Blind Tasting

by A. C. Houston

  Dawn nods. "The most interesting and rare situations are like Grouse and Todd French, where an unknown wine is really similar to a biggy. I'd pay more for that."

  "I'm going to link the blog's public posts to Twitter and Facebook through RSS feeds. More paths to the PayPal portion."

  "So who are you in all this, anyway?" Dawn wants to know. "Are you Cory? I mean, your friends might start asking you some difficult questions."

  "I've thought of that. No pictures of me." Cory’s eyes twinkle. "And, I'm signing all my posts as The Taster."

  "The Sniffer would be more accurate," Dawn quips.

  "The Taster!" Rob repeats in a growly voice. He's suddenly in the mood to roughhouse with Snoots and grabs him.

  The dog whips his head around and closes his jaws around Rob's wrist in a playful dominance move.

  "Good thing this guy's got a soft mouth." Rob laughs, pulling his arm back. "Where's your sock, boy?" he asks the dog.

  Snoots looks at him with alert eyes, then trots briskly over to the dining table and fetches a sock from under it. He approaches Rob slowly, flaunting the dangling article of clothing in his mouth, shaking his head a little to bait Rob.

  Rob snatches at it and the two of them engage in tug-of-war;

  Snoots emits a throaty growl as he shakes his head back and forth vigorously, his front legs braced against the floor.

  Snoots lets go of the sock for a split second to reposition his mouth on it and this sends Rob, who is still pulling as hard as he can, sprawling across Dawn who then topples into Cory.

  Snoots rushes forward and thrusts his forelegs up on the couch, adding to the pile up. He sticks his wet snout against Rob's face.

  "Snootsy, no!" Dawn laughs as the dog presses his weight forward, pinning Rob to her and her to Cory.

  Cory reaches out with his unpinned arm and grabs the sock. "Here, boy!"

  Snoots backs off the couch and attacks the sock. More tug-of-war.

  "That dog is pumped." Rob tells Dawn, smiling up at her before slowly righting himself on the couch.

  "Yes, and who pumped him?" she counters, a little sorry Rob isn't still resting across her lap.

  "Guilty as charged."

  Cory releases the sock to let Snoots win and the game ends.

  The dog shakes his head vehemently two or three times, the sock still in his mouth, then wanders off to his bed to lie down and chew on it a little. The spoils of victory.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Genetica. Dawn opens her eyes and pulls her left arm out of her sleeping bag, peering at her watch. 6:50 a.m.

  Her thoughts focus, recalling the database of molecules she was searching three hours ago. She climbs out of the sleeping bag and stretches, still wearing yesterday's tee shirt and jeans. Strong black coffee is what she's craving.

  She waits impatiently in front of her small espresso machine, then pads back to her desk in bare feet with her double shot made from Peet's Italian-roast beans.

  She pushes the sleeping bag aside and sits down to resume her perusal of molecules that might serve as ligands for the Rad51 protein. This is new research underway while she waits for the latest results on Priapase from the Mountain View testing firm.

  Her analysis of microarray mRNA output on several pancreatic cell lines shows a significant over-expression of the gene Rad51 in the cancerous ones, in contrast to the normal lines. By at least two standard deviations. She knows of another published study that reports a similar finding.

  She ponders the evidence, feeling the buzz now from the dark, caffeine-loaded liquid. The over-expression may be the response of the cancer cells to genetic damage incurred from chemotherapeutics. Rad51 is centrally involved in the repair of broken double-stranded DNA, so its over-expression in cancer cells might make those cells more resilient.

  In contrast, the suppression of Rad51 might bolster the continued efficacy of the chemotherapy in treating a pancreatic tumor. An exciting possibility worth pursuing. She needs to identify a molecule that can bind to a specific site on the polymer surface of the Rad51 protein to stop its function, literally plug it up.

  The online public domain molecular database she looked through in the wee hours is not yielding interesting target candidates, so now she clicks through screenfuls of information from the proprietary banks of small molecules that Genetica has licensed from other biotech firms.

  As she scans the properties of different families of molecules, she reflects on the thousands and thousands of hours, the years, of dedicated bench chemistry performed by legions of unrecognized scientists who have painstakingly assembled this astounding inventory of the chemical building blocks of life. And, even with all of this, there is so much to discover, so many puzzles to unlock on the basic circuitry of living cells; cellular processes that are repeated thousands of times in time spans that range from milliseconds to days.

  Developing a compound that could cure a major disease is a very worthwhile quest, but, at the deepest level, it's the proving ground for the basic science. What Dawn is really after, what she knows her colleagues are really after, is how it works. The machinery of life.

  Her cell phone rings. It's Rob. "So, you ready?"

  "Ready?"

  "The run up to Sonoma?"

  "Oh, God! I'm still at work from yesterday. I totally spaced it out. I'm sorry."

  After a pause, he asks, a little subdued, "Want me to just go?"

  She doesn't want that at all. "Can you give me thirty minutes to go home and change? I'll be really fast."

  "I'll come by your place."

  She smiles into the phone. "Thank you."

  Even though she's only had three hours of sleep she wants to look nice, if possible.

  Sonoma. Glimpses of grapevines and sunlight flash through the car window beyond the tall trees that flank the two-lane blacktop. Dawn, freshly dressed in a pale blue tee shirt and black jeans, rides shotgun in Rob's red Mazda RX-8. Her hair is pulled back in a pony tail, and she's wearing prescription dark glasses. She wanted to wear her contact lenses, but her eyes are too tired.

  They are up in the Dry Creek appellation of Sonoma Valley on a mission to pick up wines for Cory. Now that he is officially in stealth mode on the blog as The Taster, they all agreed it's better if he isn't seen buying the wines. Dawn volunteered to be one of the 'grape runners' today, as she dubbed her job description for Blind Tasting, their newly-minted LLC.

  Rob is following a pickup truck and sees his chance to pass it. He guns the engine and surges by, smoothly settling into his lane a little before the oncoming traffic reaches them.

  Dawn lets out a small involuntary breath.

  Rob glances at her. "Did that make you nervous?"

  "Yes." She smiles apprehensively.

  "I'm sorry. I actually had plenty of room, and I know exactly how this Mazda accelerates." He smiles at her. "I wouldn't put you in harm's way."

  "I guess you're used to driving high-performance cars, aren't you?"

  He nods. "I'm training a guy at work, Billy, on engines. He does a lot of the test drives for me now."

  She looks out the window. "Look at those vineyards! This feels like the vacation I've been wanting."

  "You need more fun in your life, Dawn."

  She glances at him, admiring his masculine profile, his athletic body in the dark gray polo shirt and jeans. Susan is right, Rob is gorgeous. "Have any suggestions?"

  He arches an eyebrow behind his dark glasses, smiling, but keeps his eyes focused on the road. "Maybe."

  She laughs, realizing that he probably does. She settles back in her seat, not sure how to proceed with this particular discussion. He's way different from the doctors she dates.

  "So what is it about molecules? The stuff you do?"

  His question surprises her, out of the blue like that. She considers it before answering.

  "Well, it's just amazing to realize that the human body is a symbiotic universe of one hundred trillion jiggling wet cells. And these cells, which are
complexes of carbon-based molecules, are all crammed together, each one performing its own bit of metabolic magic."

  Leaning back against the headrest, she turns toward him, adding, "And somehow, functioning all together, these result in thinking, feeling beings. Like you and me." Ahead, she sees the sign for a winery. "Here's our first stop."

  Rob turns off the main road at the sign which reads: Two Ravens Winery. He follows a gravel drive that leads up a steep hill and pulls up in front of a barn-like building with a sign posted on the door: Tastings by Appointment.

  He cuts the ignition and looks at her. "This Mazda runs on carbon-based molecules, too, chains of hydrocarbons. I guess in different arrangements, though. High octane." His expression is warm, sincere.

  She nods enthusiastically. "Absolutely! Fossil fuels are just relics of ancient life forms. And if you think about living cells, the thousands of proteins contained in each one are all working together in order for the cell to run, to function. Like the parts of a car engine, really."

  Rob unclips his seat belt and turns to her with an openness of gaze, a willingness to engage, that she is not prepared for.

  Is he going to kiss me? It's a thrilling possibility, but too unsettling.

  Quickly, she focuses on the iPhone in her hand, inspecting the Google map displayed there, confirming they have arrived where they are.

  She dares to look at him again. "Shall we go in?"

  He nods, a faint smile of resignation on his lips.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Two Ravens Tasting Room. Dawn and Rob walk into the dim-lit, high-ceilinged space and look around. There is a wooden bar with stools along one wall and behind the bar are bottles of wine and racks of wine glasses. The other side of the room opens into tall stacks of wooden wine barrels.

  "Do you think we're early?" Dawn asks, peering down the rows of barrels.

  A stocky, dark-haired man appears from behind one of the larger wine casks. He's early forties, clean-shaven and of Mediterranean ancestry. His thick hair is slightly shaggy, a few locks of it touching the back of the collar of his dark-blue work shirt. The shirt is open at the throat, sleeves rolled up, and tucked into jeans.

  Smiling, he shakes hands heartily with Rob. "Toby Rovati. You're the folks from Blind Tasting?"

  "Rob Valentine. How's it going?"

  Toby smiles at Dawn and she offers her hand to him, which he shakes gently.

  "Dawn Hawking," she tells him, returning his smile.

  Toby gestures toward the casks. "I was checking the fermentation on some late harvest zinfandel from last fall. We don't produce much of it, but last year the conditions were right. Which one of you is the Taster?"

  Dawn and Rob exchange a quick glance.

  Dawn answers. "Actually, we're partners of the venture."

  Toby smiles at her. "I took a look at your blog. The Grouse call was good. So who is he, she, the Taster?"

  Dawn realizes now they should have worked out their story before driving up here. She improvises.

  "The Taster, his nom de plume, was chosen to preserve anonymity. It reassures our readers of the blog's unbiased appraisal of wine. He's not out schmoozing with producers in exchange for good reviews." God, will this stuff fly with a real winemaker?

  Toby gives an appreciative laugh. "There's a lot of schmoozing in this business. You do have to know what's going on or your wine won't get sold. But, the fun part is making the wine."

  Rob reviews the shopping list on his iPhone. "We came to buy your 2007 zinfandel and 2007 syrah."

  "Sure. Would you like to sample something?"

  He shrugs, but Dawn decides it's the way business is done in wine country. "What would you recommend?"

  "Maybe the Raptor Hill. It's predominately old vine zinfandel."

  He invites them to sit at the bar. He goes behind it and selects a bottle from the rack, sets it on the counter, and expertly uncorks it. He exudes an earthy masculinity that Dawn finds appealing. He sets up two glasses and pours a small amount into each one.

  Rob takes a sip, and nods in polite approval.

  Toby watches Dawn swirl and sniff the wine before she tries it.

  The fruit is rich and concentrated. She likes it a lot. "Nice," she tells him as she studies the Two Ravens label: two black ravens soaring skyward, wings spread fully.

  "Everything I make is sourced from my own blocks. And I ferment with only the natural yeasts."

  Dawn finishes the wine in her glass and Toby pours a small amount more. "The fruit from this vintage benefited from a long hang time."

  "That increases the sugar I guess?" she asks, beginning to muse about the chemistry of winemaking.

  "It can. Also the intensity of the varietal's characteristics. I do cold maceration that also helps bring the fruit forward in the flavor of the final product. Gives added depth."

  Rob waves off Toby's offer to pour more of the zinfandel in his glass.

  "Could we try one of the syrahs?" Dawn asks.

  "I'd recommend the Love Child."

  She laughs. "I'd like to know the story behind that name." She's quite aware of Toby's dark eyes sweeping over her.

  "It's our one Alexander Valley appellation. Originally it was two smaller blocks of grenache and cabernet franc. The vines were too old, they weren't producing, so I replaced them both with several clones of Northern Rhone syrah. The name is a little joke on the merger."

  She watches him uncork a bottle of the Love Child. He fills a pitcher with water and sets it between them. "You might want to rinse your glasses before sampling this."

  The syrah is bold and complex. It's an earthy wine with leather and spice on the nose, and a rich, black fruit mouth. A long finish. Dawn is impressed. "This is really amazing." She looks at Rob who nods, but doesn't say anything.

  Toby addresses his remarks to her. "It's got a lot of structure. I used ten percent whole clusters in this one. You've got to have perfect stems, that's the challenge. But it's what adds some of the interesting spice notes, that hint of vanilla."

  Rob glances at his watch. "Hey, we still have some more runs to do."

  He's right. They're on a mission for Cory. Dawn looks at Toby. "Can you put together a couple of bottles of each of your labels for us?"

  Toby moves behind the bar and bends over a set of crates, pulling up a couple of wine bottles at a time. He describes them as he sets them out on the bar. "Here is the Rockpile zin, Raptor Hill that you tried, and Fire Lake. Those are all 2007. And for syrah 2007, I've got Silver Ridge, Two Ravens Benchland, our most recent vineyard, and the Love Child."

  Toby reappears from behind the bar with a carton for the bottles. As he begins to put the bottles into the carton Dawn asks, "When did you start Two Ravens?"

  "I bought the properties about five years ago. Before that, I was making wine for Rookery Estates."

  "I think I've had a GSM from Rookery," she tells him, recalling something Cory once served at a dinner. She suddenly remembers, impressed, that a high-flying Rookery zinfandel had been poured at the Sage's Cask wine tasting.

  He smiles. "Are you shopping for GSMs today? I can recommend a couple of wineries."

  "What's on that list, Rob?" Dawn is pretty sure they are just shopping zinfandel and syrah today.

  "Harrisfield Family Winery," Rob tells her, looking at his iPhone.

  Toby nods. "Barbara Harrisfield is a good friend of mine. She's making some really nice zinfandels. They've got younger vines, but they're on eastern slopes. She's also experimenting with some innovative canopy management."

  Rob hands Toby a credit card which he processes behind the bar. He returns the card to Rob and puts his hand on the carton of wine bottles. "So I'd try these wines now, and maybe wait six to twelve months to try the second set. But your guy knows what to do."

  He shakes Rob's hand again, then takes Dawn's hand gently and makes sustained eye contact with her. "Thanks for stopping by."

  Rob and Dawn are back on the blacktop, winding along through Dr
y Creek. Dawn, wearing her sunglasses again, settles into her seat, watching the grapevines flash by. "Interesting guy. Wonder what wine making is like."

  Rob's mood has darkened a little. He shrugs indifferently. "Probably a lot like farming. Too slow-paced for me. Where's our turn?"

  Dawn glances at her Google map. "It's just up the road. Harrisfield Winery."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Connecticut countryside. Leonard Pillar leans forward, sitting at his work table, his gray eyes half-closed in deep concentration, the sleeves of his blue work shirt rolled up, exposing his strong forearms. Here, in the privacy of his home office, is where the majority of his professional wine tasting has been conducted for the past thirty years.

  Now fifty-five, he's a man of medium height and build, with light brown hair brushed back from his high forehead, and a pleasant face that belies the driving analytic intelligence behind it.

  He takes another sip from the glass of red wine he's holding, swirls it skillfully across his tongue and ejects it into a stainless steel bucket. Setting the glass down, he picks up a different glass of red wine and takes a sip from it, again swirling and ejecting the wine. Amazing resemblance. The noses, the mouths, the finishes are extremely close. Aloud to himself, he asks, "Who is this guy?"

  Leonard sets down the second wine glass and rests his elbows on the table. He folds his hands together and ponders the results.

  Somehow he had overlooked an interesting small family winery out on Dry Creek. Todd French had not, evidently, and Leonard is confident that Todd French procured the grapes for his prize-winning zinfandel cuvée from that small Rockpile producer. Apparently that's mostly what is in the Todd French bottle.