Page 70 of Red Mountain Burning
A Taste of the Real World
Emilia watched Otis lift the steel top off the amphora in front of him. He had scabs on his arms from a bike accident several days earlier. On the other side of the cellar, Eli was moving empty barrels out the large door for cleaning.
Otis dipped his barrel thief into the red juice and let it fill. Emilia had seen these same clay pots in Lacoda’s cellar and was excited to learn more about them. Otis had told her that amphorae had been used since the Stone Age and that he was exploring the differences in textures given to the wine by testing both clay pots and concrete.
He drew out a sample and filled both of their glasses. “We’ve just blended this—both an early and late pick of syrah from the last vintage. It will take a little longer for the two wines to meld together, but you’ll get the idea. Syrah is one of the few varieties that can handle being picked so much later without the risk of losing its identity. If you allow cab to hang too long, you get riper fruit in a sad cascade of homogeny—a big purple explosion that belongs on sourdough toast. With syrah, there are, of course, the obvious darker and riper fruits, but you also tap into the smokier, meatier flavors. A savorier and even earthier experience. I’m rather fond of the flavors.”
Emilia stuck her nose in, and a foray of heavenly smells rose up. “And how about from the earlier pick?”
“Notice the brighter fruits, like raspberry and bing cherry.” He sniffed. “A bit of orange peel as well. Then in the tertiary dimensions, we find pencil lead shavings and herbal notes. It’s a lot to take in, but they blend nicely once the two picks have had a chance to settle.”
Emilia had always considered him a slightly grumpy man, but as he tasted and talked about wine, he morphed into a possessed young man. He was nearly giddy during the experience.
Otis spun his glass and took a long sip. After letting it rest in his mouth for a moment, he spat into the drain on the floor. Emilia mimicked him and tried to catalog the experience. It was overwhelming to try to think of the wine’s body, the acidity,andthe level of alcohol, whilealsosearching for specific flavors and aromas. However, it was more intriguing than daunting.
He put the top back on, pressing it against a putty-like material that snaked around the rim. As they moved to the next amphora, she said, “You and Brooks talk a lot about the picking date. Is it that important?”
“Yes, my dear girl.” He lowered the glass to his waist. “The moment one chooses to pick their grapes is ofparamountimportance.” He held up his hand, as if showing a graph. “Imagine a grape ripening each day—each hour, for that matter. In the early stages, we have these hard, green berries that accumulate acid and tannins. Absolutely deplorable to taste. In late July or early August, depending on the year, we begin to seeveraison, the wonderful time of year when the berries soften and turn purple.” He lifted his hand farther. “It’s about that time that the sugars accumulate and acids fall to more appealing levels. The berries reveal their varietal attributes as well. In the following weeks afterveraison, the grapes ripen rapidly, and we must make the decision of when to stop the process. If we pick too early, we risk a lack of phenolic ripeness and could end up with a wine that tastes like green peppers and olives. The juice might be too bitter and astringent. The acids could be over the top.”
Otis raised his hand above his head. “Too late, and we’ll have lost the acid and any sense of place. The sugars will have skyrocketed, which will have led to higher alcohol content. There are some, like my neighbor, who want high-octane Hollywood wines. Imagine a two-hour action scene with car chases and endless explosions…but at the dinner table. I prefer to pick much earlier in development and end up with a wine that makes for a more interesting dinner guest. When a grape is picked on the earlier side, you get the exact balance you need. With that balance comes the specificity of the vineyard. You can taste that my syrah came from the block my wife and I first planted. Just like with your vineyards, you can quite easily discern which grapes came from Angeline’s block.”
“You know about Angeline?” Emilia couldn’t believe he’d just brought up a vine from Lacoda.
“Of course, I do. It’s one of the magical mysteries of the mountain.”
Otis held his hands out in a teepee formation. “Every moment past the optimal picking time, the wines start to race toward homogeny, meaning they lose their character and start to taste like every other blasted wine on a shelf. When you pick at the optimum time as I define it—the earlier side, your acid is high and your pH is low, which creates a very safe environment for your wine to vinify. Bacteria doesn’t grow well in low-pH environments, so you’re essentially making it easier on yourself.”
He crossed his arms, spinning his glass in the air by rote. “Think about it. By picking at the perfect time, you capture the essence of your vineyard,andyou give yourself juice that safeguards itself. You don’t have to throw a bunch of sulfur at it to keep the yuckies out. This is where the late-picking bozos get themselves in trouble. They pick late for this modern, high-scoring style but quickly realize how unstable and susceptible their juice is to unwanted growth. So what do they do? They have to douse it with chemicals to prevent the wines from going even further south. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want chemicals in my soilorin my wines.”
Otis took a long sip and spat it to the drain. “Brooks told me he’s given you a few rows to make wine with this year.”
“Yes, he has,” Emilia beamed.
Otis wagged a finger. “Make sure you walk the vines every day. Taste the berries. When it comes to picking, run the numbers for sure, but in the end, it’s about tasting. Find the balance. Find the voice in your vines.”
Emilia wanted to shout from the top of the mountain that she was talking wine with Otis Till. She wanted desperately to tell her mother how much fun she was having, but she was terrified to even bring up the experience at any point in the near future.
Bubbling over with excitement, she said, “And Brooks just told me that he and my dad are letting me participate in the blending trials next month.”
“Oh, wow,” Otis said. “What a high honor that is. And I’m sure it’s no doubt earned. I remember when Brooks and I started that same tradition down here.”
Every year, Brooks, Pak, and her dad collected to decide on the varietal percentages for Lacoda’s main red blend. Each person came up with his own blend, and the decision was made through a competitive blind tasting.
Otis drifted off for a moment and then said, “When done right, a bottle of wine is a liquid journal, an entire vintage of entries—intimate, unedited, and raw. That’s what we want to pour into people’s glasses. Tellyourstory of the mountain.”
Emilia smiled, thinking of something she’d heard. “Brooks told me about the year you picked cabernet in July. Is that really true?”
Otis dipped his chin. “Guilty as charged. It was more to prove a point than anything else. People call me a hardhead now, but I was much worse in my youth. That was a hot year in California, but I went a tad overboard.” He raised an eyebrow. “That being said, the wine wasn’t awful. A bit stemmy and green, but it held its own. Would you like to try it?”
Emilia attempted to act cool. “Um, yes. I would love to.”
“Tell you what. Why don’t we break for lunch, and I’ll pull a few fun bottles?”
They agreed to meet in the tasting room in an hour, and Emilia raced home to tell her father what she’d been doing.
* * *
Since opening,Margot had never turned down a request for a late checkout, but her generosity was biting her in the derriere today. It just so happened that every one of her guests were leaving today, and five of the six parties had asked for late checkouts.Andevery one of the rooms was spoken for tonight.
