The Treasure Trove of Time

Henry froze mid-sentence, the word “dump” lodged in his throat. “Wait… 1934?”

Theodore shrugged as if to say finally caught on, have we? and let out a deep sigh.

“Haa… I know it’s because of the Fourth Patriarch’s last will, but the losses every year are staggering. If we expand the storage again this time, we’ll have a total of thirty-four warehouses. Including this year’s production, we’re sitting on 120,000 barrels of applejack. One hundred and twenty thousand barrels!”

“You’re telling me we’ve accumulated 120,000 barrels since Prohibition ended in 1934?”

“Yes! When you took over as head of the family and we整理 the reports, every accountant in the estate practically begged me to notice that this year’s fire insurance alone would be $600,000 and the inventory holding tax another $200,000. We’ve already slashed management costs down to $100,000 a year, but everyone’s screaming that it’s still too much. We’re already running as lean as possible. There’s nothing more we can cut.”

“Let’s go see those warehouses first.”

With Theodore—who had been treating this white elephant like a precious child—leading the way, they headed to the site. Thirty-four massive stone warehouses stood in a row near the distillery. Their overwhelming scale went beyond impressive and bordered on awe-inspiring.

Any other family head would have clutched the back of his neck in despair at the sight. But Henry’s eyes were different.

Hold on. Isn’t this a total jackpot? Henry thought. I saw something like this in a short on my phone in my previous life. Whiskey or champagne salvaged from a ship that sank during World War I sold for over three hundred million won per bottle at auction!

A devious business model flashed through Henry’s mind like lightning.

Alcohol doesn’t spoil anyway, right? These days, drinkers are so primitive they’ll taste something aged five or ten years and complain it “tastes like wood water.” But to me, every single barrel here is a gold mine!

Slap on a fancy label like “1934 Prohibition Repeal Commemorative Vintage—46 Years Aged” and bottle it nicely, and it’ll sell like crazy. Tie it to the July Fourth Independence Day with a full George Washington storytelling angle, market it as “America’s Oldest Legal Vintage,” and collectors worldwide will be lining up with their wallets open.

Suppressing the surge of glee rising inside him, Henry stopped in front of the oldest stone warehouse, marked with plaques reading 1934 and 1935. When Theodore heaved open the heavy door, a thick aroma of apples and damp oak slammed into Henry’s senses. To him, it smelled exactly like money.

The number forty-six feels a little awkward. Maybe age it another four years and sell it as “Half-Century Aged—50 Years”? Then just tossing it into an auction would guarantee front-page news. Legally, this is the oldest stuff ever produced in America.

“Show me the oldest oak barrels.”

Henry walked slowly through the treasure vault, taking everything in. The oldest barrel he finally reached looked shabby. Its iron bands were patched like rags, and sticky traces of apple sugar had oozed out, leaving ugly stains. Yet in Henry’s eyes, it was the greatest work of art time had ever produced.

Theodore watched his lord with anxious eyes. Henry asked casually, “Theodore. If it were up to you, how would you handle this?”

“...”

Theodore fidgeted like a student waiting to be scolded. Henry clicked his tongue inwardly.

He might pass as a site manager, but as executive material? Zero points.

Instead of pressing him, Henry smiled lightly. “It’s fine. I was just curious if you had any creative ideas. On the way here I saw a jeep parked nearby—take it and bring Benjamin over.”

“Yes, my lord! I’ll be right back!”

Fearing more difficult questions, Theodore practically sprinted away. Watching his retreating back, Henry let out a small sigh, pulled a notebook from his inner pocket, and wrote:

If he was going to raise a problem, he should have at least prepared a minimum counterproposal. In Henry’s view, Theodore was competent as a site manager but a complete zero as an executive.

Henry flipped to the next page and began jotting down names that came to mind.

1934 Nostalgia, Legend 45, 1934 Legend, 1934 History, 1934 Reserve.

He rolled the words around in his mouth, but none of them felt right. The lifeblood of luxury was storytelling. He needed elegant words that would stir people’s emotions while conveying the authority of the family.

Liberation? Too cheap for a liquor name. Origin? Hmm, that’s not bad. [Devenge 1934: Origin]. Or…

The Founding Fathers 1934 had strong symbolism, but selling his ancestors as a liquor name would invite media backlash even before the family retainers objected. And Devenge 1934: The Conviction sounded far too arrogant.

In the end it’s between Nostalgia and Origin. I’ll bring it up as an agenda at the family meeting. The locals will have the best sense of the nuance.

Finally, Henry added a thick note at the bottom of the page:

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. The moment these treasures were revealed to the world, haughty New ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Yorkers and tourists would swarm the estate like locusts for tasting events. For Henry, a staunch believer in safety first, any breach in the estate’s security would be catastrophic.

But if he blocked experiential courses, the media would cry foul and scream about manipulation. And if he kept expanding facilities inside the estate to accommodate Benjamin’s dreams, the entire apple orchard would turn into a factory.

Of course, Henry was making one huge mistake. In the 21st century, turning distilleries into museums or tourist attractions with tasting tours was common. But in 1979, the law still strictly prohibited ordinary civilians from entering distilleries at all. Only small-scale wineries had recently been granted limited access.

In other words, the “tourist invasion” Henry was worrying about was a risk that could never actually happen. Yet the time-traveler from the future had no idea and was racking his brain.

Even a business whose success is practically guaranteed has this many things to consider and risks involved. I can only imagine what the rest will be like.

From the very first day of his estate inspection, a colossal golden inventory had rolled into his lap. Henry’s cunning brain circuits spun ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nonstop as he pondered how to cook this golden goose.

Maybe I should spin off Benjamin’s brandy into its own independent operation… Haa. I really don’t have enough trustworthy talent around me. Does headhunting even exist in this era? I think I read about it in novels. There’s definitely no one nearby I can trust with this treasure trove. And I’m a complete amateur when it comes to liquor, so I can’t even pick someone specific to bring in.

Oh, and patriotic marketing! “A liquor that carries America’s history, that has endured America’s time—America’s own spirit!” Something like “Are you an American?” to tug at their heartstrings. America has its own version of nationalism, right?

Henry pulled out his notebook again and scribbled down the freshly conceived ideas: ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Headhunting and Patriotic Marketing.

As he examined the oak barrels one by one inside the warehouse, ideas bubbled up like a spring.

Just because the raw spirit is drinkable doesn’t mean I should sell it straight. I recall reading that after fifty years the tannins do something and ruin the taste. I’ll have to ask Benjamin about that. Anyway, selling the pure stuff as “Limited Edition” with only about a hundred bottles a year sounds good.

For the ones that are a bit too good to waste on straight sales but not quite perfect, we’ll dilute them or blend different vintages for a premium line. Limit that to under ten thousand bottles annually too. Actually, even fewer is fine. Scarcity raises value and keeps curiosity alive. Is this what they called hunger marketing?

The ones that are too old and unusable as single-barrel will be blended into a popular line. A star blender or bartender will select from hundreds of barrels to maintain a consistent taste. There are plenty of those in the future liquor market. But we’ll price them the highest. People only think something’s good when it’s expensive.

Still, if it becomes too much of an “exclusive club,” we won’t make money. We need to broaden the target. Significantly more expensive than regular liquor—so buyers have to tighten their belts a little—but priced so that an ordinary salaryman can buy one if he really wants to. Run sales a few days before holidays. I wonder if Black Friday exists yet? If we discount heavily then, surely everyone will pick up at least one bottle. Of course, quality has to back it up. If it doesn’t taste good after sampling, we’ll only drop it at auctions so we don’t damage the brand.

There might be fifty-year whiskies or cognacs, but no brand in the world currently holds this much single-barrel stock. Even if they did, they’d probably use it all for blending. But I have the authenticity of applejack that George Washington himself drank! This is a monopoly market. If I maintain the brand power properly, I can milk this for at least ten or twenty years!

But why the hell is Theodore taking so long? It’s been over twenty minutes already.

In the distance, the sound of a jeep engine grew closer. Henry, who had been lost in thought, quickly put away his notebook, slipped it into his inner pocket, and rearranged his facial muscles into the troubled expression of a responsible family head once more.

This is all necessary to align the causal relationships, right? But seriously, what kind of causal link should I create for [Orange] and [Uracle]? Suddenly announcing I’m investing in Watson’s [Orange] or [Uracle] would just get me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠asked, “What the hell are you talking about?” Sigh… I need to finish sorting out the family first, then go to [The Time] to set the direction, check on the British side, enter the silver and gold futures markets even if I have to take out loans, and also either acquire or invest in that 24-hour news channel [CNC] I mentioned before. And [ESTN], the 24-hour sports channel that should be starting around now—didn’t it almost go under from losses back then?

Henry’s imagination, busy sketching a map of future trillions of dollars, was shattered by the screech of the jeep’s sudden brakes.

“Henry! Why’d you call me so suddenly? I was already on my way to look at land in the Hudson Valley. My pager kept beeping like crazy and scared the hell out of me.”

“Didn’t we just part ways? You already left?”

“Of course! I’m building the large-scale distillery of my dreams! I’ve already picked out all the still models.”

“The reason I called you, Ben, is about these thirty-four warehouses packed full of forty-six-year-old applejack inventory. Have you ever thought about what to do with it?”

When Henry gestured at the overwhelming rows of warehouses, Benjamin instead looked sulky and hurt.

“Oh, Henry. Did you really forget everything? That precious memory we shared when we were kids drinking 1922 applejack together?”

“What?”

“Sigh. Well, you were just a lightweight who passed out after one sip back then. I secretly brought out some forty-three-year-old stuff and made you drink it, telling you ‘This is really good.’ And it actually was excellent. From my grandfather to my father, and then me and Theodore—we’ve managed the inventory with our family’s fate on the line.”

Benjamin pointed at the rail system inside the warehouse and made a hand gesture as if demonstrating how they periodically rotated the barrels up and down.

“We put our heart into everything from oak barrel rotation to cooperage maintenance. The only problem was that applejack itself had zero prestige, so it wouldn’t sell. When you were in college, I once released our most carefully selected stock to the family hotels and liquor stores. The response was nonexistent. Actually, worse—they said things like ‘You aged cheap applejack for forty years? Isn’t it spoiled?’ No matter how much the staff explained, customers wouldn’t believe them. As far as I know, exactly one bottle sold. That same night I saw it in our living room. My father had felt sorry for me and secretly bought it himself… Reality was cruel, Henry.”

Listening to Benjamin’s heartbreaking failure story, Henry fell into puzzlement. In the 21st century, age statements like twelve, twenty-one, or thirty years were basically ranks and medals. No matter how old the era, it was hard to believe this much premium stock would be ignored.

He asked the fundamental questions. “Hmm… Let me ask a few things. What was the name of the liquor back then? What kind of bottles did you use? Did you advertise at all?”

“We honestly labeled it <1945 Devenge Applejack>. We used whatever old army bottles were lying around the warehouse that cost a few cents each. The previous patriarch gave permission, but even he looked extremely skeptical, like ‘You really think this will sell?’ There was no advertising. Even the family office staff and advisors were all negative, so just getting it into the family hotels required a fight. We had no budget, so we couldn’t even print a single flyer.”

“Ha… Ben, you’re seriously an idiot at everything except making liquor. You put the number 1945 on it and shoved it into the corner of some liquor store? You should have called it ‘Legacy of Victory’ and displayed it in a department store in the middle of Manhattan! No wonder people thought the precious spirit in those brown medicine bottles was spoiled and refused to buy it!”

Henry scolded the bewildered Benjamin harshly, his sharp eyes scanning the surrounding oak barrels.

“Alright, here’s what I’m thinking. Listen carefully, Ben. From now on, we’re not selling liquor. We’re selling time and authority.”

Henry lightly tapped one of the dust-covered barrels and continued.

First, complete overhaul of labeling and packaging.

“Brown medicine bottles? Throw them out immediately. Find the most expensive crystal bottle manufacturer in France. For example, the 1945 will be named the ‘Victory Edition.’ The label will feature the victory commemoration date and our family crest in gold foil. It has to give off an overwhelming sense of ‘Wow, this looks insanely expensive’ at first glance.”

Second, extreme exclusivity in distribution channels.

“Local liquor stores? Absolutely not. That’s no place for the Devenge name. We’ll allocate tiny quantities exclusively to the bars of Manhattan’s five-star hotels and private member clubs. We’ll make it so that money alone can’t buy it—only those with luck or a connection to the Devenge family get to taste it in their glass. The less people can have something, the more they go crazy for it.”

Third, the magic of storytelling.

“Ben, this Victory Edition we made isn’t just liquor. It’s time, history, and art! While others went to war with guns, the women left behind prayed for their families’ safe return and carefully crafted this liquor of victory! That’s exactly what this is. We’re dropping the cheap name ‘applejack’ completely. People aren’t interested in that. Just like when you look at a woman, the first thing you notice is whether she’s pretty, the people who buy this ultimately care about ‘How expensive is it? Can I show it off to others?’ We’re wrapping it in a story to satisfy that vanity. The ‘Pride of America’ that the family protected through the darkness of Prohibition and the fires of war. You are drinking American history!”

Henry patted the dazed Benjamin on the shoulder and smiled.

“So take good care of it. We’re going to sell it for more than any other liquor in the future. I’ll have them look into French crystal bottles at the next family meeting. By the way, if there are any remaining bottles of the 1945 that didn’t sell, bring me two. No matter how good the packaging is, the foundation is taste. I need to confirm for myself whether we can actually sell it at a high price.”

“Oh… Henry, you’re a genius! How do you come up with ideas like this? Theodore! Don’t just stand there—didn’t you hear the lord? There should be a few wooden crates still sitting in the forty-five-year warehouse! Hurry up and bring two bottles!”

I used to be a marketing manager at an agency in my previous life. This much is basic.