The One(1)

David Hoffman, waiting for the appointed time at Ironwood Cellars, stared blankly at the vineyard.

"I'm the one who makes it."

At first, he had just laughed it off, but for some strange reason, the words of that young Asian friend kept echoing in his ears. Hadn't he heard the kid was only a sophomore at UC Davis?

"That's ridiculous... A mere college sophomore pulled off a Double Gold? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ha! Even if Mondavi were reincarnated, that would be impossible!"

Yet, he was beginning to think that perhaps the story might actually be true. Rumors from the workers suggested that the one holed up in the aging room wasn't the father, but the son.

In truth, it didn't really matter to him who made the wine. It was something happening at someone else's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠winery, and now that he was selling his farm, he intended to wash his hands of the wine business entirely. So, what did it matter if it was made by a twenty-year-old or a ten-year-old?

But the funny thing was, even knowing that, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Perhaps it was the sense of self-loathing that came from witnessing such overwhelming talent.

Maybe that was why, even though he was about to get his hands on 3.6 million dollars, he didn't feel the thrill of becoming rich, but instead waited blankly for his guests to arrive.

My father, the lawyer who came to assist with the contract, and I visited the old building of Ironwood Cellars. On the table lay the contract and a pen, and next to them, instead of coffee, sat three glasses of water.

David Hoffman looked at us with a strangely tense expression, and the lawyer adjusted his glasses as he spread out the documents.

A moment of silence followed. The lawyers exchanged the contracts to verify the signatures, and finally, my father picked up the pen and signed the last page. The scratching sound of the nib echoed through the office.

"Congratulations on a successful transaction."

Once the contract was finished, my father, David Hoffman, and the lawyers shook hands. As we were about to leave after all the procedures were done, David caught me and asked.

"I have a favor to ask. Can you grant it?"

"... Yes."

"Will you come to the aging room with me? Just you, no one else."

I exchanged glances with my father, told him to wait with the lawyer in the car, and followed him.

I had been to the aging room once before, but the unsold barrels of wine remained exactly as they were. Since the wine wasn't selling, the value had been calculated based on the entire winery as a whole. David drew a little wine from one of the barrels and poured it into a glass.

"Would you like to taste it?"

"I would."

The glass he held out had problems even just from the scent. While there were notes of dark plum and blackcurrant, behind them was a faint smell of vinegar and a musty odor like wet leather.

"The acetic acid is rising. It seems acetic fermentation has progressed a bit."

"Acetic fermentation?"

"It seems there was secondary air contact after fermentation. During aging, the top of the oak barrels probably wasn't completely sealed, or temperature fluctuations caused micro-oxidation."

He bowed his head deeply. He knew there was a problem, but he hadn't known exactly where it lay. Yet this young man had identified the general issues just by smelling it.

How could he do this?

I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip. The moment it touched the tip of my tongue, I could tell the wine's balance was shattered. The sweetness hit first, but the acidity that followed was dull. I tilted the wine glass slightly and said.

"Look. The sugar content is good, but the acid is sluggish. That means there was too much moisture in the grapes. You didn't stop irrigation even before the harvest, did you?"

David's eyes widened.

"How did you...?"

"Two weeks before harvest, you have to check the Stem Water Potential (SWP) to make the vines 'thirsty.' That's how the berries shrink and the flavors concentrate. But here, the flesh is soft. It means there was too much water inside the berries. In short, you gave them too much water."

David bit his lip. He had judged his irrigation schedule solely by the 'weather.' If there was a drought, he gave more; if it was hot, he doubled it.

"That..."

"UC Davis or the Agricultural Extension Office taught this, didn't they? Last year? The year before?"

"I think it was the year before last... I feel like there was training on that kind of thing."

"If it was the year before last, was that 2003?"

It was in 2002 that the academic consensus was reached that measuring stem water potential using a pressure chamber was the most accurate way to determine irrigation timing.

"That's right. But..."

"You must have thought it was a waste of time. Did you think that terroir decided everything for wine?"

"You see right through me like a ghost."

"I am a farmer. I don't believe a farmer should just accept fate according to the will of the heavens. You have to do your best and struggle desperately to survive. In that respect, David, you blindly trusted traditional methods and ignored the latest research."

David, who had been biting his lip with a pained expression, soon looked at me with calm eyes and asked.

"Was that it...? Do you think I could succeed if I learned professional grape cultivation now, like you?"

"Of course. Knowledge is fair to everyone."

He pondered for a long time, then a faint smile formed on his lips.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

I bowed my head slightly to him and went to my father, who was waiting.

"What did he want to see you for?"

My father asked from the car, and I shrugged.

"It was nothing special. Let's go."

"Alright."

I watched quietly as the letters of 'Ironwood Cellars,' which would soon be changed to 'Redwood Vineyard,' grew smaller and smaller.

Meanwhile, David Hoffman, watching the vehicle carrying the Asian father and son drive away, made a call. The recipient was Michael Lowell.

"You called quickly? Did the farm sell already? Are you coming to New York now?"

David Hoffman's hands were trembling slightly. He tried to steady his wavering voice.

"I'm not going to New York. I'm sorry."

"Huh? Why? Is something wrong? Did the farm not sell?"

"No. The farm sold. For 3.6 million dollars."

"That's a great sale! Then why?"

"I... I'm going to study."

"Study?"

"Yeah. I've become interested in studying wine."

"Are you going back to college?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure yet... But I want to try doing it properly again. I have the money now, so I'm going to try to become a farm owner again. You'll think I'm a fool for saying this right after selling the farm..."

But Michael's voice over the receiver was firm.

"No, David. I don't think you're a fool. I think you're brave."

"... You think so?"

"Yes, I mean it. You don't have to come to New York. Actually, I'm looking forward to it."

"Looking forward to it?"

"Of course. The day I come to cover your wine. A farm owner who once failed and was frustrated, overcoming himself and rising again. It will be a dazzling story of a comeback. If you manage to win a Double Gold... no, the Wine of the Year, I think my heart would burst just imagining it."

David wiped away tears that flowed without him realizing it and grinned.

"Thank you, for understanding... I'll call you again."

"Sure. I'm rooting for you."

After hanging up, David Hoffman looked once more at the farm that had passed into other hands, then laughed brightly. He quickly went to the warehouse to pack his things.

For the first time in a long while, he felt the heat rising in his chest again.

At the tail end of winter, while the air in northern Sacramento was still cold, the inside of Jacob's distillery was strangely warm. The scent of vodka just distilled from the stainless steel tank was scattered in the air, and that characteristic grain smell brushed against the tip of my nose.

"Finally, the first shipment."

Jacob wiped the alcohol from his hands and lifted a brand-new bottle. The clear liquid reflected the sunlight inside the glass, shining brightly, and a single word was written on the label in fine gold lettering.

The One.

Below it, in small print, it read: Premium Rice Vodka, Distilled from California Grain.

"'Hana' in Korean, 'One' in English. It's a good name. How did you think to use Korean?"

"Because it's a Korean-style liquor. I wanted to keep the concept as much as possible."

"What's the reason for using the name 'One'?"

"It has many meanings, doesn't it? Beginning, harmony, and 'only one'."

"Do you usually ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠study Korean?"

Jacob laughed shyly and said.

"No, actually, I went to the library, looked at a Korean dictionary, and found something that sounded good."

"That alone is impressive."

"Nothing impressive about it. This is my first liquor, and it's the only liquor I want to make."

His fingertips trembled slightly. All the preparation, experiments, public opinion polls, and attempts again. All of that process was contained within this bottle today.

"Let's go."

We packed up the liquor and headed to The Copper Glass, a cocktail bar in the heart of Sacramento. The very place where Jacob had first asked for a tasting. Rachel, the bar owner, was waiting after receiving a call in advance.

Several glasses were already set out on the bar counter.

"So, it's finally finished?"

"Yes, this time it's the official product."

She took the bottle and examined the label.

"The One... is this the name?"

"Yes."

"It's good. Easy to remember, too."

Rachel poured the vodka and swirled the glass. Light reflected off the glass walls, creating a white circle. She closed her eyes slightly as she caught the scent.

"Mmm—it's exactly the same taste as that time. Much smoother than existing vodka, with a savory grain scent lingering at the end. This isn't just for cocktails; it could be enjoyed straight. Actually, there's no reason to replace existing vodka because it already completely dominates the market. But this... I think I can create a variety of sensations with it."

"I hope people react well to it."

If the period until now had been for collecting public opinion from bar owners, today was the day to be evaluated by the general public. It would be strange if we weren't nervous.

People gradually gathered at the shop and tasted the liquor Jacob had made.

"Hmm? What kind of liquor is this?"

"It feels a bit similar to Japanese sake, doesn't it?"

At first, people were puzzled and tilted their heads, but as they paired the food with the drink, they gradually began to get used to The One.

"The scent rising subtly is nice, isn't it?"

"It's clean. Sometimes distilled spirits have scents that are too strong, you know? This isn't like that. It's good."

"Damn it, the drink just keeps going down."

People began to accept the new thing, and Jacob's face, which had been frozen stiff, gradually relaxed.

"The reaction isn't bad."

I patted Jacob on the shoulder, who was standing quite tall, and he rubbed his nose, struggling to suppress his excitement. He had thought it would be a success just to break even in the first year, so it was natural for his heart to race since the reaction wasn't bad.

A few days later, I received a call from Jacob in the morning.

"Brian! Come to the distillery today!"

"Why? What's going on?"

"You know how you told me to send samples to distributors? Well, today, a distributor said they want to meet me!"

"Really? That's great. Well done."

Unlike wineries, distilleries selling spirits must select a distributor due to the Three-Tier System that connects producers, intermediaries, and consumers.

But that wasn't the surprising part.

"That's not it... I got contacted by two places!"

"Huh?"

"Two distributors contacted me saying they want to distribute our The One!"

Only then did I realize why Jacob was so excited.

"You have to help me. Tell me which one I should choose."

"Alright. I'm coming."

Two distributors eyeing Jacob's liquor. The signs are good from the very beginning.