Family Housekeeping (4)
Even after devouring countless novels, mainstream liquor rarely took center stage. The general consensus—and the cold truth—was that alcohol simply didn't make money compared to finance, big tech, or IT. In his previous life, Henry had enjoyed his fair share of drinks, but they were always soju or beer. He had never been much of a connoisseur of Western spirits, so his knowledge on the subject was practically nonexistent. That was why he listened attentively to Benjamin as they toured the facilities, absorbing explanations about the role of stills and the entire distillation process. Occasionally, when Benjamin recounted one of his many past failures, Henry would burst into loud laughter, teasing him without mercy.
"...And that's when the previous family head gave me a real dressing-down. Still, because I replaced all the apple trees with new varieties back then, we now have a full orchard of those tart, high-acid European cultivars. Not the old 'Hubbard' or 'Harrison' anymore. The scolding I got from the family elders... Henry, you couldn't even imagine it. They grabbed me by the collar and demanded why I was planting some rootless French saplings when we had the authentic applejack that even George Washington used to drink. But if I had to do it all over again, I'd make the exact same choice. Hubbard trees only produce rough, crude applejack. They could never yield something as refined as true brandy."
"I've heard that story too. You didn't just argue your case—you secretly chopped down all the trees when everyone opposed you, right? There are even records of you showing up hundreds of times after getting scolded, driving Father absolutely crazy. Hahaha!"
"Henry, you know how it's always been. Ever since I was a kid, my one and only dream has been to create the world's finest spirits. Our applejack has deep historical roots and a decent enough flavor, but it's forever branded as cheap booze. No matter how hard we try, who would ever acknowledge it? Besides, those French bastards' Calvados-style apple brandy made from their trees completely outclasses anything we can produce with applejack varieties."
"Hmm... But Ben, aren't you handing me an absolutely massive assignment the moment I become family head? If we do everything you've described, the project scale and investment required would be enormous. Upgrading distillation equipment that's only four years old, expanding the apple orchards, building climate-controlled warehouses... A brand-new distillery, an oak barrel workshop, our own bottling line. At that point, it might honestly be cheaper to just buy an existing large-scale bourbon distillery."
"So... it's too much?" Benjamin's shoulders slumped. "In that case, for now we could just bring in apples from the existing warehouses and surrounding orchards..."
"I'm saying it's difficult right now. Let's head to the aging cellar. I'll make my decision after tasting it."
"Oh! This is it, Henry! Hurry up! I'm going to let you taste the most incredible American apple brandy in existence!"
Henry shook his head as he watched Benjamin dash off excitedly. Chuckling to himself, he followed at a leisurely pace down the path where his cousin had disappeared.
New distillery, new stills, completely replanting two-thirds of the apple orchards—so much so that we haven't had a proper harvest in the last four years. And then there's that underground insulated rickhouse six meters deep with a state-of-the-art climate control system. Even the previous family head threw up his hands at Ben's stubbornness and ended up spending at least 1.5 million dollars. In this era, that kind of money could buy an entire building on Wall Street. And now he's already asking for more reinvestment. Ha.
When they entered the underground cellar, Benjamin carefully opened one small, dust-covered 'Ozark White' oak barrel tucked away in the corner. The liquid he drew up with a long pipette had shed the crystal clarity of the raw spirit Henry had seen earlier, now glowing with a brilliant amber hue.
"This... is it three years old?"
"I've tried countless oak barrels, but this one is the best! Just taste it first. I'll explain afterward."
Henry accepted the small glass Benjamin offered. When he gave it a gentle swirl, the clear golden brandy clung elegantly to the sides. Even before bringing it to his nose, the bright acidity of fresh apples gave way to the rich vanilla and toasted nut notes characteristic of American oak, thick and seductive.
This is going to be seriously good.
The moment he took a sip, the three years of aging unfolded smoothly across his tongue. It was worlds apart from the common applejack he'd once forced himself to drink simply because of its connection to George Washington. The harsh bite of raw alcohol was gone, replaced by an elegant yet substantial body that slid down his throat with silky grace. For a moment, Henry was speechless. He'd been enjoying the high-society lifestyle lately and had sampled all kinds of expensive liquors, but this was the first time he'd encountered baked apple pie flavors that were simultaneously so wild and so refined.
"Holy shit... Ben. This is... this is genuinely outstanding."
Henry's hand trembled slightly as he held the glass, staring at his cousin. Benjamin smiled back with a mixture of relief and proud certainty in his eyes. Henry gazed once more at the golden liquid in his glass.
With this kind of quality, if we just nail the branding and marketing, it's guaranteed to explode.
"Ben, how many bottles does this yield per year?"
"That's exactly what I wanted to talk about! Starting in '76, I scoured every oak barrel workshop I could find. I experimented with different drying periods and toasting intensities, filling dozens of barrels. But there are only two of these 1976 'Ozark Heavy Toast' barrels. The rest were rejected because their tannins were too aggressive or the flavors too bland. After filtering out the sediment and bottling, we'll get about four hundred bottles. Of course, there are a few other decent barrels too. I've tried all the famous ones. I couldn't afford French oak, though..."
"...If I taste through all these barrels, I'll probably pass out drunk. So among them all, you think this is the absolute best?"
"Those French bastards' Calvados is too tame. It prances around with its floral notes, pretending to be elegant. But what you just tasted is the result of American white oak's wild nature going head-to-head with apples and winning. It's got weight and real impact, doesn't it? I want to scale this up as the flagship product, eventually producing the equivalent of a hundred oak barrels per year. But as you can see, this cellar is already completely full..."
Henry swept his gaze across the cellar packed wall-to-wall with oak barrels and let out a light sigh.
"It's definitely full. Ben, if you want to move into mass production, start by selecting a site for a large-scale distillery and prepare a report. In my view, pouring more investment into a distillery within the estate would be redundant spending."
It was almost absurd that his first investment target wasn't Stephen Watts of 'One Bite of Orange'—the most promising venture of this era—but rather a distillery. Yet the brandy he'd just tasted was more than worth it.
"Look. This storage facility is brand new—only four years old. The expensive climate control system alone has massive maintenance costs. But just because it's full, does that mean the solution is to build another warehouse right next to it?"
Benjamin's shoulders drooped as if he thought Henry was politely rejecting him. His sorrowful eyes seemed to cry out, You're a traitor.
"Let's say we solve it short-term that way. But what happens later with the plan you described? A much larger distillery, new stills, a laboratory for cultivar development, a bottling line, nitrogen charging systems... eventually we might even need a tasting room. Are you planning to build all of that on the estate?"
Henry calmly laid out each point one by one.
"Especially something like a tasting room—we absolutely cannot allow that when considering the estate's security and protection detail. We can't open the family grounds to outsiders. So let's continue limited small-batch production here on the estate as we have been. Instead, we'll build a brand-new large-scale distillery for mass production, and convert this place into a research facility. We need to set up the board properly from the very beginning."
As Henry's words continued, the disappointment on Benjamin's face vanished like it had been washed away. Every time the words large-scale distillery and research facility left his cousin's mouth, Benjamin's eyes sparkled like a child waiting for Christmas presents. The transformation was so dramatic—shifting from dejection to a face overflowing with motivation and pure joy—that Henry nearly burst out laughing in the middle of his serious explanation. He barely managed to hold it in.
"Yes, boss! I mean, family head! No—Henry!!"
"After the family meeting ends, I'll assign the real estate strategy team and accountants to you. In the meantime, go look at some land. Find somewhere with good expansion potential and clean water. Got it? And most importantly, look for terrain with minimal temperature variation. Saving on cooling costs is the same as saving money."
Watching Benjamin nod mechanically in overwhelming joy, Henry felt a slight twinge of doubt.
Did this guy actually understand everything I just said?
But since the man was utterly obsessed with his dream, Henry decided to trust that he'd figure it out. They left the cool cellar and stepped back into the sweltering heat of the distillery. Henry went around shaking hands with every single sweating employee, deliberately stamping his presence. It was an intentional move—not to assert authority as family head, but to plant the image of a partner walking alongside them.
Next, he moved to the old applejack distillery in the adjacent building. In that space thick with the scent of aged wood and the sharp sting of alcohol, Henry met the new manager, Theodore Martin. He was the man who had taken over the position left vacant when Benjamin shifted his focus to brandy production. However, the report Theodore presented immediately made Henry's brow furrow deeply.
"Family Head, I have something to report. Shouldn't we either lower the price of applejack further, or reduce production to only the bare minimum needed for traditional preservation?"
"Hmm. What's the exact situation?"
"Ever since Prohibition was repealed in 1934, sales have been at rock bottom. Applejack itself feels too old-fashioned, and it's strongly associated with being a rustic, unsophisticated drink. We only manage to sell about thirty percent of our annual production."
Theodore's voice was heavy with worry.
"From 1934 until now, the remaining seventy percent—that's 2,800 barrels—has piled up every single year. Thanks to Benjamin, we've reduced production over the last three years, but the market has completely turned its back on us. Ninety percent of output—1,200 barrels—is going straight into storage. We're now at the limit of our storage capacity."
It had a glorious history of being supplied to soldiers during the Revolutionary War. But today's applejack was a burdensome white elephant—nothing but its history to recommend it. A harsh, brutally hangover-inducing cheap liquor that dockworkers drank. That was the current public perception of applejack.
As he listened, two strong questions flashed through Henry's mind.
Why the hell have they been stubbornly producing something that doesn't sell for decades?
And if it doesn't sell, why not just throw it away? Why keep accumulating it like this?
To Henry, with his modern business sensibilities, this inefficient situation was an unacceptable risk he simply couldn't comprehend. He immediately fixed Theodore with a sharp gaze and voiced his doubts.