Leonard looks at her. "This Taster seems pretty narrow in his focus. No European wines, right?"
"Mostly west coast, California."
"And that tasting was blind? In front of an audience?"
"Blind, but with limits," Denis clarifies. "We knew the vintages would be later than 2003 and local to Napa and Sonoma. And red."
"Still," Saul takes another slice of hearty sourdough from the bread basket, "I read a review of his calls. That wasn't luck."
"Far from it," Leonard agrees. "His uncanny comparisons between wines is what caught my eye originally."
"He's got groupies at this point," Saul laughs. "Have you read some of the comments on his blog by admiring women? I mean, they're not your typical wine connoisseurs, but I confess I'm envious."
Denis notices Julie stabbing a piece of crab with her fork rather forcefully.
Leonard smiles and mops up the remainder of the exquisite sauce with a bite of bread. "I did hear that he dismissed the offering from the same vintner whose '07 releases he likes a lot. I liked them, too, when I tried them. What did you think of the Two Ravens at the tasting?"
Denis offers his opinion, although he'd been more reluctant to lay it out at Trella, given the other rapid, dead-center calls made by the Taster. "It was drawn from the cask. My guess is that it's going to be an exceptional wine in another year. There were all the interesting components, not quite of a piece yet. I would not have called it average. Not at all. Which is how he viewed it."
"I don't think he has exposure to wines in the cask. He doesn't visit the wineries himself."
This quiet comment from Julie piques Leonard's curiosity even more.
The party moves to the kitchen where Denis puts the finishing touches on the second course, his version of a Bolognese meat sauce served over his own tender, homemade tagliatelle. The wines for this course are a pair of decades-old bottles of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo from Emidio Pepe.
Leonard gives a stir to the broccoli rabe and golden slivers of garlic that are being flash-sauteed on Denis' gleaming BlueStar stovetop. He turns off the heat and finishes the dish by drizzling Colle Nobile olive oil over the greens. Saul carries the wines into the dining room while Julie helps Denis plate the pasta and sauce. Leonard transfers the sauteed greens into a white ceramic dish. The friends are relaxed, highly skilled, in their culinary preparations.
Denis removes a platter of carefully assembled cheeses from a glass-enclosed cooler onto his Laurentian Green granite countertop. The cheeses will need time to reach their perfect serving temperature.
The friends first toast glasses with the 1975 vintage, then the 1967. They were both bottled well before Julie was born. These rich, earthy wines go well with Denis' savory meat sauce.
They settle into the dinner -- sumptuous, gourmet comfort food. Saul thinks the 1967 Montepulciano is close in taste and weight to a great Nebbiolo and Leonard agrees. Julie admires the long, balanced finish of the younger of the two wines. Even though it's over thirty years old, it'll be an outstanding wine for another decade. Denis has one more bottle of it in his cellar.
Throughout the leisurely course, and the exacting, impassioned analyses of the two wines, Julie's thoughts keep returning to Cory. He baffles her. His life, his personality don't fit together somehow. Is she simply being prejudiced because he's blind? Is she making assumptions for social conduct that don't apply in this case?
If their connection on that Sonoma hillside was as real as it felt at the time, then why did the evening end so strangely? He has not called her once. He did gave her a brief, passionate hug at Sta's. But, he also left the restaurant with a beautiful young woman named Becca. This is what really bothers her.
The wines are slowly, finally, consumed. Time for the cheeses.
Denis is serving all Italian cheeses this evening; a young Montasio, a Fontina D'Aosta -- the real deal, a well-aged (stravecchione) Parmigiano-Reggiano and a Robiola Di Lombardia. These are accompanied by a platter of ripe comice pears, black mission figs, and walnuts. Nebbiolos, from the Piedmont region of Italy, are the accompanying wines.
Leonard is thrilled by the wine selection. There's an outstanding 1997 Barolo from Angelo Gaja. And there is the 1978 Bruno Giacosa Barolo, to which Leonard himself had given 99 Pillar points. He'll take some time with these wines.
Denis decides he will probe a little about the Taster. Julie has been a bit dreamy all evening and he wants to know whether he should be looking out for her.
He tries the Montasio, enjoying its grassy, fruity flavors, then savors a sip of the rich, dark '97 Barolo. Scrutinizing Julie a little, he asks, "Perhaps I ought to have invited the Taster this evening? Expand his palate into the Italians a bit."
She doesn't want it to be obvious how ready she is to pursue the topic of the Taster, whom she knows by another name. She laughs light-heartedly. "You would have had to set up a blind tasting in that case, I imagine. I think he's pretty rigorous about his approach."
Leonard finds this interesting. "Does he do these in public much?"
Leonard himself does not participate in either public wine judgings or public blind tastings. Many critics in the industry do, but his unique reputation is based on his rigorous impartiality as well as his great consistency. Staying clear of any promotional aspects of the wine industry has been an intentional part of the value he provides as a critic. And given the enormous weight of his opinions nowadays, and the economic impact they carry, he realizes how important this basic policy is.
Still, as a man who does not practice self-deception, he secretly admits to himself his feelings of competitiveness with this newcomer. The Taster is certainly not a threat to his own established name and enterprise, but more than anyone else out there, other than himself, the Taster exhibits a methodology of wine analysis that Leonard admires and believes in. Does the Taster really possess such a rare ability? Could there possibly be something underhanded about it?
Julie thinks she knows the answer to Leonard's question. "I think that event at Trella was the only public tasting he's ever attended."
Denis is feeling the deep happiness that comes from drinking a truly great wine. He swirls the Bruno Giacosa Barolo in his glass, then takes a long draught of it, pushing the wine against his palate. A brash, but interesting, idea occurs to him.
"What if you did a tasting with this guy, Lenny? A blind tasting? I know you don't usually, but it might be fun. For both of you."
Leonard is surprised, but intrigued. "Are you suggesting something private? Maybe here?"
Saul, who is enjoying the pairing of the Robiola with the comice pear, remarks, "The annual Auction Wine Country is coming up. Within that venue, such a blind tasting wouldn't seem promotional, because all of the money raised goes to local charities. There would certainly be an interested audience."
Leonard shakes his head, trying another bite of the smooth, nutty Fontina. It has just a hint of honey. "I don't know, Saul."
Leonard takes a sip of the 1978 Barolo, deep in thought. He looks at Julie. "Think there is any chance, any chance at all, he is not what he seems?"
This shocks her. "What do you mean?" Must she now defend her strange lover to Leonard? She's not sure she can.
He dismisses his own question. "Nothing, really."
"Two major talents who care deeply about the wine, who don't owe favors to the industry. It could be a very good thing for the public to witness," declares Denis, carefully pouring another round of the 1978 Barolo into the glasses of his friends.
Leonard is feeling good. This kind of food and wine, and the company, are among the greatest joys in his life. He takes a sip of the Barolo masterpiece, a quizzical expression on his face.
He knows that any public blind tasting he agrees to participate in will draw a crowd. It is also not without risks; he's well aware of those in the wine industry who resent the force he wields in shaping opinions in the world of wine, the international economic significance of his point assignments to vintages. His c
ritics wouldn't hesitate to broadcast far and wide any missteps he might make at such a public tasting event.
On the other hand, he really wants to know first hand just how good this young wine taster really is.
Chapter Forty-Two
The Four Horsemen Cafe, Sonoma. Toby drinks his coffee, reflecting unhappily on the morning's events. Two of his regular customers who have always reserved cases of his new wines well ahead of their release, didn't place orders for what he's got in the barrels right now. Rex Taylor told him business at the bistro was slower this season, and Toby hadn't even spoken to Jim Barale at La Bianca. He’d only spoken to the office manager, who expressed regret for the cutbacks they were having to make.
It felt like a brush-off to Toby, despite their cordialness.
He spots a recent copy of the Wine Country Gazette left at a table across from his booth. He picks it up and idly peruses the contents, scanning local tidbits of gossip. His eyes lock onto a story about the Trella blind tasting and he reads it rapidly, his attention riveted on the last paragraphs:
After a near-perfect identification of a 2005 north slope Russian River pinot noir (it was Firelight's north slope block -- he guessed adjacent Dark Moon), the blogger of Blind Tasting continued to impress the assembled guests at Trella with his spot-on identification of Trella's own 2004 limited Dante Hill cabernet sauvignon. The Taster showed less enthusiasm for a young syrah from Two Ravens. It was surely a disappointing surprise for Tobias Rovati, Two Ravens' owner and highly-respected local winemaker, to hear his barrel offering described as 'average', even though the Taster did not identify the wine specifically as a Two Ravens’ vintage. Denis Stafford, the well-known wine master who judges at many California competitions, has described the relatively unknown young wine blogger who is, by the way, blind, as
“a startling new talent in the world of wine critics. His accuracy with vintages, appellations and labels is astounding, given that this type of blind tasting is extremely difficult for the best of the best.”
The Taster's own website offers to point readers to wines that are highly similar to other wines. Many find this information worth the small up-front fee, especially when one of the paired wines is sold at a bargain price compared to the other. He's offering a novel service to the wine-buying public and his recent performance at the Trella blind tasting should certainly enhance his reputation as a wine critic even further.
Hot anger spreads up Toby's neck and across his face. His jaw is clenched as he sets his coffee cup down quietly. The review is crap, totally unfair. The Silver Ridge syrah in cask is going to be spectacular. He's made enough wine to believe this with confidence.
In his mind he now assigns the Taster to the same category as Todd French, an opportunistic outsider with some wine gimmick that's currently trendy. He reminds himself the Taster is blind. That dog he had was a piece of work as a seeing-eye companion, too. This train of thought leads to Dawn -- she's entered his mind this week a lot, more than he is comfortable admitting to himself.
He dates a lot of women; he tends to go for blondes, usually in their thirties, usually connected to the wine business in some way. He's been separated from his wife for six years, although they are civil to each other, and he has stayed connected to his twelve-year-old son and eight-year-old daughter. But, his wife will not reconcile herself with Toby's wandering eye for women, and ultimately, his real love is winemaking.
Dawn is definitely outside the envelope; her intelligence is dazzling and Toby likes smart women. He assumed she was in her early thirties, a little shocked when she mentioned her age at some point. She has more poise than any twenty-six-year-old he's ever known. And she has the perfect, taut skin of a woman in her twenties and the boundless nocturnal energy of youth. He'll be seeing her Friday.
But another thought nags at him. At breakfast in the cottage she seemed nervous about his reference to his cask wine. He now visualizes her sitting there, and she was definitely uncomfortable.
Suddenly it hits him -- all the wines the Taster guessed correctly, or close to correctly, were already known, bottled and available for retail! But the guy couldn't recognize a young wine still in the barrel. He missed it by a mile.
Toby's instincts sense a scam, but he can't point to it. Dawn is involved with that blog, so, if there's anything going on, she knows.
This train of thought makes him unhappy, but he cannot ignore it. He'll take her to dinner, say hello to Stefano, see what happens. Will she tell him? He'll need to go easy on her if he wants to learn anything.
He decides to make a day of it on Friday. His engine has developed a subtle intermittent ping and his guy in Healdsburg can't figure it out. Several winemaker friends who own Ferraris have spoken highly of a shop in the Bay Area. He'll see if they can look at the car on Friday, before he meets Dawn.
Chapter Forty-Three
J. Hamilton Motorworks. It's Friday and Rob is back from lunch. He hasn't slept well all week, but the coffee grande he just drank has perked him up. He stops in the office to speak with Jonas, and to look over the day's remaining list of jobs.
Jonas Hamilton, a weathered, but attractive, lean man in his fifties, was a race car driver in his youth. He recognizes the talent he has in Rob and treats him accordingly.
"Hey," Jonas smiles at Rob. "Got one more that's not on the list. An undiagnosed engine noise in a Ferrari. Owner's regular mechanic couldn't find anything. Guy needs the car today, Maybe do it first? Or let Billy take a look. Your call."
Rob checks the list: a Boxster that just needs a tune-up, a Z4 due for a timing belt replacement, the Mercedes will take more time, but the owner doesn't need the car back until next week.
Ferrari owners have constant issues with their engines. And, sometimes, it's the owner and not the engine that has the problem. They get spooked when they give the car some gas and it bolts under them like a racehorse. It makes them wonder about their engines. Rob smiles to himself, reflecting on this. But, the engines are also notoriously finicky and need lots of attention and tuning. And the sources of little noises reported in them can be devilishly hard to determine sometimes.
Rob nods. "I'll look at it now." He walks into the service bay, passing Kelly, who gives him a flirty smile. Maybe he should ask her out after work. He needs to get Dawn off his mind, but using Kelly for that purpose seems unfair.
Billy has already mounted the Ferrari on the dyno. It's a black coupe, 360 Modena. 2003. Shit. He sees the vanity plate, and his spirits crash. 2RAVENS. Why is that guy's car here in his shop?
He stops in his tracks, staring at the car without approaching it. Ordinarily he'd admire this model, give the car its due, enjoy tweaking its engine back to perfection. But this vehicle sits there like a black curse, rubbing salt into his already wounded heart. Why did that vintner come all this way from Sonoma, why not the city? He's going to see Dawn, that's why. A rush of wild desperation floods over Rob. Get a grip, guy!
He steels himself and focuses. He approaches the Ferrari, walks to the front and opens its glossy black hood. Lots of prancing horsepower gleaming on display here. He walks around to the driver's side, opens the door, checks the gear position and starts the engine. He lets it warm up a little, instinctively listening. So far it's the right profile for what a Ferrari V-8 engine should sound like, idling.
He glances at the passenger seat for a moment. It's a pointless path to go down and he stops thinking about it.
He goes back around to the engine and inspects the dyno straps to make sure the car is secured. He picks up a mechanics stethoscope and returns to the engine. He locates the wire that's connected to the power and revs the engine a little. Sounds okay. A little more power, okay he does hear a tiny intermittent ping.
He puts on the stethoscope and systematically moves the listening portion of it across the surface of the engine. His face is pure concentration now and his spotless hands move with precision and confidence, searching out the V-8's elusive malady.
It takes a wh
ile to figure out the source of the ping and it's after three when he's finished, but he knows he fixed it. He needs to look at that Z4 right away.
Kelly sees a customer walking into the glossy-floored waiting area; J. Hamilton Motorworks provides its waiting customers with white leather chairs and soft background jazz. Kelly appraises the man, he's a dark-haired, good-looking forty-something.
She has encountered hundreds of guys like him over the two years she has worked here, and she knows that each one of them feels that his car is the one special machine that their business has been created to serve. And she considers it her responsibility to ensure that this assumption is never questioned.
"Good afternoon! Are you picking up today?"
"Toby Rovati. I'm here for the 2003 Ferrari." He smiles at her.
"Yes, Mr. Rovati. I believe the car is ready. May I offer you a glass of champagne while I consult with our mechanic?"
Toby appraises Kelly in her tight yellow corduroy pants, and black J. Hamilton Motorworks polo shirt. Plenty of chest on this girl, he'll take whatever she's pouring.
"Sure, thanks. By the way, I'd like to speak to the mechanic."
She nods. He settles into one of the white leather chairs as he watches her walk away, her hips swaying, blond hair bouncing.
She returns with a silver tray, containing a flute of pale liquid. She holds the tray out and Toby picks up the glass, toasting her casually with it.
He takes a sip, analytically. It's decent French champagne. Not great, but not too sweet. He notes that it's got a lot of bubbles. They must be using a nitrogen-based stopper because, otherwise, the bottle would go flat soon after the first pouring.
He surveys his surroundings; it's a very nice shop, very high end. He imagines the invoice will be high end, too.
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