Page 88 of Before We Say Goodbye
“For sure. I’m talking the reds too.”
Scooter removed his hat, showing off his bald head. “You’re the boss.”
It felt right in Otis’s bones. Not only because he wanted to shove a big cedar stake up Lloyd’s tight bum, but because it was the right time to pick this year. It had been unbearably hot. The grapes were behaving like stubborn jerks, an insult as Otis took it, as he’d given them a year off. Now they seemed to feel as if they didn’t need to work at all.
Why couldn’t he pick grapes in July? Because no one else did it? Otis couldn’t handle the homogeny taking over the wines in the valley. Everyone was trying to make the same thing, grocery store wine that tasted no different from the one next to it. If Otis were to pinpoint the culprit, it would be the critics who had decided that they had the final say in what was worthy of being consumed in America.
Robert Parker had a lot to do with it. Even Parker would admit that his scoring system had become too powerful. Nearly every critic used the number system to define a wine, and countless winemakers did what they could to cater to the most powerful critics’ palates, making the wines bigger, bolder, and darker, with more alcohol and less acidity.
Otis could only judge so much, as he had sent his fair share of wines in to be scored, and he’d even manipulated a few along the way to make sure he’d get high scores for the year. Now, though, as he entered this new phase of life, as he stepped deeper into the relationship with his vines, he saw the truth in new ways. No longer could he sacrifice his art for fame and fortune.
Could art be defined by a number anyway? Could any art be objectified in such a way?
The answer was a giant fuckingNo.
Also, who said Robert Parker had the right palate? When he put a high number on a wine—and he had with Otis’s on occasion—it just meant that he, one person, liked it. The wines that typically claimed the high scores were the over-extracted beasts that stood out in a lineup. If Parker sat down to taste through one hundred wines, which ones would he remember? Naturally, the ditzy blondes with the giant knockers and hourglass hips. Those kinds of wines that screamed at you. Notthe subtle intellectual efforts that made you seek them out, made you cuddle up next to them and get to know them, made you ask questions.
Forget what was supposed to be good. Forget a high score. Otis wanted to make something different. It had been the hottest year in the valley that he’d ever known, and these grapes would make a fine wine. Sure, they might pucker up a mouth or two, but it wouldn’t be like drinking lemon juice. It would be like biting into a blackberry that wasn’t quite ripe. This would be a year to make sessionable wines, low-alcohol beauties that had an acidic cut to them.
Perhaps more than all this, Otis wanted to show himself and others that wine wasn’t life or death. Yes, they were making art, but they had to stop taking it so seriously. Wasn’t that exactly what Carmine had said?
For Lloyd and the critics and Otis’s sons, who needed to know that you didn’t have to follow the rules, and for Otis himself, he said, “Let’s pick it all this week. Get ready for an interesting year.”
Scooter rested his hat back on top of his head. “You know they’ll never let you live this down, right?”
“Scooter, if you ever again find me making wines while worrying about what others think, hit me over the head with a rake.”
“Aye, aye, boss.” Scooter broke into a smile that showed a flicker of the metal in the back of his mouth.
An hour later, Scooter’s team was out there plucking grapes that seemed slightly angry about leaving their mama vines so soon. Otis was right there with the fellas, a basket around his neck, shears in his hand.
As the sun poked through the clouds, Otis tromped to the end of a row and dumped his basket of grapes into a half-full bin. Had the grapes been human, they’d scream,We’re not ready!However, Otis would offer fatherly assurance with:Trust your papa, my children. Besides, I’m the one with the opposable thumbs.
“What’s going on?” came Bec’s voice as she strode down a row barefooted.
This early pick was an ask-forgiveness-later situation, and he knew he was in trouble. Had he a tail, it would have curled up under him.
“It’s picking time,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Late July?” Not counting the year prior, they typically picked in early October, so she was rightfully surprised. “They’re barely purple; you’re too early.”
Otis held up a finger. “Early on what scale? You know, Bec, we always follow those that came before us. We make wines that we’re familiar with. Not this year. I think the fruit’s ready. Brix are a little low, but—”
“What are the Brix, Otis?”
“Around sixteen.”
“So you’re makingver jus?” She was jokingly referring to “green juice,” an early-picked, unfermented product that had a milder bite than vinegar and did wonders for salad dressings.
“No, it’s far too ripe forver jus, though I admire your humor. Veraison started. Who definesdrinkableanyway? No one owns that definition. Besides, I want to finish early. Let’s wrap this thing up and go on a trip. Nothing like Barolo this time of year.”
She sighed. “I know what you’re doing, Otis. I know you better than anyone. It’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious?”
“Don’t play dumb. This is you hitting Lloyd’s bow with a torpedo.”
Otis couldn’t stop himself from smirking. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
