. But I continued.
"Yes. However, I intend to allocate it to those present here first. The remaining volume will be released very sparingly and strictly only through the premium channels managed by Christopher. By next week, sommeliers in New York and London will likely be desperate to get their hands on this wine."
Christopher nodded meaningfully beside me. The number 3,500 cases wasn't a small amount, but it was a quantity that would evaporate in an instant once the world's wealthy started hearing the rumors and rushing in.
Viktor, who was slightly surprised as it was an answer he hadn't expected, soon raised one corner of his mouth.
"That's actually better. This liquor makes your blood hot the moment you drink it. Did you say 3,500 cases? Good. I need at least 100 cases for my yacht and my villa in Moscow."
He grabbed my shoulder with a grip that felt like it would crush bone and continued.
"Money doesn't matter. But there's a condition. You have to bring this wine yourself to my 60th birthday party next year. I want to show off the face of a young Asian genius like you to my friends."
I frowned slightly at his grip strength and asked.
"Do I have to bring the wine all the way to Moscow?"
"Hahahaha! That's not it. New York is my home."
"Then that's no problem."
Satisfied, he nodded, then picked up the wine bottle and examined it.
"The label is very cool. A valley where stars pour down... Huh? But there's no mention of Napa Valley?"
"This wine's blend includes Petit Verdot from the Columbia Valley. There's an explanation on the back label."
He looked at the back of the wine and read it slowly.
"'On top of the solid structure of Cabernet Sauvignon, we added the softness of Merlot and Cabernet Franc, and the delicate texture of Columbia Valley Petit Verdot. Astra Vale, a unique blend born beyond regional boundaries.' Hmm... I see. Impressive."
Nodding, he immediately snapped his fingers at Christopher.
"Bring the order form."
Christopher, who was struggling to suppress a grin, brought an order form that was as good as blank, and Viktor wrote down 100 cases and handed over a check.
"You fill in the amount."
"Yes."
Surprisingly, Viktor took a quick look at the $540,000 wine payment amount Christopher had written and signed it right away. That was just the beginning. The VIPs in attendance raised their hands one after another, and Christopher scurried around like a restaurant waiter, taking orders.
The wine sold in a single day recorded a whopping 870 cases, with sales nearing $4.6 million.
It was, in effect, the signal flare announcing that Redwood Winery had ascended to the ranks of a major player in Napa Valley.