The Second San Francisco (1)
In the aging cellar of Redwood Winery, I carefully taped shut the last of the boxes destined for competition.
Inside were Astra Vale, poised to become a new landmark in Napa's cult-wine hierarchy, and Quiet Hill, ready to humble the pride of Sonoma—along with two cases each of Sylphid and Echelon, both of which had already taken Double Gold.
"Are we ready?"
The heavy voice behind me made me turn. Warren Winiarski stood there, already wearing his coat.
From his pocket he produced a stick of crimson sealing wax and a stamp engraved with Redwood's crest. Without a word he dripped molten wax along every seam of the box and pressed the seal home.
The seal belonged to Redwood, yet the hand that set it was the same master who had once led the Judgment of Paris to victory. Somehow the plain wine crate took on the air of a reliquary.
"When I'm home, you know, every scrap of winery gossip in the valley finds its way to my ear. Who made what, which wine collapsed this vintage, which vineyard is promising the vintage of a lifetime… But lately they don't come to tell me things. They come to ask. How did the vineyard look? Where did you source the Franc? What year was the Merlot? Every single one of them is hungry for news about Redwood."
"I see."
"Collective intelligence is a remarkable thing. Sit still long enough and listen carefully enough, and you can sometimes read the outcome of a big competition before it even begins."
"Aren't you being a little too optimistic?"
"Well… I haven't even been at Redwood a full year yet. Strictly speaking, my affection should still lean more toward Stag's Leap, shouldn't it? If I were simply being positive, I'd be rooting for them."
That was fair. I nodded.
"True enough."
"After this San Francisco Chronicle, Redwood may never be the same. And I suspect the change will be a very happy one."
"…Even so, Redwood Winery itself won't change."
He gave me a deep, knowing smile.
"I know. That's exactly why I'm looking forward to it. I can't sleep for the excitement—thinking about those conservative old fossils tasting your wine and falling flat on their backs."
Under Warren's encouragement I lifted the box with a steady face.
"Hmm… I hope so. Either way, I want to prove that the numbers I designed weren't wrong. Properly, this time."
Our eyes met in the air between us—an unspoken recognition and a shared vow between senior and junior of the wine world.
A day later, at the historic Palace Hotel in the heart of San Francisco. The Garden Court ballroom of this century-and-a-half-old landmark had already transformed into a vast battlefield.
Beneath the glittering stained-glass ceiling, more than five thousand cases of wine from every corner of America stood stacked in endless ranks.
The San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition—SFCWC.
On the eve of North America's largest and most prestigious contest, the hall hummed with a peculiar mixture of tension and restless noise.
"I heard Stag's Leap brought an unreleased CASK 23 this year?"
"That's nothing. The Mondavi kids are going all-in. Word is Robert himself gave the order."
Throughout the venue, well-tailored winemakers and PR people traded intelligence and fought quiet wars of nerves. Their eyes raked the winery logos on one another's boxes, endlessly calculating odds.
Napa Valley's traditional powerhouses formed their own cartels in the corners, flaunting their prestige, while younger houses from Sonoma and Oregon watched the gaps with hungry, sharp eyes.
But every single one of them kept returning to the same name.
Redwood.
While their attention fixed on that one winery, a black sedan pulled up to the hotel.
The door opened; I stepped out first, then held the rear door for the elderly gentleman inside. The silver-haired veteran—Warren Winiarski—set his cane on the pavement. In that instant the lobby fell silent.
"My God… that's Warren Winiarski!"
"Is it true? Warren himself showed up at the competition?"
Camera flashes erupted. Dozens of reporters swarmed like ants.
"Mr. Winiarski! Is it true you've joined Redwood Winery?"
"Do you believe this year's entries can recapture the glory of 1976?"
Questions poured down, but Warren kept his mouth firmly shut, his expression regal. Then, as we wheeled the cart of boxes into the ballroom lobby, the noisy space froze once more.
"Look over there—isn't that Brian Choi, the real winemaker of Redwood?"
Most people still assumed Woody Choi made Redwood's wines, yet every key figure in Napa Valley was watching his son. Their gazes shifted naturally to me, and I did nothing to refuse them.
Those eyes landed first not on my face but on the crimson wax seals stamped with Redwood's crest at the bottom of the boxes I was pushing—then locked onto Warren walking behind me.
"Not W.W., but R.W.… I never thought I'd live to see Warren give up his own name with my own eyes."
"One Asian kid is turning Napa upside down, and the momentum is no joke."
The whispers rolled over us like a wave, but I pretended not to hear a single one. I walked to the registration desk and handed over the papers with a blank face.
"Redwood Winery. In Cabernet Sauvignon blends, mid-to-high tier: Echelon. Cult tier: Astra Vale. In Pinot Noir, both Sylphid and Quiet Hill entered in the mid-to-high tier."
The clerk glanced at Warren standing silently behind me, then accepted the boxes with trembling hands. Astra Vale had been assigned to the main event of the entire competition—the fiercest battleground of all: the Bordeaux-style red wine ultra-premium category.
That was the guillotine where Napa's cult wines, each bottle worth hundreds of dollars, fought for honor.
"Registered."
The clerk issued my confirmation slip with shaking fingers while every pair of eyes in the lobby watched. A strange tension settled over the space.
On the twelfth floor, in the suite reserved by the Mondavi family—one of Napa Valley's great houses—another council was underway. Eldest son Michael, second son Timothy, and daughter Marcia sat with grave faces over the competition brackets.
"I still don't understand why Father rated that guy so highly."
Michael Mondavi crumpled the bracket sheet that bore the name Astra Vale and muttered. Timothy, however, gazed out at the San Francisco skyline and spoke heavily.
"It isn't just about the taste, brother. It's because Redwood overcame an innate flaw in its land. We still haven't figured out how—and neither has anyone else."
"Aren't you overthinking it?"
"I keep wondering whether Warren Winiarski joining Redwood is the reason itself. Father told us to think about it—how a Cabernet like that could come out of Redwood's terroir. Emily, have you thought about it?"
In the corner of the room, granddaughter Emily Mondavi lifted her head from the shadows. Her laptop screen displayed Redwood's weather data and soil-composition charts.
"I still don't know. I analyzed the climate from last year and the year before—there was no meaningful difference from the surrounding terroir."
"So it isn't a special vintage caused by unusual weather?"
"I'm certain of that."
"Then… different soil?"
But Michael only shrugged, showing little interest.
"Forget it. I don't care. You two figure it out. I'm going to rest."
He left the suite at once. Timothy sighed and shook his head at Emily.
"He just finds it bothersome. Even if we lose, he won't care."
"Yes…"
"But I'm not like that. Neither are you, right?"
"We want to make a cult-level wine of the same caliber as Astra Vale. If it's possible outside To Kalon, then it shouldn't be impossible for us either."
"Hmm… Let's find it. There has to be a way."
Scenes like this were playing out in more than one hotel room. Every winery that had entered the competition was locked in fierce mental combat for survival and ambition.
The next morning the main ballroom of the Palace Hotel became a vast cathedral of silence. Thousands of crystal glasses stood ranked on the judges' tables; white-gloved servers began carefully pouring the wines whose labels had been masked.
In the judges' seats sat world-class critics, Masters of Wine, and legendary sommeliers. Before each of them lay only a silver tray of crackers and a bottle of water for rinsing the palate.
I sat in the very back row of the observers' section, staring at my laptop screen.
"It's begun."
The chief judge rang a small bell, and the white-gloved servers moved in perfect formation, carrying thousands of blind glasses.
Beside me Warren gripped his cane with both hands, watching the judges' faces like a statue—reading every faint twitch of an eyebrow.
"Sir… are you nervous?"
I kept my voice low. Warren smiled faintly and shook his head.
"Not nervous… electrified. Thirty years ago or today, watching those blank faces crack is always a pleasure."
That was when the heavy tread of leather shoes broke the silence and approached our seats. I hadn't even seen the face, yet something in the gait carried an unmistakable force.
I turned and felt a flicker of surprise. The man was even more formidable than I had expected.
"Warren. I never thought I'd see you back in this dusty circus. I was certain you'd retired…"
The voice was bitterly sardonic. Its owner was William Harlan, head of Harlan Estate—the cult winery that alone contested the throne of Napa Valley with Screaming Eagle. Behind him his secretaries stood ranked like a private army.
A former real-estate developer and genius businessman, the so-called Emperor of Cult Wine had built Harlan Estate with the declared ambition of creating "America's Château Latour." Roughly twelve years younger than Warren, he already held more power than almost anyone else in the valley and looked down on most of its wineries.
Warren slowly raised his head and met William's gaze.
"William. You still haven't broken the habit of leading with your nose instead of your mouth. How do you ever expect to know a wine's true heart that way?"
William's eyebrow twitched. He swept his eyes over me—dry, insolent, as if examining a polished machine part.
"So this is the young man you chose as your retirement plan?"
He leaned toward Warren again, ignoring me completely, and asked in a low voice,
"I came out of curiosity. Is the wine hiding behind the name Redwood truly the work of this young Asian fellow? Or is it ghost-making—you pulling every string from the shadows?
Be honest. What percentage of it is actually your hand? Ninety percent? Or did you simply make the whole thing and lend him the name?"
Warren's eyes turned sharp in an instant. It was an insult that struck at a craftsman's pride. Yet instead of anger he merely adjusted his grip on the cane and asked,
"Why does it matter to you?"
"How could it not? I have to wonder whether someone is borrowing another man's name to take a run at Harlan."
"Tsk tsk… William, you're still trapped in the era when men crushed grapes with their feet. My only role was to proofread the perfect equations this young man designed—to check for typos. Everything else came from his head."
"Is that so?"
William tilted his head, then fixed me with a cutting stare.
"These days Napa talks of nothing but Astra Vale… Would you care to invite me to the winery sometime?"
Before I could open my mouth, Warren snorted.
"There goes that nasty habit again. Planning to steal a look at the vineyards?"
"…How disappointing that you still don't understand my sincerity."
He turned to me—still silent, eyes only moving—and said quietly,
"We should share a bottle someday."
With that he left. Warren's face hardened.
"That man values land more than anyone alive. He's dying of curiosity about Redwood's soil. Never, under any circumstances, let him set foot in the vineyard."
I nodded in silence.