The Second San Francisco (2)
The Garden Court, the main restaurant of the Palace Hotel, felt like another world entirely—far removed from the clamor of the banquet halls. Morning sunlight poured through the soaring domed glass ceiling, catching on silver cutlery and dancing for the eye, while the classical strains of a string quartet settled the mind into quiet calm.
William Harlan sat alone at the most secluded table by the window. Impeccable in a deep navy suit and perfectly knotted tie, he carved his steak with a face that somehow remained rigid. Not a single crumb clung to his neat white beard; he looked every bit the immaculate figure.
Just then, two men passing the restaurant entrance spotted him by chance and changed course. One was Mark of Harrington Winery, the so-called titan of Sonoma Valley Pinot Noir; the other was Joseph of Castello Winery, the man who had led the mid-to-high-end Cabernet blending craze in Napa Valley.
“William. Fancy meeting you here.”
Joseph offered his characteristically easy smile and spoke first. William slipped a piece of meat into his mouth, glanced at them over his glasses, and gave a slight nod.
“It’s been a while. Care to join me for a glass?”
Both men’s eyes flicked from the glass in William’s hand to the ice bucket beside him. Inside sat a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Échezeaux—not a wine worth tens of millions of won, but never one that would diminish a man’s stature either.
“Échezeaux… An offer one can hardly refuse.”
They had wanted to talk with him anyway; being invited only removed any reason to decline.
A server soon approached, set two more glasses, and poured. Watching him, William spoke.
“Whenever the San Francisco Chronicle competition comes around, I always take my first-day meal here. Somehow it feels like the scores will turn out well.”
Mark sensed something off. At first he couldn’t name it, but as William’s words continued he understood exactly what made him uncomfortable.
“At my age, simply watching the young ones lifts my spirits. And makes me envious, too. They remind me of the passion and drive of my own youth.”
The content of the words sounded pleasant enough, yet his expression stood in stark opposition.
“I see. It’s all the efforts of the juniors trying to follow in your footsteps, sir.”
“Hah. The efforts of juniors… Aren’t we all competitors? That doesn’t sound like the Harrington who claims to make California’s finest Pinot Noir.”
“We do aspire to be the best.”
For an instant a strange light flickered in William’s eyes.
“Aspire to be the best? The last time I saw you, you didn’t seem so short on confidence… Why? Feeling it might be difficult this time?”
“You’ve misunderstood. I’m always confident. Harrington always pursues the highest.”
“…”
William regarded Mark with an unreadable gaze, then turned his head toward Joseph Higgins.
“Your Castello Aurora Blend moved up into the mid-to-high range this time, didn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“It was fairly decent.”
A simple appraisal. Yet Joseph’s face twisted as he read the disappointment buried inside it, before smoothing over again as if nothing had happened.
“The market these days is changing in no ordinary way.”
Joseph swirled the wine in his hand and spoke. His voice carried the genuine worries of a working proprietor.
“Especially the mid-to-low lines—they’re shaking hard. Young consumers now find the heavy Cabernets packed with oak simply boring. They’re looking for something fresh yet complex… and reasonably priced. Our winemaking team has been raising hell, lowering fermentation temperatures, adjusting maceration times, yet finding that golden ratio is anything but easy.”
Mark from Sonoma chimed in.
“It’s the same on the Pinot Noir side. The weather’s so capricious that keeping the old delicacy is getting far too hard. I worry it’ll only grow more unpredictable… William, how about Harlan Estate? You’re still holding to the ‘200-year plan,’ aren’t you?”
The 200-year plan Harlan had proclaimed was a long-term vision: to forge, in America’s Napa Valley, a family and land legacy that would endure across centuries the way the European châteaux did.
“We remain unchanged. A little shift in market or weather is, in the long view, nothing more than a passing fashion. Look at the great Bordeaux houses of France. For hundreds of years they have kept their tradition in one place and preserved that value intact. Wine is not fashion. Wine is the history of the land, and the patience of the people who guard it. That freshness or golden ratio you speak of is nothing but artificial manipulation. Lose the essence and wine sinks to mere alcoholic beverage. Don’t waver. The land does not betray.”
His words carried real persuasive force. The very foundation that had built Harlan Estate into Napa’s empire was precisely that terroir absolutism.
The problem was that such words could only be spoken by Harlan Estate—holders of To Kalon who also possessed the skill to craft the finest blending wines. Castello, still lacking in many technical respects, and Harrington, not even situated in Napa Valley, found it hard to swallow the speech whole.
Perhaps that was why Joseph’s voice rose a fraction.
“About that essence, sir. The eye of the storm at this competition… what do you make of Redwood? Seeing Warren Winiarski stuck to that young Asian fellow’s side, it didn’t look as if he’d simply lent his name.”
For a heartbeat the hand carving the steak stilled, then moved again. William put the meat in his mouth and set the fork down; the clink rang out with unusual sharpness.
“Warren…”
The moment William murmured the name, the keen edge of emotion hidden behind the gentlemanly mask leaked through. His eyes turned cold in an instant.
“That man has clearly gone senile. A gentleman who lived his whole life as the pride of Napa… dancing to the tune of some green Asian pup. This is an insult to Napa Valley.”
Mark and Joseph exchanged glances, startled by the fiercer reaction than they had expected. But William was not finished.
“What on earth is he trying to do? Learn something from a young Asian kid who doesn’t share a single drop of blood with him? Or does he mean to raise Redwood the way he raised Stag’s Leap?”
That final sentence was enough to make both men’s hearts drop. Had anyone else said it they might have scoffed, yet coming from the man who had actually built Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars, the words could never sound like empty bluster.
No—perhaps it would even be easier than in his youth. He already had the memory of having succeeded once.
“Surely not?”
Mark voiced the doubt with a note of desperate hope, but William Harlan only snorted.
“Hmph! Who can say? Starting something new past seventy—is that the sort of ambition ordinary men possess? And under a wet-behind-the-ears youngster… an Asian, no less?”
“……”
Both men nodded heavily. Even the young found it hard to abandon what they already possessed and begin anew; how much harder for a man in his later years to place himself under someone younger?
In that moment a curious thought struck Mark. Why was William this agitated? Why such a hypersensitive reaction?
Yet he could hardly ask outright.
“There must have been something at Redwood we don’t know about… something that could catch Warren’s interest.”
“Of course there was.”
Harlan’s firm nod made Mark feel he almost had the answer. The reason he was this touchy—Warren’s move had clearly prodded his own unease.
“What could it be? This year’s Astra Vale was certainly a shock. From what I hear, even the blending ratios are completely different from the old Stag’s Leap. Which means that structure was already in place at that Asian winery before Warren ever laid a hand on it…”
He cast the bait lightly… and the instant his eyes met William’s, Mark felt a chill. Twisting his lips into a cold smile aimed straight at him, William’s expression said, I see right through your little game.
Yet he opened his mouth again as if nothing were amiss.
“Blending ratios… Yes. That, too, would be something that interests Warren.”
And with that he said no more.
This fox of an old man…
Mark was certain. William Harlan had no intention of revealing the place that made him uneasy… which, of course, only made Mark more curious.
“In any case, this San Francisco contest should prove most interesting. I’ll be watching both of your results with quiet interest as well.”
In other words: I’ve nothing more to say—be on your way.
“I’ll be wishing for Harlan Estate’s victory as well.”
“I’m sure you’ll post excellent results.”
“Thank you.”
William smiled and took a measured sip of the now-chilled Échezeaux.
Once the two men had left the table and were walking out through the lobby, Joseph glanced at Mark, who was lost in thought, and asked,
“What’s got you so deep in thought?”
“Just… thinking that William Harlan seems more concerned about Warren than I expected.”
“Of course he’d be concerned. The man who gave him the confidence to enter the wine business in the first place was Warren.”
In 1976, when Warren Winiarski’s Stag’s Leap defeated the First Growth châteaux of Bordeaux at the Judgment of Paris, William Harlan had still been a real-estate developer.
So the fact that he bought land in Napa Valley and began running a winery under the banner of American wine was, in truth, because Warren had shown him what was possible.
Everyone in the trade knew why Harlan had toured European wineries with Robert Mondavi in the 1980s and drawn up the 200-year plan: he meant to turn the possibility Warren had proved into a lasting family legacy.
“I understand that much… but he still seems more bothered than he should be. Harlan Estate already sits higher, and Warren’s even cleaned house at Stag’s Leap…”
“That part strikes me as odd too.”
They shook their heads and walked straight through the lobby and out of the hotel.
And then…
“Was there some kind of rival relationship between the two of them?”
I asked from the bench under the landscaping tree right beside where Mark and Joseph had been standing. Warren looked at me as if the question were absurd.
“Rival? Hardly… though that fellow William could certainly feel that way toward me.”
“Huh? Looking at it coldly, he came into Napa later than you and still sells wine at higher prices. Didn’t you feel even a little competitive? Not at all?”
“As market competitors, sure, but I never particularly minded William alone. Still, if William is conscious of me, I know the reason.”
“What is it?”
“I told you before. William Harlan is obsessed with land.”
It was a short answer, yet I understood exactly what Warren meant.
“Ah… Your wine wasn’t from To Kalon, was it?”
The Stag’s Leap District AVA lay southeast of Oakville along the Silverado Trail, while Harlan Estate sat in Oakville itself—home of To Kalon.
William Harlan, who prized terroir above all else, and Warren Winiarski, who had worked a miracle at the Judgment of Paris despite sitting on lesser ground. It was only natural that Harlan would feel competitive toward the man who had wrought a miracle beyond terroir.
“That’s what makes this San Francisco contest even more fun. If your wine, even without To Kalon, earns an evaluation anywhere near Harlan’s… William will be so furious he’ll want to climb the walls. Because every philosophy he’s ever held about wine will be turned upside down.”
Warren smiled faintly.
“Come on—even if you say otherwise, you were a little conscious of him yourself, weren’t you? You look like you’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Haha. It’s not that I’m happy about putting that guy in his place. It’s that I look forward to him feeling the same shock I once felt. That fresh jolt I got the first time at Silver Oak.”