by Harvey, JM
I looked closer and had to concur. The level of wine in the bottle was well above the shoulder, though still several inches below the neck where the original fill line would have been, This type of loss is called ullage and is caused by evaporation impossible to completely arrest even in the most perfectly temperature controlled wine cellar.
“Was the bottle topped off?” Dimitri asked and Blake nodded. Dimitri’s only comment was an indignant sniff. Both recorking and topping off, where a bottle being recorked is filled with a similar vintage of the same wine, are practices that were once commonplace before wine counterfeiting of old vintages became such a concern. Both practices were now frowned upon, though I considered them necessary to preserve old wine. And so did Dimitri, I assumed. Recorking was one of the services offered by Star Crossed to its cellaring clients.
“I would like to see the paperwork tomorrow,” Dimitri said. “You should discuss all such purchases with me before you commit,” he added then turned his attention to the other bottles. He shook his head as he looked at each label. “Extravagance.” He muttered.
Thankfully, the other three guests arrived in a single group at that moment.
Blake made the introductions. Phillip Maxwell of Decanted Magazine was tall and spare with a large Adam’s apple and no chin. The distributors, Jacob and Peter Willingham, were polar opposites of each other; Jacob was thin and fair with sallow cheeks and a sniffly nose, while his brother, Peter, was ruddy and broad with a bristle of untamable dark hair.
We made small talk, mainly chatter about the wine being offered - everyone was suitably impressed - and then we were seated for dinner.
I was placed between Dimitri and Blake, at the head of the table. The first course was a poached salmon mousse a la crème that Blake paired with a small pour of 2010 Sauvignon Blanc from Galton in Sonoma, which was lively and well balanced with a nice long finish. Everyone commented favorably on it.
“Fourteen cases of the 2010 will be offered at our next auction,” Blake announced. “I’m expecting a lot of interest."
The Willinghams shared a look and a judicious nod while Phillip Maxwell made a note on his iPad. Dimitri merely sniffed and looked bored.
The pheasant came next, paired with my own cabernet, which had been decanted and left to breathe as we finished the mousse. I was thankful Blake had placed it early in the meal, before the other California reds, mainly just to get my anxiety out of the way.
“Lovely legs,” Phillip Maxwell said as he tilted the glass in his hand and did a slow tip and swirl. He sniffed it and said, “Tobacco and cinnamon.” He took a small sip and added, “Big fruit with a nice oaky tone. I love it!”
And I loved him for saying it.
Peter nodded in agreement then smiled at me. “The ’09 Reserve has really put you on the map,” he said. “I was at Lucerne’s the other night. They had it listed at three hundred a bottle.”
“It’s been very well received,” I said modestly, but I was thinking that I needed to jack up my wholesale prices. That was more than triple what I had sold it for.
With my wine dispatched and the pheasant cleared away to be replaced by a small plate of filet of beef with wild mushrooms, Jacob moved on to other business. “What do you think of the Summer Estate pinot noir?” he asked Dimitri, who was frowning as he picked at the beef. “We have a dozen cases of their 2005 I’m looking to price.”
“Twelve hundred a case,” Dimitri answered tersely, his eyes on the beef. “Overpriced in my opinion, but it is drinkable.”
“You don’t like it?” Jacob asked, a frown making his sallow cheeks pucker.
“That is not what I said,” Dimitri replied without looking up, ending the subject.
Peter Willingham tried next. “What do you think of the California cult wine craze?” he asked, referring to the small wineries that had come to demand the highest prices at auction.
Dimitri shrugged. “Some of it is quite good. Some of it is not.” Not very edifying, but Peter didn’t ask any more questions. It was obvious Dimitri was not in the mood for conversation. It was amazing a businessman would be so casually rude to clients, but I kept my mouth shut. I was a guest, not a referee.
Finally, the moment I had been awaiting arrived. With much fanfare, Dimitri used a pair of small, antique silver sommelier hammers to chip away the wax seal before drawing the cork free of the bottle. The cork was dark, but firm, obviously a recorking, though still an old one.
I was feeling the wine a little by then, and decided to step out and call Victor Gonzalez, my vineyard foreman, to beg a ride home. I ducked out to the restroom hallway to make that call as the dessert was being ferried into the private room. Victor agreed to come get me, after making some derogatory remarks about not being able to hold my liquor, then immediately launched into questions about what wines were being served. I promised him a full rundown on the ride home.
I returned to the dining room to find Blake pouring the d’Yquem. I was stuffed by then, so I was grateful the dessert course was composed of a small plate of figs and Stilton bleu cheese, an understated offering that was a bow to the d’Yquem.
I held the glass to my nostrils first, almost dipping my nose into it. The bouquet was honey and raisins, with apples and citrus notes. I took a small sip, sucking air across my tongue. It was warm and smooth, heavy on the tongue, the flavor concentrated and delightful. Heavenly. Every one else seemed as impressed as I was, except Dimitri.
“It is d'Yquem,” he said grudgingly.
“Of course it is. I—” Blake began, but Dimitri wasn’t done.
“A 1982,” he said. “An excellent vintage, but it is no 1911.” Dimitri fished a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket and perched them low on his nose. He took the d’Yquem cork from a small silver platter and brought it close to his eye. He examined it then set it back down and looked up at Blake. “The cork has been filed to remove the date.”
Blake almost dropped the decanter. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, it’s the same wine, how can you be sure?”
“A number of things,” Dimitri said frostily. “The primary one being that I tasted a bottle of the 1982 only last week.”
Blake laughed nervously and looked around the table. “That’s why I have him around,” he said. “He’s a walking wine bible.”
Everyone smiled politely at that, but it was clear we were all uncomfortable.
As Blake took his seat, he ducked close to Dimitri and hissed, “You had to do that in front of the customers?” in a voice so low I was sure only Dimitri and I heard it.
“You are a fool, Becker,” Dimitri said just as softly, then took a sip of wine. “But this is an excellent wine. For that much I thank you.”
I set my glass down, turned away from them and made some comment I can’t recall to Jacob Willingham, trying to pretend I had not heard the exchange. I was beginning to feel like a voyeur at a family feud. And so were the other guests. We all begged off quickly after dessert, leaving more than half the bottle of d'Yquem behind with Blake and Dimitri.
Victor was at the curb in his beat up old truck. I waved at him and went to the valet’s podium. Twenty dollars got me a promise that my Jeep would not be towed, but would be moved to the back parking lot.
Victor was dressed in his pajamas, a pair of ragged sweatpants and an even more ragged Neil Diamond t-shirt. I rolled my eyes at the ensemble as we pulled away from the curb.
As we drove up the narrow, winding road to Violet, he asked a dozen questions about the wine. I answered, reliving every sip and feeling a languorous buzz - right up until the moment I dozed off, my head resting against the passenger window.
Victor swears that I snored all the way home, but I’m sure he was joking.
Probably.
Two frenetic weeks followed that evening at the Wine Presser’s Assistant. The harvest that year came early, rushed by the storm system thrashing its way across the Pacific.
Even with a rapidly assembled crew, directed by Victor,
picking at top speed while Samson, Jessica, and I crushed and destemmed the grapes, working straight through for three sleepless days and two nights, we had barely beat the first thunderous wave of the storm.
Many other growers hadn’t been as lucky. But, as lucky as I might have been, I was also dead tired by the time the day of my crush party arrived.
Chapter 3
On the day of the party, the weather did not disappoint. It was a bit warm for fall, but a cool breeze was sweeping down from the mountains at Violet’s back, promising a pleasant evening. While I supervised the caterers making a mess of my kitchen, Victor was erecting a large white awning with the help of three of the seasonal laborers I had hired for the harvest, and my daughter, Jessica, was making a last minute run in to St. Helena for more ice.
If you’re picturing a silver-fork soiree with white linen tablecloths and waiters circulating with trays laden with petit fours and champagne flutes, you don’t know me very well. Near the awning sat a ragtag collection of folding chairs, picnic tables, and rickety old card tables scrounged from the back yards and garages of every friend I have in the Valley. The menu was barbecued chicken, grilled halibut, and cold salads, and there would be no champagne, just gallon jugs of Violet Vineyard cabernet culled from our 2011 bottling. That might not sound classy, but Violet Vineyard cabernet, I’m proud to say, is among the highest rated cabernets coming out of Napa, or any other appellation in the world for that matter.
Lugging a wooden wine crate filled with battered knives and forks, I stepped out the back door, leaving the caterers banging pots and breaking dishes behind me.
The heady scent of the wisteria vines that have taken over the trellis covering my patio was almost sickly sweet, but it faded fast as I crossed the lawn, replaced by the smell of the crush. I bet you’re imagining the sweet smell of grapes, but you’d be way off. The smell of grapes being crushed and destemmed is not heady or sweet, it’s musty and earthy. A smell that hits the nostrils hard and clings to the back of the throat like cheap merlot, reminding you that a vineyard is little more than a farm with affectations. But none of the guests would mind. This was no society party, as I have already pointed out; this was a small wine bash for fellow growers and winemakers. To them the crush smells like nothing but money.
And money was on my mind. The party wasn’t setting me back that much - a couple of thousand dollars, mostly for the caterers - but a couple of thousand dollars has often been the difference between another year growing grapes and a foreclosure auction. The last two years had been good to Violet, though. The per-case price of my wine had almost doubled and I had gained some breathing room. But don’t think I’m a gouger or pretentious about wine. Wine doesn’t have to be expensive to be good. My favorite Prosecco costs less than fifteen dollars and I’d put it head to head with some of the best coming out of the Veneto or Friuli-Venezia Giulia regions of Italy. No, the price of my cabernet is driven by restaurant menus and wholesalers. If they were going to sell Violet cabernet for a hundred and seventy dollars a bottle, I definitely wanted my cut. And so did my banker. And, I hate to admit, even at that price I was barely treading water.
My wine maker, Samson Xenos, a crusty old Greek with a bad attitude, rotten manners, and the best palate in the Valley, was standing at the end of the rows watching Victor and his helpers work. Samson had his bony hands propped on his bonier hips, and a scowl fixed on his face.
“A waste of money, de Montagne,” he said to me as I plopped the crate of cutlery down on a card table that immediately swayed like a drunken sailor, its rusty legs quivering. “And a waste of wine. If they want wine they should be made to pay for it.”
“It’s a party, Samson,” I said without looking up, so used to his surly demeanor I barely noticed it. “You can’t charge by the glass.”
“Parties are for rich people, de Montagne,” he said, still scowling at Victor. “You are not rich.” He snorted at the very idea. “I see the accounts. You are poor.”
“Even a pauper likes to have a little fun,” I replied gaily as I started separating the cutlery into piles.
“A fool and her money,” he said, turning his scowl on me for the first time. He looked me up and down, his pop-eyes bulging. I was wearing a flower print dress and silver sandals, not my usual jeans and a sweatshirt. I had even taken time to put on some blush and eyeliner, and spent a whole ten minutes on my hair, which is eight minutes longer than I usually spend. But Samson wasn’t impressed.
“You will clean the crusher and the destemmer dressed like that?” he asked imperiously. From our conversation you might wonder who the boss is; I know I often do. But I let it slide. Samson was not going to ruin my good time.
“The crusher and destemmer are already clean,” I replied as I stacked knives, spoons, and forks into untidy piles. The crusher is basically a long auger that crushes the grapes and frees the juice. The destemmer is a giant barrel shaped spinning-sieve which removes most of the stems while allowing the fruit to pass through. Both of the machines are full on nooks and crannies that are a drudgery to clean. I had been up very late last night working on it.
“I had a couple of the pickers stay late. We finished it after Victor took your half-drunk butt home,” I added. I stopped what I was doing and looked him up and down. “And, speaking of clothes, I hope you’re not planning on coming to the party dressed like that.” He was wearing one of his old-man costumes, rumpled pants bagging at the knee, a button down shirt with a frayed collar, a skinny tie that ended halfway down his chest, and a ratty old sweater that hadn’t seen a washing machine in twenty years.
“I am not coming at all,” he said. He took a stub of a cigar from his breast pocket and jammed it into his mouth. “I will not be a part of this foolishness.”
“What? Are you serious?” I said, truly surprised. Samson is a cheap old grump, but he’s not one to miss out on free wine. In fact, I'd estimate around ten percent of my profit disappears down his throat every year.
“You will have your party without me, de Montagne,” he said, shifting his eyes back to Victor, who was struggling to get the metal supports squared up. “I will be working. Someone must be working.”
“You’re coming to the crush party, Samson,” I told him levelly. “If you don’t, it might just turn into your wake.”
“I saw his name on the list,” Samson replied, and I didn’t have to ask who he meant. While I merely disliked Dimitri Pappos, Samson seemed to have a pathological hatred for the man. He refused to even say Dimitri’s name.
“Whose name?” I asked innocently as I went back to rattling cutlery. Needling Samson is one of my guilty pleasures.
“That bottle duster,” he said. “Do not play games with me, de Montagne!”
“Are you referring to Dimitri Pappos?” I asked. Calling Dimitri a ‘bottle duster’ was more than a little unfair. Dimitri’s actual title was Senior Wine Steward for Star Crossed Wine Cellars & Auctions, where he was responsible for maintaining thousands of bottles of premiere wines worth more than a hundred million dollars, and also for vetting the bottles sold at their auctions.
“He will have none of my wine! Not one drop!” Samson said, chewing furiously on the cigar, his jugulars throbbing. “I will pour the wine in the dirt first!”
I was immediately sorry for picking at Samson, not because he was angry, but because his temper could potentially ruin my party. My first in ten years. And Samson wasn’t the only one I had to worry about. There were probably a dozen other people coming to the party who hated Dimitri just as much.
When the scathing interview he had given to the Examiner was published - just two days after I had invited him to the party - I had actually considered uninviting Dimitri, knowing that many of the people he had ridiculed would be in attendance, but I decided against it. I’m no slave to decorum - my Italian ancestry has given me a fiery temper that, mixed with my Irish mother’s quick tongue, has often gotten me into hot water - but rude I am not. I had just crossed my fingers
and hoped that Dimitri would have sense enough not to show up.
I tried another tack with Samson. A little reverse psychology. Infantile, I know, but men usually stop maturing at around five years old so it seemed appropriate.
“I thought you weren't coming to the party?” I asked. “And I was counting on you to give the guests a tour of the cellar.” That tour was a highlight for the buyers who visited Violet on Saturdays and Sundays. The wine cave extending deep into the mountainside behind my house, overcrowded with wooden casks and twenty-gallon glass carboys, harkened back to the ancient roots of winemaking. It was always cool and dry, dark and somehow medieval. And, for all Samson’s grousing, he enjoyed giving those tours as much as the buyers enjoyed taking them. An afternoon of explaining wine making while dispensing sample after sample into the buyers’ (and his own) glasses was the highlight of Samson’s work week. While this party would be made up of industry insiders, I still thought a tour of an old-world style cellar would be a treat.
Samson snorted, shook his head and turned his back on me. He headed across the lawn for the wine cellar door in his shambling gate, all elbows and knees. “This is a winery, not a carnival, de Montagne,” he yelled over his shoulder, “You will have me juggling next! Your guests will remain upstairs or outside at all times!” He disappeared through the splintery old cellar door set in the stone foundation of my home and banged it closed behind me.
“If he’s doing the juggling I guess I get to do the face painting?” Victor called over. He only had two of the steel posts set up and he already looked done in. His skinny forearms were beaded with sweat and his long hair was sticking to his face. “Should I get out my red nose and fright wig?”
“I'll be happy if you just take a shower,” I hollered back. “That would be novelty enough.”
