Second San Francisco (4)
Even after the lights of the awards hall dimmed, the heat in the Palace Hotel’s main ballroom refused to cool. If anything, the moment the official program ended, the suppressed energy erupted all at once.
“Brian Choi! Look this way! How does it feel to be the first ever overall champion in the history of the San Francisco Chronicle?”
“How much did Mr. Warren Winiarski help you?”
The gazes of the reporters surrounding me were hotter and more blatant than ever before. Their barrage of questions felt like an artillery strike; I tried to keep my usual blank expression amid the throng of recorders and camera lenses. Truthfully, my mind was busier with calculations other than the joy of victory—the per-bottle premium Astra Vale would command after this win, and where I would have to source the premium Merlot needed to maintain this quality next year.
“I’m sorry. We’ll arrange a proper interview at a later date.”
I answered briefly and waited for them to clear a path. Beside me, Warren lightly tapped the floor with his cane. Even that small sound made the veteran reporters flinch and subside. So this was the dignity of a master; I marveled inwardly.
“Easy, everyone. Let the young genius breathe. Tonight’s protagonist is the wine, not this fellow’s lips. Direct your questions later through the distributor, Whites & Co.”
Thanks to Warren’s deft handling, we finally escaped into the middle of the lobby. Waiting there, however, were people far more difficult to deal with than reporters.
“Congratulations, Brian. And Elder Warren. So this is how you prove your path.”
At the low, weighty voice I turned to find Timothy Mondavi, the second son of Robert Mondavi, standing before us. At his side was Emily Mondavi, clutching a notebook tightly to her chest. Timothy’s expression was complicated. Defeat as a member of the family that once held the throne of Napa Valley warred fiercely on his face with the reverence of a true wine lover.
“Timothy, a man must learn and strive until the day he dies. I’m not finished yet. Don’t look at me as if I’m already on my deathbed.”
Warren replied with an easy smile. Timothy gave a bitter laugh and extended his hand to me.
“Brian, I have no choice but to admit it. Robert Parker’s piece on ‘Napa’s New Era’ was shocking even to me. And to interpret Pinot Noir two different ways and take Double Gold for both… Sonoma will be more furious than we are, but it was genuinely astonishing. We’ll do our best to keep up.”
Timothy of Continuum Estate, the legitimate heir of the Mondavi lineage, laid bare his feelings with resolute eyes to a junior far younger than himself.
“Thank you. I’ll keep working to maintain the quality of the winery.”
At my reply, Emily Mondavi stepped closer. Her gaze was far sharper than before, but it was not hostility—it was a ruthless hunger to understand.
“Brian, Grandfather… would like to invite you to the estate this weekend for dinner. Not an official occasion. He said he wants to talk only with you, only about wine. Will you come?”
An invitation from the godfather of Napa Valley, Robert Mondavi. Warren’s eyebrows twitched as he looked at me. I finished a quick calculation and nodded.
“It would be an honor. I’ll gladly pay my respects.”
The moment the Mondavi family withdrew, a group approached from the opposite side with a rough stride. William Harlan of Harlan Estate. He fixed me with eyes far colder than earlier. The open scorn from before had been replaced by something profoundly calm and deep as an abyss.
“Warren. So the star of tonight is you after all.”
Harlan spoke. His voice was soft, yet a honed blade lay hidden within it. He glanced at me, then fixed his gaze back on Warren.
“No—more precisely, is the star the eye that chose him? To shake the order of Napa once more after 1976… Your later years are truly splendid.”
Warren adjusted his grip on the cane and smiled faintly.
“William, that’s an unusually long preamble for you. And a mistake besides… Tonight’s protagonist is not me, but this young man here—Brian.”
“Oh, Warren. We both know the truth. When the entire American wine world points to Redwood, it is you standing beside him who shine the brightest.”
“In time everyone will see the essence… So what is it you actually want to say?”
“I’m curious about the true nature of the magic this young friend wields.”
Harlan approached me slowly. The thick scent of cigar that clung to him pressed down like a physical weight. He stared into my eyes and whispered low.
“Brian Choi, was it? Impressive blending skill. And deeper still is that imagination. How did you arrive at such combinations? And… Redwood… How did such a powerfully structured Cabernet come out of that land?”
He turned back to Warren and twisted his mouth.
“Warren, you spent a lifetime singing the praises of terroir. Yet right now you seem like a different man from the one I knew. I hold the most noble soil in Napa, but tonight Robert Parker’s score sheet awarded higher marks to your retirement plan than to my earth. An unbelievable result, but I’ll try to understand it. Tell him I’m grateful for the pleasant shock.”
It was a declaration foreshadowing change from Harlan Estate, the very emblem of Napa Valley cult wine. Even Warren looked faintly startled by the surprising statement.
“It won’t be easy… This young man’s methods have peculiarities even I would like to learn.”
At those words William Harlan glared at me, then said,
“The history of Harlan Estate is only beginning.”
He spun on his heel and strode away. Warren watched his receding figure and spoke.
“See that? That’s the unsightly state of a man whose crown has been taken. But be careful. Once William sets his sights on a piece of land, he always seizes it. His target now will be the soil of Redwood. He’ll be going mad wondering how a Cabernet that doesn’t yield to To Kalon came out of Redwood’s ground.”
“Truthfully we’re not there yet… It’ll take a few more years before a true To Kalon-level Cabernet emerges. It’s a pity.”
The quality of the Cabernet that formed the core of this Astra Vale was indeed outstanding, yet I still could not confidently claim it rivaled To Kalon Cabernet. If I coldly assessed why Astra Vale had received such high marks, the answer was novelty. A Cabernet-centered blend that delivered a sensation never shown before—that was the reason for the elevated scores. In a few years, once it became familiar on people’s tongues, the fashion would move on again. But that did not matter. By then the reconstruction of Silver Oak Farm would be complete and a near-perfect Cabernet Sauvignon would be born.
When we stepped outside the hotel, the cool night air greeted us. At that moment my phone rang. It was Christopher White, the man who would be happiest about today’s results.
“I heard the results! What on earth… I feel like I’m dreaming!”
From his voice one would have thought Christopher, not I, had won the award.
“I expected us to reach Best of Line, but even I didn’t foresee Best of Show.”
“Why didn’t you call me yourself? I had to hear the results from a contact at Sotheby’s in New York!”
“What? What do you mean…?”
“Just now I got a call from Sotheby’s New York. They want to put an unreleased lot of Astra Vale into a special auction! They’re setting the opening bid at eight hundred dollars a bottle! Does that even make sense? The moment it launches it becomes a cult wine legend!”
“Calm down, Christopher.”
He was far beyond calm and kept pouring out words.
“Don’t worry. Scarcity management is my specialty, isn’t it? Orders are pouring in simultaneously from London, Hong Kong, and Tokyo right now, but I’ll control the volume and keep the price from falling.”
“Yes, yes. Please do that.”
I hung up and climbed into the car. Warren regarded me with a kindly smile.
“Redwood has now become, in name and in fact, a winery that represents Napa Valley. I always knew a moment like this would come, but I never expected it so soon—less than a year after I joined.”
“I believe it’s all because you balanced it at the end, Elder. If it had been released exactly as I made it, it might have received good scores, but Best of Show would have been impossible.”
The technical ability of a world-class master and someone slightly below that level might not differ greatly. Yet between them exists a difference of sensibility that words cannot easily capture. Warren had bridged the gap I might or might not have closed even after another decade or more of effort.
“Even without me, it’s a level you would have reached someday. It’s nothing special.”
“That’s not true.”
“By the way, looking back, I regret not saying something more to William.”
“What do you mean?”
“He claimed to be concerned about me, yet he talked only about Astra Vale the whole time. What I really wanted to show him wasn’t that.”
“Ah…!”
“If I let him taste Ruby Quartz, he’d understand exactly where I stand now. It’s a real shame I can’t see the look on his face after that.”
“Hahaha! I feel the same!”
And so we returned to Napa Valley in the luxury sedan.
When we arrived at the farm, my father and mother were already waiting, having heard the news in advance. The moment my car appeared in the distance, Father popped a champagne cork and came running.
“My son! Brian! You really did it! All of Napa is plastered with the Redwood name! Is that the trophy? Let me hold it!”
“Dad, calm down. You’re going to break the trophy.”
“Hohoho, your father’s over the moon.”
Father gazed at the Best of Show trophy I had received with an enraptured expression, turning it this way and that under the light, while Mother looked on with equal wonder.
“My goodness… our son brought something like this home…”
“My chest feels so full I can hardly stand it.”
Father, who had never once shown tears in his life, blinked moist eyes, and Mother wiped the corners of hers with her hand. At the sight, a soft warmth rose unbidden in my own chest and I turned my head away.
“We can’t let a night like this just pass.”
“Then what?”
“In America it’s all about the party, right? We have to throw a party! It’s too late today… Tomorrow! Let’s have a party tomorrow. I’ll buy a mountain of meat first thing in the morning. As for drinks… we’re Redwood. You think we’d be short of wine?”
Hearing it, I had to admit Father was completely right. This place was already the finest wine cellar imaginable; nowhere could be better for a celebration.
From the next morning Father and the staff were busy with festival preparations. Father drove off in a rented truck to fetch a large barbecue grill and more, while Mother moved about in a whirlwind preparing the party food; the sight of them was thoroughly pleasant to watch.
I, however, did not join the chaotic preparations.
“What are you thinking about?”
Warren had somehow drawn near me as I stood blankly looking down over the vineyards.
“Just… thinking about the vines.”
“The vines?”
“How to spend this winter… dormancy management, I suppose you’d call it.”
Warren wore an expression of admiration.
“As expected… there’s a reason the finest Cabernet Sauvignon came from this place.”
Then he raised his cane and pointed far into the distance.
“See over theeere? People moving?”
“What? Your eyes are sharp, Elder.”
“It’s not that far.”
Just as Warren said, several figures were moving near the farm’s boundary line.
“From the looks of it, investigators sent by William Harlan, wouldn’t you say?”
Looking closer, an unfamiliar SUV was parked beside them. They appeared to be examining the soil condition through binoculars.
“They’ve brought a soil composition analyzer, it seems. But it won’t do them any good. What they’re looking at is only the surface dirt. The drainage system I buried three meters down and the organic relationships of the microbial communities—they could die and come back and still never understand those.”
“Haha, truly the master. But don’t lower your guard. Money cannot change terroir, yet it can buy terroir wholesale. William is already planning how to swallow the ground beneath our feet whole.”
I nodded silently. William Harlan’s containment, the Mondavi family’s invitation, and the flood of orders from around the world. To wear the crown meant one also had to endure the arrows that came with it.