The Second San Francisco (3)
The Gold Room, tucked deep within the Palace Hotel, felt like a fortress sealed completely from outside light and noise. As the venue for the final round of the San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition’s highest peak—the Cult/Premium Bordeaux Blending category—the atmosphere grew heavier still.
The three figures seated at the judges’ table were living legends whose mere presence could sway the global spirits market.
In the center sat the veteran critic who had devoted forty years exclusively to Napa Valley wines: Robert Parker Jr. With a single line of commentary he could resurrect a failing winery or send a corporate giant’s stock plummeting; he was known as the “God’s Tongue.” A conservative who worshipped terroir authenticity and dense structure, he believed Napa’s true path lay in surpassing Bordeaux through overwhelming power.
To his left sat Henri Dufresne, one of only some two hundred Masters of Sommelier (MS) in the world. Rumor held that he could deconstruct a wine’s aromas down to the molecular level and correctly name a vine’s age and the soil’s viscosity. French-born, he possessed an exceptional gift for detecting the vulgarity that sometimes lurked beneath the flamboyance of American wines—a precision machine of the palate.
Finally there was Sarah Jenkins, lead editor of an authoritative wine magazine. Sensitive to trends yet deeply invested in the artistic narrative a wine could carry, she often described wine not merely as fermented grape juice but as poetry trapped inside a bottle.
“Let’s finish this. My stomach’s starting to feel heavy.”
Robert adjusted his glasses and spoke in a low voice.
The reason judges could taste so many wines without becoming drunk was simple: they never swallowed. After swirling the liquid across every sensory surface of the tongue, they spat it into the spittoon set before them, preventing intoxication. Even so, alcohol absorbed through the mucous membranes still produced a mild buzz—which only made swallowing all the more unthinkable.
In front of him, dozens of water glasses and cracker fragments already lay scattered in disarray. Days of thousands of tastings had pushed their senses to the absolute limit. Their tongue membranes were exhausted by acid and tannin; their olfactory receptors were nearly paralyzed by intense oak.
“We’ve filled our stomachs with nothing but water and crackers.”
“We’re almost done—hang in there. And from here on out is the real show.”
Henri Dufresne and Sarah Jenkins exchanged faint smiles of encouragement.
The wines of the first flight were set down in silence by white-gloved servers.
Glass 302. The moment he swirled it, Robert’s eyes narrowed. The tears running down the glass wall were unusually thick and viscous. A Napa Valley cult wine—almost certainly Harlan Estate or Screaming Eagle caliber.
Robert buried his nose in the glass and drew a deep breath. Dense vanilla, smoked leather, and ripe black plum crashed over his nasal passages like a tidal wave. When he took the wine into his mouth, the impact of alcohol nearing 15 percent arrived together with massive tannins that clamped down hard on his tongue.
“A classic emperor of Napa.”
Robert offered the brief assessment and recorded a score in the high nineties. Henri agreed.
“It is a perfectly cut jewel. The lavish embrace of the finest new French oak is dazzling. This is the most spectacular summit Napa Valley can reach. The public will gladly open their wallets for a jewel they can never easily possess.”
Sarah, equally captivated, emptied her glass. Glasses 305 and 310 followed in succession.
Every one of them was heavy and majestic, as though it had drunk the Napa sun dry. Yet as the procession of similarly concentrated, full-bodied wines continued, fatigue gradually darkened the judges’ faces. It was the sensory saturation one feels after standing too long beneath a blazing sun—a kind of dizziness.
Sarah asked with a wry smile,
“Everyone holding up all right?”
“This is the last flight. We have to endure.”
Henri answered with a weak laugh and emptied his glass without expression.
Then a server set down the glass marked 402. Henri Dufresne lifted it out of habit. The instant he pushed his nose into the bowl, his upper body stiffened as if struck by electricity.
“……!”
He froze completely. The eyes that were usually as cold as a machine began to tremble. He gave a small, disbelieving shake of his head and then inhaled again—deeply, very deeply.
Where the previous wines had pressed the judges with leather, dark chocolate, sun-baked asphalt, and pure solar heat, the aromas rising from 402 touched an entirely different dimension of sensation.
“This is… the air of a forest where the dawn mist has not yet lifted.”
Henri’s murmur made Robert Parker raise his head. In all their years he had never once heard Henri use such an emotional expression.
Robert picked up glass 402. The liquid was not the dense ink of the earlier wines. It was a clear, luminous deep ruby—transparent as if a gemstone had been melted, yet holding an unfathomable depth.
He took the wine into his mouth. The moment he slowly rolled the liquid across his entire tongue, Robert Parker’s brow furrowed. It was not displeasure. It was the shock of meeting a new correct answer that existed nowhere in the vast database he had built over forty years.
Napa Valley’s signature powerful energy was certainly present, filling the mouth. But what supported that immense force was not heavy oak. It was acidity—blade-sharp, crystal-clear acidity.
“Good heavens… how is this even possible?”
Sarah Jenkins set her glass down with a sigh of awe. A strange reverence shone in her eyes.
“The tannins are smoother than silk. Yet the structure hidden inside them is as solid as a Gothic cathedral built of marble. It has Napa’s muscle, but the cool soul of the Sonoma coast dwells within it. This winemaker… is like a magician who extracted only nature’s purest essence and then reassembled it with exquisite precision.”
Henri Dufresne had closed his eyes entirely. Through the liquid in the glass he was seeing the panorama of a vineyard.
“The sensation rolling across the palate is not liquid; it is as flexible as a living organism. Where high-alcohol heat should sit, refreshing mineral notes have taken its place instead. Even after swallowing, the wild cherry and white pepper lingering in the nasal cavity refuse to fade for more than a full minute. Remarkable. This is an entirely new grammar, completely free of the existing Napa formula.”
Robert Parker remained silent for a long time. He did not reach for the beaker to spit as he normally would. Instead, with the solemnity of a sacred rite, he slowly… very slowly… let the precious liquid slide down his throat. After drawing one more deep breath of the empty glass’s lingering perfume, he finally lifted his fountain pen.
The tip of his fingers trembled faintly.
“The old wineries are going to be turned upside down.”
Robert’s low voice broke the silence. The usual acid of his speech had given way to the humility of an old soldier.
“At the same time, I believe we have just met the wine that will lead Napa Valley from now on.”
The three judges looked at one another. Further discussion was pointless. They had no idea whose wine this was or by what genius method it had been made, yet they shared one absolute certainty: what rested in glass 402 was today’s true protagonist—a historical achievement worthy of the competition’s authority.
Sarah Jenkins entered her numbers on the score sheet. Henri Dufresne’s and Robert Parker’s pens moved without hesitation.
Beside scores that converged on perfection, Robert Parker left a single trembling line of overall comment in his own hand.
A new era for Napa has begun.
While their scorecards radiated overwhelming presence in the silence, outside the banquet hall William Harlan and the Mondavi heirs still smiled, utterly convinced that good results awaited them.
The awards ceremony that would crown the San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition. The hall was already hot with the energy radiated by wine-industry titans in glittering evening gowns and tuxedos.
Moreover, the air inside was charged with a strange electricity—thanks to the storm named “Redwood” that had been blowing since the earliest awards.
“Mid-to-high-tier Cabernet Blending, Best of Class…… Redwood Winery, Echelon!”
Every time the host’s announcement fell, a murmur swept the audience. That a fledgling winery had claimed the throne in the mid-to-high blending category—Napa’s pride—was only the beginning. When Redwood’s Sylphid and Quiet Hill then swept Double Gold side by side in the Pinot Noir categories, the hall was seized by shock that went beyond astonishment. And because the name had also appeared in the Bordeaux-style red cult category, “Redwood” was delivering a series of blows to everyone present.
“Impossible. Can one winery really reach the summit in two weight classes at once?”
“They said Warren Winiarski was behind them—he didn’t just lend his name.”
Amid the industry whispers, William Harlan stared at the stage with a rigid face. Everything awarded so far meant nothing to him. For him, the real prize was still to come.
The ceremony now held only one final announcement: the Best of Show—the single greatest red wine of the competition. That honor was granted only to the one bottle among all category winners that had received near-unanimous perfect scores from the judges—the wine that would symbolize California for the entire year.
Robert Parker, chairman of the judging panel, stepped onto the stage. The acid-tongued critic of ordinary days was gone; his expression was grave to the point of solemnity as he stood before the microphone.
“This year’s judging was painful.”
At his first words the hall fell silent as if cold water had been thrown over it.
“After tasting thousands of wines we realized that Napa Valley has been resting comfortably inside the great fortress it built for itself. But on the final day we encountered a miraculous liquid that shattered that fortress in a single stroke. That wine moved us. It showed us not the realm of technique, but the realm of art.”
Robert Parker slowly opened the envelope. Seeing his hand tremble faintly, the front-row photographers began firing their shutters in a frenzy.
“The 2007 San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition overall grand champion. Best of Show—the greatest red wine—is…”
Robert Parker lifted his head and fixed his gaze on one precise point in the audience. There sat a young Asian man whose expression remained calm, and beside him the old soldier Warren Winiarski, wearing a smile mixed with long-held regret.
“He’s looking right at us.”
“You sure? Our eyes did meet, but…”
“I’m telling you it is.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Hey—I said it is.”
I tried to keep my expression under control, afraid of looking ridiculous if I got excited for nothing. Then Robert spoke with a meaningful look.
“Blind number 402. Redwood Winery…… Astra Vale!”
Explosive cheers erupted as thousands of spectators rose to their feet as one. Camera flashes brighter than the chandeliers lit up my face.
“Congratulations, Brian. You did it. See? I told you.”
Warren clapped Brian’s shoulder and stood.
“Thank you. It’s all thanks to you, sir.”
“Get up there. Go!”
I waved as I walked toward the stage. Wherever I passed, Napa’s giants stepped aside and watched me with reverence.
On the stage I received the heavy trophy from Robert Parker. He clasped my hand and whispered into my ear.
“Now I understand why Warren Winiarski went to Redwood.”
I offered a faint smile and stepped to the microphone. After a brief breath I spoke quietly.
“Many people speak of terroir. They talk of the land’s history and tradition. I respect those values as well. But rather than simply accept the gifts the land offers, I calculated the numbers of the pain it utters. I captured, as data, the will to survive that a vine pours out under extreme conditions, and then I borrowed Warren’s intuition to breathe life into that equation. That is all. Going forward, Redwood will continue to give its utmost effort to make the finest wines. Thank you.”
When I finished, thunderous applause broke out. And right in the middle of it, the figure of William Harlan—unable even to clap, rising quietly and turning to leave—caught my eye with particular clarity.