The Redwood Expansion
The people outside naturally assumed that the person who had crafted this new wine was the older John Anderson. They didn't pay much mind to Frederick pulling me aside. Or rather, their attention was so fixated elsewhere that the sight simply didn't register.
“One more, please.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, may I ask how you managed to draw out such a profile?”
They clung to my father, refusing to let him go, prying relentlessly. My father, following the "training" I’d given him, answered what he could and smoothly deflected the rest with a gentle smile.
In contrast, my conversation was... different.
“We need to have a more serious talk now.”
Wasn't he just joking around a moment ago? This was only our third meeting, yet it felt like we’d spent most of it discussing serious business.
“Oh, is that so?”
Frederick spoke with a face full of conviction and determination, as if he were making a life-altering decision.
“From what I’ve seen, Redwood Winery has the capacity to produce wines that are competitive not just in Napa, but across all of California. In that sense, this cherry wine is bound to elevate the Redwood brand significantly.”
“......”
I watched him, offering nothing but a silent smile. Feeling the subtle psychological pressure, Frederick realized this wouldn't be easy and continued his pitch.
“To maintain such a brand, you need a steady supply of high-quality cherries at a reasonable price. And not just any supply—it needs to be consistent, not fluctuating every year. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
I smiled with my eyes, as if I knew exactly what he was going to say, but Frederick didn't falter.
“Do you know how long our farm has been around? Fifty years. A cherry farm that has stood for half a century. We’ve maintained that consistent flavor for all that time. And the quality? It’s top-tier.”
“The quality is beyond reproach.”
“Exactly. Think about it. We made this batch with 10 tons, and it’s only 8,000 bottles. But what if it were 100 tons? That’s 80,000 bottles. That would be massive revenue.”
“Come now, 80,000 bottles of cherry wine isn't as easy as it sounds. If the taste is even slightly off, we might have to dump the whole lot.”
He waved his hands frantically at my words.
“No, no. That won't happen. What do you think the restaurant owners outside are thinking right now? They’re probably wondering how much of this they can secure. Once they realize there are only 8,000 bottles, they’ll be even more desperate. I guarantee you, as long as this quality is maintained, 80,000 bottles will sell without a hitch.”
“So... you’re asking me to take on 100 tons of cherries?”
“Honestly, I’d like to do more, but I know the winery’s limitations make that difficult.”
Frederick looked around the winery with a look of genuine regret. Being a 15-acre winery, it was undeniably smaller than the large-scale facilities of major farms. Plus, it wasn't exactly state-of-the-art, which was a bit of a shame.
“Wow...”
I let out a low exclamation with an unbothered expression, prompting him to speak urgently.
“You possess a very special ability. Such talent isn't given easily. Especially here in Napa, it’s a gift you can’t buy with money. I’m saying, let’s unfold that potential together.”
“......”
I crossed my arms and looked outside, pretending to deliberate. People were still shouting "a little more" at my father, and he was doling it out sparingly, looking as if it pained him. The only slightly unexpected thing was that Mark, Sienna’s father, was looking over at us from afar, and we’d made eye contact a few times.
“Do you know him?”
“Who? Oh, Sienna’s father?”
“...So that girl’s name is Sienna? Chloe didn't mention it.”
“She’s a senior in my grade. Harrington. He’s a major farm owner in Sonoma. He’s the one who introduced several of the restaurants that came here today.”
Frederick’s eyes lit up. He pulled me further inside and said,
“I believe trust is paramount in business relationships.”
“Of course, I think so too.”
“Are you considering anything other than cherries?”
“Actually, I’m showing it today. We’ve pre-purchased and are contract-brewing some from the Russian River Valley.”
“Really? How much?”
“A little over 40 tons came in.”
He looked at me with a fascinated expression and asked,
“Then it must be a long-term contract?”
“That’s right.”
“How about a long-term contract with us, too?”
I asked him, feigning a relaxed demeanor.
“What kind of price are you offering?”
“I’ll set it at $1,100 per ton. For premium cherries, that’s by no means expensive.”
As he said, I knew that high-quality cherries from Brentwood could easily fetch $1,200. But I shrugged my shoulders and said,
“I know that Brentwood cherries maintain a very high standard. However, since prices fluctuate every season, I think securing a stable sales channel with a fixed price for 100 tons every year would be a sufficient benefit.”
Frederick looked slightly impressed by my response.
“Honestly... you’re not wrong.”
“So, receiving 100 tons of cherries isn't just a gain for us; it’s a gain for your farm as well. While this could certainly be a win-win strategy for both sides... the problem is that our current facility can’t handle 100 tons of cherries.”
“Aren't you already doing custom crush?”
“Yes. We’re investing in and contract-brewing Pinot Noir for the long-term value, but unlike Pinot Noir, the problem with cherry wine is that it’s hard to get more than $20 a bottle. If we run it through custom crush, it’s difficult to make a significant profit after deducting rental costs.”
“Hmm... so what is your proposal?”
“It means we have to expand the winery facilities.”
Frederick tilted his head at the sudden remark.
“Facility expansion?”
“Yes. In that sense, how about this?”
I scanned the atmosphere outside once more and said in a low voice,
“You invest $700,000 in our winery to expand the facilities.”
“$700,000?”
His eyes widened at the unexpected figure, and I explained calmly.
“I plan to sell this cherry wine for about $18 a bottle. It’s quite a high price for a fruit wine, but do you agree that it would sell at this price point?”
“That... you could certainly get that.”
Having tasted it and rushed over in excitement, Frederick might even be more confident in the price than I am.
“Good. 100 tons of cherries will yield roughly 80,000 bottles. Let’s assume 75,000 bottles to account for yield loss and promotional stock. At $18 per bottle... hmm... that’s about $1.3 million. It should be around there. I’ll give you 20% of the revenue generated from the cherries.”
“So you take 8 and I take 2?”
“Exactly. Let’s do the math. The revenue from selling 100 tons of cherries to the winery is $110,000. But if you take 20% of the $1.3 million in revenue, that’s about $260,000. So the total revenue from 100 tons of cherries becomes $370,000. That’s more money than you’d make selling 300 tons of raw cherries.”
Frederick blinked at my explanation, and I continued.
“Now, if we sign a 10-year contract for $700,000, the long-term profit your farm will earn will be $1.9 million—that’s the $2.6 million in additional revenue minus the $700,000 initial investment. Plus, in the wholesale market for fresh produce, prices are mostly determined by pure price competition rather than other factors, right? If a specific winery uses only the cherries from Chloe’s father’s farm, a clear premium will form. If you factor in those invisible benefits...”
“......”
Frederick was left speechless as a young man in his twenties—a mere fledgling—crushed the numbers in an instant. Since I saw through everything as if he were standing naked, he had no room left to negotiate.
“The $700,000 can be recovered in two years. Even excluding the cherry sales price, it can be recovered in three. Besides, it’s 100 tons now, but if we invest in the facilities and increase capacity over time...?”
“......”
“Well, you might not be interested...”
As I uncrossed my arms and turned to leave, Frederick grabbed me firmly with his thick hand.
“Aha-ha... not interested? What are you talking about? Actually, I’m overjoyed. I had no idea you were thinking so deeply. I agree with your plan to paint a progressive future for our two farms. Provided we have a clear contract, that is.”
“Then... deal?”
“Deal.”
He patted my shoulder and suddenly burst into a hearty "Ah-hahahaha!" laugh as he walked outside. He strode out, waving his arms and wearing a meaningful grin. While others glanced at him and immediately turned their attention back to the wine, only Mark Harrington watched him intently.
After exchanging a silent signal with me, my father set down the stainless steel decanter he was holding and said,
“The wine you have tasted will be officially released in about fifteen days, and we are looking at $18 per 750ml bottle.”
Some people looked slightly surprised, but most seemed satisfied with the price or nodded in agreement. And one person even raised his hand.
“What is the minimum order quantity?”
It was Theodore Goodwin of the one-Michelin-starred Blaze Bistro.
“I was just about to explain that. The minimum order is 3 cases (1 case = 12 bottles). The deposit is one-third of the total order amount. And since the quantity of this cherry wine is limited, 8,000 bottles is all there is.”
“Oh, my...”
Perhaps because of the limited quantity, everyone looked disappointed.
“I hope you will stock up on Redwood’s cherry wine before Christmas. As I said, the quantity is limited.”
Before my father had even finished speaking, several restaurant owners raised their hands, and I quickly jotted down their orders in the notebook I’d prepared. Since I already knew where they were all from, it wasn't difficult—I just had to note how many cases each place was taking.
Just when everyone expected the tasting to end, I drove the pickup truck up.
“That is...?”
What Armando and I pulled out from the back of the pickup truck was a large oak barrel.
“There is still one more thing for you to taste.”
I said that and slowly pulled out the thick wooden bung. The subtle fruit aroma wafting from inside the barrel pierced the air, instantly capturing everyone’s attention.
“That’s not cherry, is it?”
It wasn't just surprise that it wasn't cherry; it was an exclamation born of curiosity—if they could make cherry wine this well, what would their grape wine be like?
I held the stainless steel decanter to the barrel’s bung hole and carefully drew out the Pinot Noir. The crimson liquid flowed in a steady stream, striking the metal surface and further emphasizing a soft yet distinct fruit aroma. It was a scent as if cherries, raspberries, and rose petals had all burst at once. It was hard to believe it had only been fermenting for three months.
My father, having received the decanter full of wine from my hands, said to the guests,
“This is this year’s harvested Pinot Noir. It’s only been three months, but since we’ve gathered for such a meaningful occasion, I wanted to give you a special preview.”
Everyone looked bewildered. A Pinot Noir that was only three months old was often overly acidic, harsh in tannins, and had its fruit notes buried under fermentation aromas. In short, it was an unfinished wine, so they were flustered to be asked to taste it.
But as Armando set out fresh glasses for everyone and my father poured a little for each of them, the atmosphere shifted. The aroma wafting from the glasses was so clean and vivid that it was impossible to believe it had only been three months.
“Are you telling me this is really only three months old?”
Mark, who knew Pinot Noir better than anyone, asked my father after pulling his nose away from the glass.
“Of course. We purchased it from the Hart Farm in the Russian River Valley, so the records aren't hard to find.”
He looked at me with an expression of disbelief. Naturally. In 2004, people weren't using cold soak to extract color and flavor by contacting skins and juice at low temperatures before fermentation, nor were they using micro-oxygenation to inject trace amounts of oxygen during the aging process.
And above all, the yeast I used was clearly different from what Mark had used.
“So, please, just try it. It’s not a finished wine, but I’m showing you the direction we’re headed, as a gesture to ask you to remember Redwood Winery in the future.”
As my father raised his hand to invite them, the moment everyone, including Mark, took their first sip, their expressions froze simultaneously.
“Incredible.”
“A three-month-old wine with this kind of balance?”
“A monster is about to be born.”
Someone muttered it like a joke, but no one laughed. Everyone just peered back into their glasses, looking at the wine with awe-struck eyes.