Judgment of Paris

by George M. Taber

  The lawyer loved language and spoke colorfully. He called himself the “Papa Bear” of his law firm and the northern California town where students at the University of California always seemed to be protesting “Berserkley.” Both of his parents were born in Ireland, and he was proud of his heritage. His mother, he told people, was born “hard by Blackwater Bridge,” five miles outside the village of Kenmare on the Ring of Kerry. Mom was a peasant girl, who herded the family cow—“not cows, a cow.” Dad was from Water-ford and became an American citizen by joining the U.S. Navy during World War I, when any foreigner going into the military got automatic and immediate citizenship. He later worked for Sears. Mom was proud of the fact that she was a chambermaid at the famous Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City. That position put her high in the pecking order of Irish immigrant girls working in America and gave her certain bragging rights among the Mollies of New York City.

  In 1937, when Sears transferred Jim’s father to Los Angeles, the boy was nine. The family lived near the intersection of Santa Monica Boulevard and Vermont Avenue not far from downtown Los Angeles. At age eighteen, Jim joined the Navy as an apprentice seaman in a program that was turning out newly minted officers in ninety days. He finished the Naval Reserve Officer Training program at UCLA, where he graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree and was commissioned an officer in the navy the same day, June 1, 1946. Barrett went on active navy duty for twenty-four months, serving on the USSAdams, a destroyer, in the Pacific. He left the navy in 1948 for civilian life and went to Loyola University Law School in Los Angeles. But when the Korean War broke out in June 1950, Barrett was recalled to active duty, serving in the Pacific for two years in the submarine service aboard the USSSea Devil . After his second tour of duty ended in 1952, Barrett opened a law office with a notary seal, and not much else, in Hawthorne, where bean fields were rapidly being given over to new housing developments.

  Barrett slowly built a one-man law firm into an organization that had twenty-three lawyers and more than seventy employees. Its main business was real estate law, and the major client was Ernest Hahn, an entrepreneur who had started a small construction company in Hawthorne, where he had grown up. When they met, Barrett was working alone, handling mostly civil cases from a modest office that resembled one of those drab cubicles where a car salesperson takes a buyer to nail down the final price.

  Hahn, who was four years older than Barrett, started building shopping centers to serve the thousands of people moving into the new housing developments growing up in southern California. Large tracts of orange groves and lettuce fields were being cleared for new houses built and sold in rapid succession. In 1959, Hahn put up the $2 million Montclair Shopping Center near Riverside, California, and soon he was one of the biggest developers of those properties in the country. Barrett was hiséminence grise and lawyer. With Hahn as a client, Barrett became a specialist in the legal work related to developing and operating shopping centers.

  By the late 1960s, however, Barrett was bored with land-development law and yearned for something different, ideally something that would bring him closer to nature. But it could be anything. “Maybe I can sell frozen chocolate bananas,” he said. Barrett told friends that his guardian angel Leonardo was going to find him a place to start a new career, where he could “watch the sun come up in the morning and go down at night.”

  Barrett had a long-standing interest in wine, having had his first taste when he was a law student in the late 1940s. The height of his culinary adventure in those days was to cook some chicken and buy a bottle of Louis M. Martini Barbera for $1.25 to go with it. Barrett ventured into foreign territory with Portugal’s Lancers rosé, a slightly sweet, sparkling wine—just right for Americans making the switch from Coca-Cola to something more sophisticated. As his law practice prospered, Barrett graduated to France’s great wines like Château Lafite and Château Pétrus.

  Barrett had been looking in northern California for about eighteen months for an investment having something to do with wine when he made that trip north to meet with Lee Paschich, a local businessman. Paschich had moved from San Francisco to the Napa Valley in the late 1950s. He built a house on Picket Road in Calistoga, a sleepy town that had just one of everything—one shoe repair shop, one dry cleaner, one restaurant—where he made window shades using materials imported from Korea, China, and Japan. Paschich also owned a winery named Chateau Montelena.

  After driving through the mountains from Santa Rosa to the Napa Valley, Barrett turned off Route 128 onto Tubbs Lane. There wasn’t another car on the road. Ahead of him stood the two peaks of Mount St. Helena. The taller one, the highest in the region, rises to 4,343 feet and was considered the noblest mountain in the San Francisco Bay area. It dominates the northern end of the Napa Valley. Farms stood on both sides of Tubbs Lane, and cattle grazed in the fields. A mile down the road, Barrett passed a small geyser on his left, Calistoga’s own Old Faithful. A short distance beyond was Paschich’s factory, where the two men were to meet.

  After introductions, Paschich and Barrett walked a couple hundred yards down Tubbs Lane to the winery. Barrett’s first reaction was that Leonardo had brought him to a very special place. The main building was impressive, with two turrets and a beautiful façade, although there were also touches of early Disneyland kitsch: two knights in dented armor stood guard next to plaster-of-Paris cannons in front of the chateau. The property was overrun with weeds, and disrepair hung around the building along with the spiderwebs. A small pond was filled with snakes and frogs. Behind the chateau was a rundown vineyard. Grapes from the poorly maintained vines were sold to Gallo.

  Chateau Montelena dated back to the glory days of early California wine. In 1880, Alfred L. Tubbs, a successful San Francisco businessman who had come west from New York City in 1850 to start a rope company, traveled the new train line in the Napa Valley all the way to its end in Calistoga. There he bought 275 acres as a site for a winery. He named it Chateau Montelena in honor of the mountain located directly behind the property.

  Tubbs didn’t know a lot about making wine, but he was determined to learn and he went first class. He traveled to France and bought cuttings from some of the great vineyards. The model Tubbs had in mind for his winery was Bordeaux’s Château Lafite. Tubbs hired a French architect and French masons to build a chateau replica, complete with walls forty-two inches thick made of imported European stone. In 1886, Tubbs hired Frenchman Jerome Bardot to be his winemaker.

  Chateau Montelena produced very good wines, particularly reds. The land, which includes alluvial, sedimentary, and volcanic soils, was ideal for viticulture. Temperatures are warm during the day and cool at night with 50-degree swings between afternoon and evening, giving red wine the complexity that winemakers seek and serious consumers appreciate.

  Tubbs died in 1897, and Chateau Montelena passed to his son William and then in 1919 to grandson Chapin Tubbs, who had the unhappy experience of seeing the chateau through Prohibition. Many of the Montelena grapevines were pulled up and replaced with pear and plum trees. Chapin led the Napa Valley campaign to repeal Prohibition and was ready to restart the winery in 1933, when it again became legal to make wine.

  But his efforts were jinxed. Along with many winemakers at the time, Tubbs overestimated the American public’s interest in fine wine after Prohibition. In September 1934, Chateau Montelena went bankrupt. In later years, the Tubbs family stopped making wine, although they continued to work the vineyard and sold grapes to other wineries and amateur winemakers. The winery, though, had mostly stood silent since Prohibition.

  Paschich bought the chateau and an adjacent 15.2 acres in the mid-1960s with plans to construct a new building on the property for his blinds business. But like many newcomers to the Napa Valley, Paschich caught the wine bug. He began making his own wine as a hobby and was soon producing fifty cases a year, which he drank himself or gave to friends. He didn’t actually want to own a winery, though, and so he put together a real estate package that
included an additional 135 acres of property that he bought from the great granddaughter of Alfred Tubbs. Paschich figured that some wealthy surgeon or lawyer from San Francisco or Los Angeles would buy it, and he’d walk away with a nice profit.

  As Paschich recounted the history, Barrett could hardly contain his enthusiasm, but also saw that it was a great place to commit financial suicide. Barrett had done enough land deals for Hahn to know that if he showed too strong an interest, the price would immediately go up. As it was, Chateau Montelena was on the market for $1 million. Trying to appear blasé, Barrett told Paschich that he was looking at three or four other wine properties in the Napa Valley and suggested that they meet for dinner a few days later.

  Over the next six months, Barrett would escape from his law practice for a few days, fly up to the Santa Rosa Airport, and drive over to Calistoga for dinner with Paschich to talk about the property. In the process the two men discovered that they enjoyed each other’s company as well as talking about and drinking wine. Normally, they picked up a good bottle of wine and dined at the Silverado Bar and Grill in Calistoga, where the Wednesday-night specialty was Prime Rib on the Spit, or at the Abbey, a restaurant close to St. Helena. It was—and still is—common in the Napa Valley for customers to bring along their own wine for dinner even though the restaurant might have an extensive wine list. Barrett and Paschich were not trying to save money, but rather they wanted to taste the best products from Napa wineries. If Heitz, Freemark Abbey, and Robert Mondavi were going to be Barrett’s competition, he wanted to know what he was up against. Barrett and Paschich usually drank Cabernet Sauvignon, although they occasionally shared a bottle of Chardonnay.

  The dinners gave Barrett a quick education in the issues of owning and running a winery. Barrett was well aware of the fact that liquor was the most controlled business in the country. The Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control regulated it in California, and at the federal level the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms governed it. He was more concerned about water issues. The two men talked about the possibility of damming up a creek to create a reservoir on the property to provide a guaranteed source of water. Barrett wanted to master the details of the business if he was going to invest $1 million.

  Over these dinners, Barrett sketched out for Paschich his basic concept for the winery. Barrett said he wanted to produce world-class Cabernet Sauvignon, and his role models were the famous First Growths of Bordeaux, just as Château Lafite had been the goal for Alfred Tubbs. Those were mainly family-operated wineries that year after year turned out great wines. As the winery was being brought back to full production, Barrett might compromise on a lot of things, but not on his vision.

  The entire property now consisted of 150 acres of land with about 100 acres useful for vineyards, but nearly all the existing low-quality vines needed to be ripped out and replaced with Cabernet Sauvignon. Only 10 acres of Zinfandel were worth saving. In addition, the winery had to be gutted and all the old equipment thrown away. Concrete slabs had to be poured. Tanks, crushers, must pumps, barrels, lines, presses, and on and on had to be bought. A bottling line had to be set up, and warehousing had to be prepared. Barrett wanted the equipment to be top of the line. Wine barrels, for example, had to come from France—Limousin, France, to be exact. You don’t make world-class wine with second-rate equipment, Barrett maintained. He was also going to use the latest technology and techniques developed by Napa Valley vintners and researchers at UC Davis. It would be a big job to get the winery up and running for the 1972 vintage, Barrett’s goal.

  The financials Barrett prepared showed that he needed $1.4 million—$1 million for the purchase price and $400,000 for start-up costs. This second-career dream was turning into a giant risk! He was starting a new business in a field where he knew almost nothing. In addition, he was going to be an absentee owner, spending most of his time on his law practice in southern California. Barrett was planning to continue working there to help pay the family bills, which were large and would be getting bigger when his four children went to college. He clearly needed a financial partner, and his thoughts naturally turned to his client and old friend Ernie Hahn.

  The first week of December 1971, Barrett visited Hahn at the E. W. Hahn corporate offices in El Segundo. The two men often met after working hours to discuss key projects. They had just wrapped up the day’s business when Barrett said, “Ernie, you know I want to do something else. My firm is doing a great job for you, and I know you’re pleased and very comfortable with the work my lawyers do. They’re hardworking and fast. I want to turn everything over to them. They are every bit as experienced as I am—only smarter.”

  “You got that right,” quipped Hahn.

  “Well, what do you say, boss? I won’t do it unless I have your okay.”

  Hahn looked at Barrett for a long moment and then said, “Go for it, Jim. It’s okay with me.”

  Hahn got up to leave, but Barrett stopped him, saying, “Uno momento,pal. Have I got a deal for you!”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “It’s a roll of the dice, but it’s exciting, romantic. I want to make a world-class wine like Château Lafite or Château Margaux, and I’ve found this winery and vineyard in the Napa Valley. It’s called Chateau Montelena.” Barrett gushed with enthusiasm as he told Hahn about his great find.

  When he finally finished, Barrett said, “I need you to come in on this because I can’t do it alone. Why don’t you take half of the action? We’ll be equal general partners. I’ll do the work for free—gratis.”

  Hahn, who thought big and loved a gamble, immediately replied, “Sounds great, Jim. Let’s do it.”

  The following week, Barrett and Paschich had another of their dinners at the Silverado Bar and Grill in Calistoga to talk about the deal. That night, though, the dinner ended differently. When the food—and the bottle of wine—were finished, the two agreed that they didn’t have any more outstanding issues. They had the framework of an agreement. So Barrett took out a sheet of paper and began writing down the various terms. When he was finished, the two agreed that Paschich’s lawyer would draw up the final document. Contracts would be signed before the end of the year, but for tax purposes would be dated January 2, 1972.

  A few days later, Paschich flew down to Los Angeles ready to sign the papers and close the deal. He was shown into the conference room in Barrett’s offices, where the lawyer was already waiting for him. After the two men exchanged pleasantries, Paschich gave Barrett the contract his lawyer had drawn up. Barrett quickly scanned it and saw it was exactly the same as the working papers they had agreed upon. He handed it back to Paschich, who signed and gave it to Barrett for his signature.

  But instead of signing, Barrett looked Paschich in the eye and said, “Sorry. No can do.”

  “What?” asked Paschich in disbelief.

  “Leland, we’ve had a lot of fun and drunk a lot of good wine these last few months. Why don’t we just keep it up? Let’s face it. I still don’t know the wine business, despite all I’ve learned in the past couple of years. The Napa Valley is going to consider me a blue-suede shoe guy from L.A. You know the locals, and I need you. It’s no deal unless you agree to be my representative and the local manager for two or three years.”

  Barrett wasn’t following the script.

  “Ernie Hahn and I will be the general partners and will each have forty-five percent of the deal,” Barrett continued. “You’ll be a limited partner with ten percent. And I’ll give you a three-year put agreement. That means if you want to leave at any time in the next three years, we’ll be obligated to buy back your one-hundred-thousand-dollar share plus pay seven percent interest for as long as your money is tied up. You can’t lose. You’ll have no financial exposure.”

  “Let me think about it,” said Paschich. But after only a few seconds, he said, “Okay, let’s do it.”

  “I’ll draw up amendments to these papers, and then fly up to Santa Rosa the day after tomorrow,” said Barrett. “Af
ter we sign them, we can go out for dinner and talk about what you’ve got to do. The very first thing is to find a winemaker. Get me at least three well-qualified people to interview.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Rebirth of a Ghost Winery

  Wine is one of the most civilizing things in the world and one of the natural things of the world that has been brought to the greatest perfection, and it offers a greater range of enjoyment and appreciation than, possibly, any other purely sensory thing.

  —ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  Clockwise from left: Ernie Hahn, Jim Barrett, Lee Paschich, and Mike Grgich, circa 1975.

  One morning in the fall of 1968, Mike Grgich got into his white Plymouth Valiant and drove two miles down Route 29 from Beaulieu Vineyard in St. Helena to the still new Robert Mondavi Winery in Oakville. Like everyone in the valley, Grgich had been impressed with both the beautiful low-slung adobe building sitting back from the highway and the wines Mondavi was producing. Grgich was also looking to make a change. He had been very happy at Beaulieu working for André Tchelistcheff and once had perhaps unrealistic hopes that he could succeed him as winemaker. But one day a fellow worker told Grgich that André’s son Dimitri had already applied for the job. Grgich concluded that Dimitri would probably get it and therefore his future would always be limited at Beaulieu. The Robert Mondavi Winery thus looked very attractive.

  As Grgich pulled into the Mondavi parking lot, he could see that the staff was in the middle of harvest. Only weeks before, Warren Winiarski had left to start his new life as a wine consultant. It was one of those beautiful days in the valley that make so many people who visit the area decide to stay. Sitting on a wooden bench in front of the main building, Mondavi and Grgich talked about what each was doing—and dreamed of doing.