The Return of the Prodigal Son (2)
Once the storm of tears and reunion had passed, a simple meal was laid out. There was bread Elias had roughly sliced, smoked meat he had cured himself, and a bottle of Quiet Hill I had brought him some time ago, still in its case.
Daniel had not only washed; he had changed into clean clothes—his father’s, admittedly—and trimmed his beard. The transformation left him looking every bit the handsome middle-aged man he was.
“...Truly remarkable. To think you rose so high at that French domaine with the difficult name.”
Elias kept nodding in wonder at every story his son laid before him. Daniel swirled the wine in his glass, shoulders finally square, smiling for the first time in front of his father. The smile carried the quiet pride of a man whose talent had at last repaid every old wound.
“Dad, do you have any idea how hard it was to earn recognition at Domaine Leroy? Words can’t even begin to cover it.”
“I can imagine. To climb as high as assistant winemaker at a place like that... ordinary effort would never have been enough. I’m proud of you.”
Under his father’s warm gaze, Daniel’s smile deepened.
“When I was assistant winemaker there, French graduates from the best schools lined up under me. You know Madame Lalou, right? That old woman is impossibly exacting. But when she saw the blending proportions I’d devised, she said, ‘You don’t seem like an American—you must have been born in Burgundy.’ High praise from her.”
Daniel’s voice rose with excitement. His expression and manner might have looked like bragging, yet if he truly had been assistant winemaker at Domaine Leroy, the career was anything but ordinary. The pride did not feel excessive.
“Incredible. Those Harrington people never recognized talent like yours.”
“Exactly. Hmph. Even Harrington’s flagship wines today started from my imagination...”
Elias gripped his son’s hand tightly. The knowledge that his boy had crushed every humiliation suffered abroad with pure ability was sweeter compensation to the old man than any other success imaginable.
As the night deepened and the wine took hold, Elias closed his eyes first. Daniel lifted him gently and settled him onto the bed. Only the two of us remained in the living room. He refilled my cup with warm tea and spoke quietly.
“Brian. Seeing my father again has settled something for me.”
“......?”
Daniel’s eyes sharpened. The son who had been boasting to a long-lost father vanished; in his place stood a winemaker of keen intuition.
“Take me into Redwood. Not as an acquaintance— as a member of your team. I want to pour every technique and every scrap of know-how I learned in France into Redwood. Quiet Hill decided it for me. The place I need to be is Redwood in Napa Valley. If I join, I will be of real use to you. Think about it. Word that Redwood has hired Domaine Leroy’s former assistant winemaker will draw every talented winemaker in the industry.”
The title of assistant winemaker at Leroy was a cheat code in the wine world. Any major winery would have thrown a fat check at him without hesitation. His confident expression and unwavering eyes made it clear he expected me to accept with gratitude.
“Hmm...”
I had kept him here expecting some other conversation; the sudden offer to join Redwood left me scrambling for a polite refusal.
My silence stretched. It was Daniel who grew flustered first.
“...Brian? Is the offer lacking? If it’s salary or terms—”
“No. It isn’t about terms.”
I cut off his hurried persuasion and spoke calmly.
“Your career is brilliant, Mr. Grendel. Working at the pinnacle of Burgundy, your technical skill must be flawless. But... Redwood has its own way. We build everything on data-driven precision viticulture and winemaking systems. As for the shortage of specialists—Warren’s arrival has already filled that gap quite well.”
He looked openly startled.
“I know Warren is extraordinary, but... isn’t he a Cabernet Sauvignon specialist? When it comes to Pinot Noir, I don’t believe I’m inferior to him.”
“What Redwood needs is someone who understands my philosophy and can extract the best possible results inside my system. To be frank... I have doubts whether a man still full of the pride of having been Leroy’s assistant can truly adapt to Redwood’s methods. Even Warren only advises me; when it comes to actual winemaking, he follows my system. So while I have the help of a master like Warren Winiarski, I don’t see a compelling reason to bring in Domaine Leroy’s former assistant winemaker simply because he sits at the summit of French Pinot Noir.”
I had softened the edges, but the meaning was plain: you are not Warren, so why should I hire you?
Daniel’s face hardened in an instant. In the hometown he had returned to after twenty years, the one young man who had recognized him—the genius he had believed in—had just judged him insufficient. His pride was being ground underfoot, yet Brian’s eyes held unshakable certainty.
“Insufficient... me?”
Daniel let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Ah, not that you’re lacking. Simply that with Warren already here, there is no particular reason to bring in another winemaker.”
Which amounted to the same thing.
“Brian, you clearly don’t know me yet. I survived fifteen years under Madame Lalou. My nose and palate are more precise than any machine!”
“And we already have one person like that...”
In other words: even if you are as precise as a machine, can you surpass Warren?
Silence settled. Daniel clenched his fists. I half expected him to explode, but I could not hire someone on recognition alone. If he cursed me, I would simply take the abuse...
“Fine. You’re entitled to think that. I’m still only an assistant winemaker who hasn’t shown anything under my own name. Perhaps Redwood’s extreme perfectionism is exactly why a masterpiece like Quiet Hill was born.”
“......”
“Since no wine has ever carried my name, you see no reason Redwood would need me.”
The title of Domaine Leroy’s assistant winemaker was enormous in the industry, yet every wine left the cellar under Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy’s name. Daniel Grendel’s own name had never been allowed to shine. He was admitting that, without a philosophy expressed under his own label, the title was all he had to offer.
Daniel drew a long breath and fixed me with a hard stare.
“All right. Then I’ll prove it. How my senses create synergy on top of your system. How does that sound?”
“......”
Do I really have to...
I wanted to refuse outright, but the middle-aged man was looking at me with such bright, earnest eyes that I could not bring myself to tell him to give up and go home. This was no stranger; this was the son Elias had spent a lifetime searching for, returned after twenty years. Cutting him off coldly felt wrong. Besides, I still remembered pleading with Elias for those grapes...
“Hmm... My friend Armando has a vineyard in Alexander Valley.”
“Huh? Ah... and?”
“It’s called Laguna Creek—only thirteen acres, not large. As you know, the climate there runs a bit warm for Pinot Noir and the soil is rather coarse. After he took it over he stabilized the place by selling grape vinegar, but... would you be willing to try making a Laguna Creek wine of its own?”
It was a project I had intended to start anyway. I wanted to give Armando a gift.
For all his talk and wandering eye, Armando was always diligent when it came to the work itself. Every month the Laguna Creek reports he sent were packed with meticulous detail—vine health, fertilizer rates, expected yields, vinegar sales. Only real affection for a farm produced notes like those, and this winter he was already working the soil furiously for next year. The vinegar business had done well enough that even through the subprime crisis he had paid off every debt. Now I wanted to help him make wine, not just vinegar.
“A Laguna Creek wine? Not Redwood’s?”
“Yes. Make wine from those grapes. You learned aristocratic methods at Leroy, but this is not France. In its own way the rough land of Alexander Valley is thoroughly American. I want to see what answer you find in that soil. If you can prove your own excellence there... then I will formally invite you as a Redwood winemaker.”
Daniel gave a hollow little laugh, yet his eyes burned with keen fighting spirit.
“Alexander Valley—shouldn’t that be Cabernet Sauvignon rather than Pinot Noir?”
“Are you planning to touch only Pinot Noir if you join Redwood? I need someone outstanding across the board, or else—”
Before I finished he corrected himself at once.
“I was only asking. Not complaining.”
“...Good. The Cabernet should be aging in the tanks right now. You won’t be able to touch it from before fermentation, so it may not please you, but this trial isn’t going straight to market. Just show me possibility.”
He nodded with a set face.
“All right. I’ll do it. I survived the cellars of Burgundy. Armando’s farm, you said? I’ll be in that vineyard first thing tomorrow. Once you see what I can do, you’ll be the one on your knees begging me to join.”
“I’ll look forward to it, Mr. Grendel.”
At this moment primary fermentation would just have finished and malolactic fermentation—MLF, the secondary fermentation—would be under way. How much skill could a man show when dropped into the middle of the process?
I was a little curious myself.
Alexander Valley, nestled in the northeastern corner of Sonoma County, is a place of fierce inland sun by day and river fog by night—large diurnal swings and heat that favor Cabernet Sauvignon, which occupies more than half the plantings. In autumn the dry, rough winds make wildfire a constant worry. Daniel arrived with his hair whipping in that wind and stepped onto Laguna Creek.
“You’re the man Brian mentioned? The one from Leroy?”
Armando, skin dark from the sun, eyed him with open suspicion. He handed over a roughly rinsed tasting glass and added bluntly:
“Just so you know up front—Brian is such a genius that you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little skeptical of you. You know the story, right? That Warren Winiarski—the legendary figure of Napa Valley—got down on his knees before Brian’s talent and joined Redwood?”
Daniel had never heard of Warren kneeling to anyone, but he felt the faith and awe radiating from Armando and simply nodded.
“I’ve heard.”
“Word is you did pretty well somewhere in France, but around here humility is a good idea. Especially in front of Brian. Anyway, every grape on this farm is grown strictly according to Brian’s system. Don’t make the mistake of thinking vinegar grapes are grown any old way.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
“...Good. That’s the right attitude. Follow me.”
He led Daniel into the winery. In front of an aging tank that looked a little dated, Armando spoke again.
“We’re still making vinegar, so the tanks are like this, but once we start wine I’ll switch to state-of-the-art ones. Ones Brian set up himself. You don’t know what that means yet, do you?”
“...There’s something special about them?”
“Exactly...”
Armando smiled oddly and opened the valve. Vivid purple Cabernet Sauvignon juice filled the glass. Professional to the core, Daniel forgot the conversation and brought the glass to his nose without even swirling.
Harsh gas still carrying the memory of fermentation and the raw scent of unrefined alcohol hit him. The liquid that followed flooded his mouth with aggressive tannin and sharp acidity—wild-horse wine, pure and simple.
“Well? It’s a long way from what French aristocrats drink, but I can guarantee the grapes themselves are sound.”
Impressed despite himself by Armando’s confidence, Daniel nodded.
“You’re right. This juice is almost too good to turn into vinegar.”
He took another sip and held the liquid motionless in his mouth for a long time.
An ordinary winemaker would already be imagining sugar or heavy oak chips to tame the roughness. Inside Daniel’s head an entirely different blueprint was taking shape.