Easy to Like

by Edward Riche

  The primary (and occasionally the only) grape in the majority of wines from Châteauneuf-du-Pape was Grenache, a black, hot-climate grape of Spanish or perhaps Sardinian origin (no one seemed willing to admit it did best in Sardinia) that produced a potent though pale juice. Easily boozy, most of the Grenache grown in the world became plonk. It did so well. It was unpretentious; it made a carafe wine, a wine for the people. But low-yielding old vines could also produce something much more.

  Châteauneuf-du-Pape began with Grenache — to which could be added Syrah, for a shiny pepper pelt and the durability of reinforced concrete; Mourvèdre, for the funk of blood; and Cinsault, for volatility and polish. Counoise gave a fermented essence that Elliot called “raspberry kimchi,” and it brought to the wine what Mick Taylor had to the Stones. Vaccarèse was a spice: a pinch did the trick. Terret Noir added crisp acidity. Muscardin’s role was an utter and essential mystery.

  White grapes, in tiny proportions, were part of the blend too. Roussanne gave beeswax and honey to the palate and white flowers to the nose. Clairette, while soft, added alcoholic heat for the tongue. Bourboulenc kippered; Picpoul puckered against Picardin’s sugar.

  Beyond the official truth there were more grapes than these. There were, in fact, several varieties of Grenache, from black to white; there were spontaneous hybrids; there were mischievous oddities from faraway corners of the vineyards of the southern Rhône Valley. But nowhere, it seemed, was there any longer cultivated Matou de Gethsemane — the grape in the admixture that contributed the critical element that Elliot sought in the wine.

  The Matou de Gethsemane (Vitis vinifera subsp. Golgotha rutilus difficilis) was alleged to originate in the Middle East — from the garden on the Mount of Olives where Jesus suffered his agony, if one took the name at face value. It was said to have been carted back from the Holy Land to the south of France by Crusaders, in the belief it had made the wine that filled the Grail, the very wine that became blood. But given the vine’s traits, this made little sense. Unlike the other hot-climate grapes in the Châteauneuf mix, Matou de Gethsemane could not bear heat and sun.

  They said you could see this in the pallor of its fruit. Botanical accounts from the nineteenth century, including a few poor drawings, described a faintly blue skin with amber freckles on any exposed shoulders. Because the vines did so poorly in the light, they were planted in the shadiest areas and trained to have heavy leaf canopies. Only in this relative gloom could the grapes mature in such a way as to produce juice useful for wine. Those few who, long ago, planted any of it, often did so in the shade of a stone wall between properties, on the edges of their clos. Exposed to the midday sun, the grape, like Jesus on the cross above, was finished.

  The top of the name, matou — “tomcat” — tipped one off to its nose, reminiscent of the spray of just such an animal. In colour it was not at all purple, but copper. The palate, wrote one monk who grew it, was enigmatic, having a distinct flavour, something earthy or of metal, that wasn’t quite there. He ascribed to it a taste that compelled one to continue to smack the lips and roll the tongue, searching. But monks tended to exaggerate the few pleasures they took.

  Among reasons speculated for the decline of cultivation of Matou was that, vinified on its own, it was thought to be nearly undrinkable. In concentrations of up to an absolute maximum of 10 percent and in concert with Grenache and Cinsault, there were reports of its producing rosé wines of simultaneous lightness and gravity. These, the stories went, “refreshed” like no others. As a component of a beefy southern Rhône red, it would provide relief against a tendency to be boozy and sweet. It made wine of only 9 or 10 degrees alcohol with no residual sugar and it was, in all accounts and with complete conviction, said to add critical “tension.” When Elliot pressed the oldest vignerons of the southern Rhône, in his Canadian high school French, for a further explanation, for an expansion, there was a Gallic shrug and that shaking of the half-opened hand, like the turning of an invisible dial, that said, “If you cannot understand what I mean by ‘tension,’ then you cannot understand what I mean.”

  Lastly, every account, every bit of geezer-imparted lore, held it a bitch to grow. More than the fussy canopy management required, the Matou was prone to every disease known to grape — fungal, viral, and bacterial. It was particularly susceptible to mildew-like growths that thrived in the same leafy vines necessary to protect the grapes from too much sun. Its yields were poor, except in those years when the berries spontaneously shattered. It was impossible to harvest mechanically. Its vines had to reach fifteen years of age before the fruit showed its characteristic modesty. It was in need of constant and individual attention, possibly why it held a reputation for being “jealous” of other varieties.

  By the early 1960s only one or two growers were known to bother with it. The Thibodeau family at Isabelle d’Orange vinified it with success, as did a secretive group of monks who’d long ago made wine for the Avignon popes. The monastic order, whose allegiances were suspect after the Church returned to Rome, was extinguished by papal bull in 1964.

  Cultivation gradually ceased. The Matou was by no means unique in this. Grapes like the Penouille, the Troyen, the Camaralet, and the Arbane Rouge were almost extinct too. Gone the way of the Snouthouse apple and the Ribston Pippin: casualties of a globalized marketplace that could not find a niche for an apple known as “Perfect.”

  Elliot drove into Cambria, on the coast, to get a sandwich for lunch and a cup of coffee. Fog made the place as damp and chilly as faraway St. John’s, Newfoundland, the town in which he was born. Given the right conditions, these Pacific mists could creep inland to the most westerly vineyards of Paso Robles, cooling and slaking them. (Vigneron wisdom in the South of France held that the Mourvèdre grape didn’t grow properly where one could not smell the sea.) But the tendrils of relief that snaked their way through the Templeton Gap in the Santa Lucias too rarely made it as far east as his thirsting vines. Standing beside his car, looking out at the surf, he shivered. In a short twenty minutes, he would be in an inferno.

  They were erecting another building on the grounds of the neighbouring property, Haldeman Estates. (Elliot called the place, owned and operated by a retired cavalry general — an Apache helicopter his last mount — “Haldeman Laboratories.”)

  Haldeman were, in philosophy and practice, in direct opposition to Elliot’s operation. They believed their product was made in the cellar. Where Haldeman deployed forward osmosis and microminioxygenation to create their Frankenwine, Elliot endeavoured to be as non-intrusive as possible. Haldeman raised their wines in spanking new barrels, specially coopered extra-small so as to impart the maximum characteristic of American oak. Elliot used foudres and concrete tanks to minimize the influence of wood. Haldeman harvested fruit that was verging on deliquescence to make blowsy, sugary wine. Elliot harvested early to ensure acidity, austerity, and minerality. Haldeman called Elliot’s wine a “Châteauhuit de Dope.” Elliot likened Haldeman’s wine to a rootbeer float.

  The starkest difference between Elliot’s operation and his neighbour’s was that Haldeman’s was successful.

  A crane was in there at Haldeman’s, lifting some machine off the back of a flatbed. Probably an Israeli centrifuge.

  There was no sign marking the entrance to Elliot’s winery.

  Elliot made his way to the vineyard offices. His operation was not plush but practical, built into the hill to facilitate gravity feeding as opposed to rough pumping. Visitors were discouraged. Winery tours were right out. He thought he could feel the heat of the gravel coming through the soles of his shoes.

  Day-to-day business operations had fallen to Bonnie Sherow, whom Elliot had hired, originally, as his secretary. She was greatly overqualified and only took the job because it was close to home. She and her husband, early back-to-the-landers from the ’60s themselves, ran a biodynamic farm nearby. She hadn’t been on the job a month before Elliot named her manager. He never did hire another secretary — there wasn’t
call for one — and so was always uncomfortable asking Bonnie to perform functions below her station. But the situation was approaching an emergency. Bonnie was worrying over a litter of invoices.

  “Elliot,” she said, “we have —”

  “I know, I know.”

  “We need thirty-eight hundred bottles. I have to get them on credit.”

  “Cash flow, I understand.”

  “That’s only part of it. Sales are . . . The wine cannot market itself.”

  “Sure it can. We’ve been through this, it’s cult.” Elliot hated the term. “Advertising works completely against the image. Does Rayas advertise?”

  “Marketing means more than advertising. You can’t have it both ways, you can’t be this cool thing with integrity, that only those in the know know, and be, like . . . popular. And the wine you are making . . . forgive me, Elliot . . . it’s no Rayas.”

  “Rayas was a bad example. Beaucastel.” Like Elliot, Beaucastel grew and made wine from many grapes.

  “Beaucastel advertise. And you know what? Locura Canyon is even less like Beaucastel than Rayas. Beaucastel is a terrific business.”

  “I know you’re right, Bonnie, but . . . I think vineyard problems are our priority, I know what’s got to be done. I haven’t got much time.”

  “You sure don’t.”

  “How long?”

  Bonnie looked down at her desk, pretending to consult some papers when Elliot could see she just couldn’t say it to his face.

  “Without refinancing, we’ve got two more vintages. Maybe. With the drop in land values around here, the asset side makes talking to the banks impossible, even if they were lending. Probably best to keep our heads down.”

  “Then I’ve got to get on this immediately. Can you book me through to Paris or Marseilles? First flights available.”

  “Is this a new partner?” asked Bonnie.

  “What?”

  “Are you drumming up some investment? In France? A partner? Because if you are, I think it’s great idea.”

  “Yes,” Elliot lied, “that’s part of it, it’s an ancillary objective of the trip.”

  “Ancillary?” Bonnie took a moment. “What’s the primary objective?”

  “Matou de Gethsemane. I’m going to make one last effort to find some.”

  Bonnie caught and held her breath, ultimately failing to suppress the urge to say something.

  “Do you really think . . . It’s not my place to question you but . . . Really, Elliot, do you think that’s going to make any kind of difference to the situation here?”

  “I think, if I can find some, it will make the wine great.” Elliot straightened, lifted his chin.

  “I understand that. I’ve understood that for some time. But our problems, your problems, are financial and they are immediate.”

  “If the wine is great, then . . . It came up yesterday during this tasting I was leading and I thought again how that was really what got me into the business, and —”

  Bonnie held up a hand to stop him and turned to her computer screen. “I think you have more pressing concerns, that’s all. Besides the money situation, Walt tells me he’s gotten phone calls. ATF and the Department of Agriculture are worried that you have root stock out there that didn’t go through quarantine.” She continued without looking at him. “If that’s true, you have recklessly put the entire California industry at risk.” She let the accusation settle in silence. “Any particular carrier?”

  “Just the quickest way to the South of France.”

  So Bonnie thought that his search for the grape was an excuse. Indeed, in the South of France, worries could seem very far away. The perfume there, the garrigue, the lavender and tobacco smoke on the air, put one’s head right. But Elliot was being forthright: whether or not he had a chance of locating the vine, he knew he was getting near his last chance — in many regards. If all that came of the journey was a release from confusion, from nascent panic, if there was only a moment of subsequent clarity, it would be worth it. “I have to go, Bonnie.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “I’ll talk to Walt about these ATF jokers. Where is he?”

  “He’s up in the third block of Counoise with a rifle.”

  “A rifle?”

  “A zebra has been eating the grapes.”

  “A zebra?”

  By the time he reached the older block of Counoise, the sun was weakening him. He should have driven. It was the other side of hot, beyond the barrier at which one could distinguish any change. He would return in Walt’s truck.

  Walt Stuckel was meant to hold a rifle. He was a tall and lean native Californian. If his ancestors hadn’t been actual pioneers, then they had at least been in Westerns.

  Seeing Elliot, Walt put the rifle on his shoulder and walked to meet him.

  “A zebra?” asked Elliot.

  “A fucking zebra, if you can believe it.”

  “Well, no, I can’t.”

  “Something was eating fruit, I assumed it was deer. I saw some tracks but . . . what do I know.”

  “Back up. A zebra?”

  “I came down in the dark before dawn, two days ago, and I saw the goddamn thing. I wasn’t even sure if I could shoot a deer or even a coyote, Elliot. I’ve never shot anything. But then, I see, you know, a zebra in here eating the grapes . . . I didn’t know what to do but shoo it away. It didn’t budge. Showed its teeth. I thought it was going to attack me.”

  “I don’t know how to put this . . . I’m not being flip . . . but this zebra . . . it’s not in your mind, is it?”

  “No!” said Walt. He looked at the gun. He seemed to be judging its weight. “I think I can do it now. I think I can shoot it. If I see it again.”

  “Zebra.”

  “From San Simeon. Hearst had a private zoo and kept them.”

  Elliot now remembered hearing this before. He nodded.

  “They’re still there, the descendants,” Walt continued, “left to range on the estate. This one must have found its way over. It’s sixty miles through the hills.”

  “Did you call anyone over at Hearst Castle?”

  “Yeah, they said they’d come over but they didn’t hold out much hope of catching the thing. They wouldn’t have done anything if I hadn’t said I was planning on gunning the thing down. Zebras aren’t endangered, are they?”

  “The gun suits you.”

  Walt seemed insulted.

  “I’m glad I got one, with those Faranistas over there.” Walt pointed eastward with his chin (yeah, he was definitely descended from actors in Westerns) and raised the rifle, as if he was going to put the butt against his shoulder in readiness to fire.

  “Faranists. Not Faranistas.”

  “They’re crazy, Elliot. I’ve seen them in Paso and SLO, freaking bread on their heads.”

  “I didn’t know they put it on their heads. I’ve seen them with loaves on their feet.”

  “It’s all bad signs lately. I’m getting spooked.”

  “Signs?”

  “There was a tremor the other day, 5.5, and then these folks from the Department of Agriculture calling.”

  “What did they want?”

  “They want to see the paperwork on the vines, especially the Counoise, proof you got them from UC Davis.”

  “What did you tell them?” said Elliot, looking down at the vines. At this tender age the trunks were as insubstantial as a young girl’s arm. At maturity they would be as thick as a man’s leg, their bark cracked and frayed and the plant no higher than it was now, pruned back to a vulgar bonsai.

  “I told them that was your department, that I didn’t know where you got them, that they were here when I came. And that’s no lie,” Walt said. “They know they’re suitcase clones, Elliot, they aren’t stupid. They asked about coming down to take cuttings, check the DNA.”

  “You told them they needed some sort of warrant.”

  “No, I didn’t. This is my career, Elliot, it’s not a hobby for me. I can’t affor
d to piss those guys off.”

  “It’s not a hobby for me, Walt. Never has been. Where do think I’d rather be, here or in Los Angeles?”

  “This is it for me. I have my future to consider.”

  “You have a future here, surely.”

  “This is serious, Elliot.”

  “If they go after me I’ll start talking about all the suitcase clones up in Napa. Nobody’s gonna want that.” It was an open secret that much of the source rootstock of Napa’s top wineries had been purloined from the best vineyards of the Médoc and imported without any controls.

  Walt didn’t respond.

  “Did the zebra have any sort of palate? Why was it eating the Counoise? Is it doing okay?” The leaves were wilting, drooping over bunches of grapes of uneven shape and size.

  “It’s hurting in the heat and drought, and it was in bad shape to begin with, what with the powdery mildew. Keeping the canopy so thick, we should have sprayed Rubigan, and earlier.”

  “Bad call. My mistake. How about the other varieties?”

  “They all are in bad shape, ’cept the old-vine Zin. I swear it likes these conditions.”

  “I’ve actually been thinking we should sell all the Zin.”

  “It’s the best fruit you’ve got.”

  “It’s giving the wine this metallic thing, and I’m thinking that by the time the rest of the blend is coming around the Zin will be crashing.”

  “‘By the time’?”

  “It’s not appropriate anyway. It’s not authentic.”

  “Authentic? Christ sakes, Elliot, how can anything be authentic in a Rhône blend made in California?”

  “Can we not go through this again.”

  “This isn’t the South of France, Elliot.” Walt paused and drew a breath. “I was going suggest we make a Zin.”

  “Under the label?”

  “However you want to do it. A Zin is about as authentic as you can get here.”

  “I don’t think so. Anyway, I am more convinced than ever that the solution is adding Matou to the blend.”