Daniel's Answer Sheet (2)
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Redwood Winery lay quiet. On any ordinary day the bustle and noise of the staff would have been a given, but because it was Christmas Eve, anyone without pressing work had been told not to come in. And before me sat a rather special gift: Daniel’s rough bottle, unlabeled except for the crude handwriting that read Answer Sheet No. 1.
At my side stood Warren Winiarski, spine as straight as ever. The eyes of the old master they called a legend of Napa Valley held curiosity and wariness in equal measure.
“So the former assistant winemaker of Domaine Leroy in France has made Cabernet Sauvignon from a vinegar factory… interesting. But was there really any need to put him through a test like this?”
Warren’s curiosity was fair. No winery in America would hire a man with Domaine Leroy assistant-winemaker credentials and still subject him to a test. And to demand he make wine from the grape must intended for vinegar? No one would believe it.
What made it even funnier was not the winery that set the test, but Daniel Grendel, who accepted it. Told to try, he actually did…
“Honestly, I just found it a hassle.”
“A hassle? Ha… most winery owners would’ve told you you were spoiled by fortune. The Pinot Noir houses in Sonoma would be raining curses on your head right about now.”
“Haha, maybe so. But it really was a hassle. Bringing one more person in… You’re already at the peak, sir. You read my intentions perfectly and understand with the slightest explanation. Other people? I never know. I’d have to keep explaining, keep teaching… And you know how prideful winemakers are.”
“True enough. And if a man climbed as high as assistant at Domaine Leroy, you don’t even have to say how many trials he must have endured.”
In any profession, those who earn serious recognition in their field rarely lack pride.
“If someone much younger than him starts barking orders, could he really stand it? If he couldn’t and walked out, I’d be the only one left exhausted and drained… so it just felt like more trouble than it was worth.”
Warren gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“Ha… ha ha… it makes sense, and yet…”
I understood why he looked so taken aback. He could follow the logic of my “hassle,” but only someone confident enough to treat a Domaine Leroy assistant winemaker as optional could ever say such a thing out loud.
From the outside, Domaine Leroy was considered the pinnacle of Pinot Noir. For a house like Redwood—already producing Sylphid and Quiet Hill—someone of that pedigree looked like the single most necessary hire imaginable.
“If he truly wants in, I’ll take him. That way he’ll stick it out as long as he can. He’ll listen carefully… well, assuming he passes the test.”
“Fair enough. Then let’s see what the Domaine Leroy assistant can actually do.”
Warren pulled the cork first. With a soft pop, the warm air of the living room rushed into the bottle. The moment he filled a glass, his brow tightened. An unrefined, cloudy purple liquid swirled in the bowl.
We lifted our glasses without a word.
The first sip. The liquid that crossed the tip of the tongue was rough and coarse. The raw, wild-yeast funk of a wine only just finished with fermentation, and the astringent grit of lees that had not yet settled, muddied the mouth.
“You first, Brian.”
Warren set his glass down. I slowly dissected the finish still lingering on my palate.
“The particle feel is far too rough. He hasn’t fully melted the hot tannins of Sonoma’s Alexander Valley. Primary fermentation ran one or two degrees hotter than it should have—or the cooling system simply hit its limit. At this rate the oxidation risk during oak aging will be significant.”
At my cool appraisal Warren gave a subtle smile and nodded.
“Exactly. Especially mid-palate—there’s a point where the acidity spikes. The malolactic secondary fermentation wasn’t smooth. Far too feral to claim the soul of Leroy.”
The old man’s verdict was harsh. Yet we met each other’s eyes and raised our glasses again. We had listed the shortcomings, but the wine still displayed clear virtues.
“But the skeleton of this thing is excellent. Daniel abandoned the artificial dazzle of cultured yeast and instead used the local wild-yeast populations to maximize polysaccharide content.
“You don’t need a lab analyzer to know it. This dense texture isn’t the product of artificial chaptalization or additives—it’s the honest residue left by the microbes that survived low-temperature fermentation while breaking down the grape sugars. I’d bet the glycerol numbers are higher than in most ordinary wines.”
Glycerol is a byproduct of fermentation that decides a wine’s silky texture and body. It tends to form more abundantly when wild yeasts work at low temperatures; that was the basis of my prediction.
“Anyone listening would think you were a chemist, not a winemaker. To drink this and come out with language like that…”
“……”
I shrugged. He shook his head slowly.
“My read is that Daniel deliberately kept this cloudiness. He pushed sur lie aging to the extreme to fill out the potentially thin body of Alexander Valley fruit. Even that spiky acidity I criticized… looking again, given time it could become the backbone of a massive flavor structure.”
“If it ages in the right direction.”
“Exactly. And that part is in God’s hands.”
We looked at each other and smiled faintly. Today’s conclusion: Daniel’s skill was real, yet still short of the standard we held. Even so, it was not bad. Anyone who already matched Warren’s and my criteria perfectly would already be a master in his own right.
“So what will you do?”
“I’ll tell Daniel we received the answer sheet safely. But if the next answer sheet doesn’t include the formula for turning these rough tannins into elegant velvet, I may have to give him a failing grade.”
“There are days you outdo even me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
At Warren’s half-joking remark I took another mouthful of the remaining must. Inside the cloudy purple liquid, the dust of Alexander Valley and the precision of French technique were colliding, throwing off new sparks.
“And Daniel needs to understand—our standards run a little… high.”
“Hmph. True enough. When it comes to judging women and judging wine, the higher the eye the better. In that regard, you possess both.”
“……”
The mention of Chloe left me sheepish; I glanced away.
“It’s Christmas Eve. No date tonight?”
“I was about to head out.”
“Ha… so I’ll be left alone guarding the winery in my solitude.”
“That’s why I told you to rest… Have a drink with Father.”
“I was planning to. Your mother said she’d put out something fine to nibble on.”
“…… Father must be thrilled.”
I could already picture the scene at home.
A peaceful Christmas passed, and the first of January dawned.
Before the New Year’s sun had even risen, a raucous metallic clamor rose from the northern boundary of Harris Orchard. Fredrick and Chloe, jolted awake by the news, rushed out to find Hartford’s men armed with massive chains and welding torches.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
Fredrick roared. The workers answered only by wrapping the main sluice valve that fed Harris Orchard in heavy chain, snapping padlocks shut, and then searing the joint with the welder so the valve could never turn again.
“Orders from the Cooperative President. As of today Harris Orchard is a non-member. You have no right to use this canal—cooperative property.”
One of the men spat the words without inflection. Fredrick’s brow knotted tight.
Brentwood’s waterways ran in two great branches. The vast state-managed California Aqueduct was the aorta; the capillaries that branched from it to each farm were private irrigation canals dug a century earlier with the farmers’ own money.
The problem was that ownership and management of those private canals now belonged to the Cherry Growers Cooperative.
“It’s all right. We knew this would happen.”
Chloe murmured low to her distressed father. Fredrick whispered back,
“I have to make a show of anger so they don’t get suspicious.”
“Ah…”
In winter, locking the irrigation canal did little real damage. California winters brought frequent rain; the orchard would not go thirsty.
But water would be needed by spring, so preparation had to begin now.
“Let’s go back.”
“Yes.”
Not long after they returned home, a black sedan rolled into the Deer Ridge Country Club. The man who stepped out was so massively built it seemed impossible he had ever fit inside the car.
“It’s been a while, Miss Chloe.”
“It has, Mr. Harry.”
The man they had been waiting for—the Rainmaker himself, Howard “Harry” Montis—had arrived. The cold must have been the reason; the sight of him not mopping his brow with a handkerchief felt almost alien.
“Please come in.”
Harry shook Fredrick’s hand as well, then settled into the living room. He examined the notice Hartford had sent with meticulous care. One minute, two… As the silence stretched, Fredrick’s lips went dry. At last Harry tossed the papers down and spoke.
“Classic cooperative bullying. William Hartford—this fellow’s sharp. He’s twisted the operating rules of the California Irrigation District with real cunning.”
“Is there a legal way to stop him?”
Seeing the faint tension on Chloe’s face, Harry pulled an old map from his briefcase and spread it open.
“There’s always a way. But what Hartford touched is the cooperative’s operating authority. Claiming ‘we can’t charge non-members for canal maintenance, so we’re cutting the water’ looks, on the surface, like legitimate administrative procedure. Even if we file for a temporary injunction today, a judge will take at least a month to rule. Can you hold out?”
“Winter rain means we’re not desperate yet.”
“Then we’re fine. Fredrick, do you still have the original 1800s land patents for this property and the water-rights documents signed at the time?”
“Ah—yes. My grandfather left papers in the warehouse safe.”
“We need those. California recognizes riparian rights. The right to use water flowing beneath the land or in an adjacent stream is an a priori right that belonged to the landowner long before any cooperative existed. They can block the canal they manage, but blocking the watercourse that actually crosses your land can become a federal violation.”
Harry stabbed a ballpoint hard onto a specific point on the map.
“Right in front of the sluice Hartford just locked—inside Harris Orchard—we’ll sink an emergency well. Normally a new well requires neighboring consent, so Hartford could block it administratively. But once he cut the water first, the story changes. The county has no grounds to refuse an emergency excavation for survival.”
His explanation flowed without a hitch; both of them nodded. Hartford’s act of locking the sluice had, in effect, handed them a legal free pass to dig their own independent well.
“Harry, how long for the drilling permit?”
“Normally two months. But because Hartford actually locked the sluice on January first, I’ll argue that ‘cooperative tyranny is killing farmers.’ The court will almost certainly stamp the permit within a week.”
Harry gathered his papers and rose.
“Miss Chloe, Fredrick—go outside right now and video them chaining and welding that sluice. That footage will be our strongest evidence for the well.”
True to his nickname, the Rainmaker had carved a clear path to victory out of what looked like despair. Hartford had meant to kill Harris Orchard by cutting its water; instead he had opened the very corridor by which the orchard could escape the cooperative’s control forever.