Diving into Pinot

Structure n. Relationship of components such acid, alcohol, and tannin, that make up the foundation of the wine

It was eight a.m. on that August morning when I walked out the door and down the hall of my parent’s West End co-op, hit the “L” button of the elevator with my elbow, and opened the latest edition of Wine Business Daily on my iPhone. The headline trumpeted Chain Gang Cabernet sets off record bidding war at Napa Valley Barrel Auction.

My head was packed with the numbers, schedules, and explanations I’d planned to present to the clients at that morning’s meeting, so I would have to wait until lunchtime to read the rest of the story. But no matter how jammed my day was, I always took the time to check out the latest buzz in the wine industry.

After pulling an all-nighter to prep for a nine o’clock meeting that could make or break my career at DeMoine Accounting, I’d had mere minutes to get myself ready. But when I caught my reflection in the hallway’s floor to ceiling mirror as I stepped in the elevator, I was confident that my gray linen Nanette LePore suit, Manolo Blahnik heels, vintage Chanel shoulder bag, and naturally curly blonde hair, blown straight and cut just below my shoulders, gave me the polished professional look the world of corporate accounting demands.The doors of the elevator opened, and I hurried past the lobby, hoping to jump into a cab. But when I walked through the building’s revolving doors, I got a shock. “Oh no,” I gasped. “It’s pouring!”

New York City’s Central Park was hidden by a sheet of grey rain that I would have seen before leaving my apartment if only I’d hit the open switch on the the motorized drapery system. Looking toward the street, I could just make out the figure of Ricardo, our building’s doorman, trying to wave down a cab for the couple that lived down the hall from me, who were currently cowering under the building’s narrow awning. In those pre-Uber days of 2014, cabs in Manhattan were as common as pigeons—unless it was raining.

“May be a while, Miss Goodyear!” Ricardo called out over the rush of traffic and the splashing of puddles as cars tires rolled through them. “Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro hafta get to JFK for a ten-thirty flight. Been tryin’ ta get ’em a cab for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t worry about me, Ricky—gotta run.” I opened the newspaper I’d grabbed from the lobby to use as an umbrella and raced down Central Park West to catch a southbound bus that was about to pick up passengers. I might have caught that bus if I hadn’t slammed into the overflowing shopping cart of our resident homeless lady, who’d apparently been huddled beneath the scaffolding.

“Why don’t you watch where yer going girlie?” the irate woman screamed through the storm. “I had everything packed in there just the way I wanted it!”

“Oh nooo! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Donahue!” I cried out. “Can’t stop now, but please let me pay you for this mess!” I rummaged through my now water-stained bag for every bit of cash on me as I stared in horror at the cans, magazines, and assorted collectibles splayed on the sidewalk. “Oh, and would you mind picking up my newspaper?” I implored, as I handed her a twenty, two tens, and some singles. (The elderly ex-nun in apartment 6H had spearheaded an effort a few years back to get Mrs. Donahue into some subsidized housing—but the woman stubbornly refused to vacate the patch of sidewalk she’d staked out as home.)

“And they call me a nuisance,” Mrs. Donahue said, as she grabbed the bills from my hand and began to pick up the scattered pages of my New York Times to add to her collection.

“I sure wish you’d take Sister Ann up on her offer, Mrs. Donahue!” I called back, as I ran toward the bus, only to see its doors cranked shut before it rocked from one side to the other while it pulled away from the curb. With my spike heels reducing my stride to a hobble, I checked my iPhone for the time.

It’s eight-ten already—crap! I now had twenty minutes to reach my office for an eight-thirty prep to fill my supervisor in on how a U.S. drug company with an Irish subsidiary could repatriate one billion dollars in earnings without paying a penny in taxes. I’d paid my dues by working my ass off as a lowly analyst at DeMoine since I’d graduated from college three years earlier. It was almost a given that if I hit a home run in that morning’s meeting, I’d be the next in line for a promotion and a bump in salary. Though I admittedly had a pretty sweet deal living alone and rent-free in one of the grandest of the pre-war Central Park West co-ops complete with killer art deco furniture and century-old oil paintings, it was time for me to make it on my own. And with a nice raise, plus the $25k I’d managed to squirrel away while working at DeMoine, I could make a down payment and pay the monthly mortgage on a cozy little co-op in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg, Bed-Stuy, or maybe even Park Slope. But on that morning, those dreams hinged on getting from the Upper West Side to midtown in twenty minutes.

Even if I could get a cab, traffic was now bumper to bumper. My only choice was to join the wave of commuters flowing down the steps of the 72nd Street subway station where I could catch a train across town to 42nd and 3rd, just a block from my office. I dug my hand into my bag again in search of my wallet, which held the MetroCard purchased for one of the few underground rides I’d taken since getting my job and moving to Manhattan. But the wallet was not to be found. I’d taken it from my purse the night before to pay an Amex bill and was probably still sitting there on my kitchen counter. And I couldn’t even buy a new Metrocard since I’d given all of my cash to Mrs. Donahue.

Once in the station, I was assaulted by blasts of steamy heat, waves of nauseating smells, and shoves from the swarms of people holding wet umbrellas trying to make their way through the turnstiles. The underground tunnel shook with the force of the approaching train and the wheels began their metallic screech as they came to a halt on the tracks. Having no way to pay, I looked one way, then the other, and for the first time in my life, vaulted over a turnstile in my water-soaked suit, well aware that I was ripping off the New York City Transit Authority for two dollars and fifty cents. That’s when the piercing whistle blew in my ear.

“Stop right there, miss!” A transit officer was in my face, holding up his badge.

Startled, I raised my hands in the air and backed away. “Officer, I’m so sorry. Please, I can explain—”

“You’re being charged with Theft of Services, a violation of New York Penal Law 165.15, a Class A misdemeanor punishable by up to one year in jail.”

“You’re messing with me, right?” He had to be joking. “A year in jail?”

“But, with a valid ID, I can let you go with a Desk Appearance Ticket,” the officer barked as he pulled out his book and began writing a ticket.

“ID, ID, I must have something,” I mumbled, while furiously rummaging through my purse for any kind of ID—work, gym, or even college. “Please officer . . . uhhh—” I glanced at his name tag. “. . . Hernandez.” I tried to make eye contact with the massive uniformed figure as I peered through the curtain of drenched and tangled hair hanging over my face. “Please believe that I’m so sorry I did that. I have an eight-thirty meeting, and can’t be late.” I gave up on looking through the purse. “And I don’t have an ID. I left my wallet with my MetroCard, every other card, and my cash at home, so I had no choice—”

“That could be a big problem ma’am,” he interrupted, as he stopped writing the ticket and fingered the pair of handcuffs that hung from his belt. “If you can’t produce a valid ID, I’ll have to make a regular arrest.”

“Regular arrest? What’s that? I told you I have an eight-thirty meeting.”

“And I told you that if you can’t produce a valid ID, I’ll have to make a regular arrest, meaning you’re going to Central Booking and can plan to spend the next twenty-four hours in police custody.”

That’s when the screams erupted, and what looked like a million tons of water from a broken water main poured down the entryway steps of the subway like a raging river. The terrified crowd rushed towards the train platform, causing Officer Hernandez to shift his attention to trying to control the chaos. Over the ruckus, I heard the next set of wheels begin their screech, and grabbed my chance to squeeze through the crowd and leap onto the train. When the car doors closed, and the train lurched forward, I realized that I must be one of the only New Yorkers to actually benefit from the city’s aging infrastructure.

~~~~~

“You look awful!” my supervisor Tracy Chung said, as she stared at me from behind her desk with the expression of someone smelling a foul odor. Sporting shiny black hair that framed a seemingly airbrushed complexion and wearing a crisp Fendi suit, the thirty-three-year-old Chinese-American Audit Manager looked ready for a photo shoot for top women executives in Accounting Today.

“I know I look like hell, Tracy,” I said, while trying to pull back the fistfuls of wet curls matted across my face. “Luckily, you look fabulous enough for the both of us,” I told her as I sat down at the table in her office and opened up my laptop. “Now, can you cut me some slack? I think I’ve come up with a brilliant plan to allow The Tannex Group to save $380 million in taxes. And trust me, I went to hell and back to get it done.”

“I do appreciate your effort on this, Samantha,” Tracy said, checking her lipstick in the mirror of her compact.

“It was more than just an effort. I had to pore over the tax codes and the regs all week to confirm that my strategy is legit, and create a dozen spreadsheets to show the client how to defer their write-offs over the five-year period. I didn’t finish it until seven this morning—no thanks to you not calling me back last night.”

“My bad, Sam. I didn’t check my messages ’till seven-thirty, so there was no time to get into it since my reservation at Le Pierrein was at eight.” Tracy smiled shrewdly. “You know how hot that place is, and how fast you can lose your table if you’re late. Well, maybe you don’t,” she said, with a toss of her hair.

“Fine—you’ve got your priorities. But you will let me handle this presentation on my own, like you promised––won’t you?”

Tracy’s attention shifted to her dinging iPhone. “Um, yeah…sure…uh ha!” She giggled at her incoming texts.

“Especially since Scott Talley’s sitting in.” I cocked my head to see if she was listening. “I’ve been dying to show him what I’m made of, Tracy. This meeting could be my one chance to make Senior Analyst this year.”

Tracy put her phone down. “It’s an important meeting for all of us, Sam. Tannex is tracking to be our number one revenue generator for ’14. Now take me through your numbers. We’ve got twenty minutes—actually eighteen, because you’re not going in there without brushing that hair.” She took a seat next to me at the table and I briefed her on my plan to have The Tannex Group funnel their one billion dollars in profits into the Irish branch of their corporation for the purchase of petri dishes containing bacteria created for development of the firm’s drugs. In short, Tannex would be writing off money they’d be paying to themselves, which could bring their tax bill down to zero.

“So, you see, gentlemen, our team has constructed a viable, and perfectly legal solution for your needs—it’s a win-win for Tannex,” Tracy said, wrapping up the two-hour meeting with The Tannex Group finance team, and our firm’s managing partner, Scott Talley. As furious as I was at the woman, I had to give Tracy her due. She’d absorbed every complex nuance of what I’d come up with, all in our twenty-minute prep. Then, she’d taken the men through each step of my brilliant plan without giving me an ounce of credit. They must have wondered why the girl with the wet hair was included in the meeting, given that I’d added nothing more than a couple of “another benefit of this is––” and “you might also want to mention—” before Tracy cut me off and continued to pitch my plan.

When the meeting ended, the President of The Tannex Group put his hand on Tracy’s shoulder and turned to Scott. “You do know that this lady is worth her weight in gold, don’t ya, Talley?”

Scott Talley puffed up. “Tracy’s one of our brightest stars here at DeMoine. We pride ourselves on encouraging our staff to think outside the box.” I had a glimmer of hope when the clients left the room and Scott turned to me with his hand extended. “Nice to see you again, young lady,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll get a chance to head up an exciting project like this one at some point. And I do hope you learned something today.”

Learned something? Yes, I’ve learned that I can’t let this woman walk all over me. Speak up, Sam! Speak up now!

“Well the truth is Mr. Talley,” I began. “I took this project and ran with it on my own because—”

“What Samantha is trying to say . . .” Tracy interrupted, “. . . is that she took this project and ran with it to Fed Ex Office on her own last night for copies when my printer jammed. I just don’t know what I’d do without my trusty analyst.” She gave me an appreciative wink.

“I’m sure you well know, Samantha,” Scott said, “just how lucky you are to have a great mentor like Tracy. She’s quite the mother hen, famous for pushing members of her fold into the spotlight and standing back to watch them shine.”

“She is quite the mother,” I said, with jaw clenched. “You’re right about that, Mr. Talley.”

I followed Tracy into her office and shut the door. “What the hell are you doing, Tracy? We had a deal! You took all the credit for my work! How could you do that?”

“Don’t be a prima donna, Sam. I made the team look good—our team. That’s what we’re about here.”

“The team? That’s . . . that’s bullshit! There’s no teamwork here. It’s every man and woman for themselves, ’cause your leadership skills aren’t worth shit!”

“Careful Sam.” Her eyes narrowed and her lips twisted into a cruel smile as she spat out her words like a snake spewing venom. “You work hard, and you have a good brain. But you also have a big mouth. And very little respect for those who could squash you like a bug.”

“I hate my job!”

This wasn’t the first time Ned Wasserman had heard those words. But tonight, as I walked into Ned’s Fine Wines on the corner of Columbus Avenue and 79rd Street, my voice resonated with a new level of desperation.

“Oh, my poor Sam! Did Tracy throw you under the bus again?” Ned asked when he saw my mud-splattered suit and water-stained silk blouse. I’d had a chance to dry my hair in the DeMoine ladies room, but my wet clothes kept me shivering all day in the always over air-conditioned office building.

“I’ll never get ahead while I’m still under that woman’s thumb. And I’m sick of working day and night to help make filthy rich corporations even richer by ripping off the government.”

“Tsk, tsk . . . my good friend sounds like she’s had a miserable day.”

“Seems like every day is a miserable day at DeMoine. If only I’d gone to Cornell and studied viticulture instead of frickin’ accounting at Skidmore.” Resting my eyes on the shop’s mahogany racks holding bottles from Burgundy, Bordeaux, and Chablis helped to ease my frustration. The day’s negativity vaporized as I checked out some of the new vintages of acclaimed California wines with names like Forlorn Hope, Into the Dark, The Prince in His Caves, Scarecrow, and several new releases of the Chain Gang brand from Napa’s hottest winemaker, Ashton White. I had Ned to thank for igniting my passion for wine after I turned twenty-one and his shop became one of my favorite haunts. He’d even honored me with an invite into his Thursday Night Tastings with Ned group that was made up of sommeliers, visiting winemakers, and serious wine geeks. Each week Ned would open kick-ass bottles from the world’s best wine regions and conduct a forum to discuss the nuances of the wines and the cellar techniques used create them.

“Well, I’ve got some news that may cheer you up.” (Ned always did know how make things better.) “Henri LeMont, the eldest son of one of the top producers in Beaujolais is stopping by to taste me on his new line-up in an hour. Please join us.”

“Wow! Beaujolais, huh? Count me in!” I said, smiling for the first time that day. “I love Beaujolais wine, but I’m not familiar with Domaine LeMont.”

“I’m familiar with it. Intimately familiar,” he said as he looked over at a 1978 Meursault VV from Buisson Charles on display in the shop’s glass cellar. “Henri’s mom was a very good friend of mine many long years ago.”

“Was she that friend?” I asked, pointing to the bottle. “The friend you bought that bottle of Chardonnay with back in the old days? The one you refuse to sell?”

“Yes, she was that friend.” He opened the lock on the cellar door with his key and took out the wine. “Sara was a nineteen-year-old French studies major at New York University. I was a twenty-two-year-old kid from Brooklyn, working at a wine shop in the East Village. She wandered in there one summer afternoon and asked if I had one of these bottles in stock.”

“Hmmm, nineteen-years-old and shopping for wine?”

“You could still buy alcohol at that age back in the day—before legal became twenty-one here,” he said, looking down at the bottle. “I told her we didn’t carry this wine because it wasn’t being imported into the States at the time, and asked if the two of us might travel to France together to buy a bottle. It was an inappropriate suggestion to make to a customer for sure. But she laughed that laugh of hers that sounded like a thousand bells ringing.” He gave a deep sigh. “I hope she still has that laugh after all these years.”

“Wow, she’s still stuck in your mind, huh Ned?”

He turned the bottle of Chardonnay over in his hands without answering. “We did go to France together the following year. And we bought another one of these bottles on a day trip to Burgundy. When we tasted it, we were struck by its white floral aromatics and incredible minerality. The wine was still young back then, but we both thought it would age beautifully—just like we thought our young love would age beautifully.” He ran his fingers over the smooth contours of the bottle. “So, we bought this one too, and I carried it back to the states for us to enjoy again someday.”

“And you’ve held onto it all these years. I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Ned. Sounds like you really loved her. But what happened?”

“Sara went back to France for her junior year abroad. I thought it might make our love even stronger, ’til I got her letter. Engaged to a guy whose family was considered old wine royalty. She’d found her prince charming, and it wasn’t me.”

“Was she the reason you never married, Ned?” I asked in a small voice, as I wiped a tiny tear from my cheek.

“She was. She still is,” he nodded. This explained a lot. I’d been wondering why my friend – who met lots of cool women every day and wasn’t bad looking for an older guy, was still single. “When you’ve been drinking something as elegant, as complex, as subtle and surprising as Romanée-Conti, anything else tastes like Two Buck Chuck.” He pushed the bottle away as if it was causing him pain. “I heard she had a fairytale wedding. Bore her prince two heirs to inherit the kingdom. Henri does the sales, and the younger one, Julien, makes the wine.” He stood up and placed the bottle back on the shelf of the cellar and shut the door. “In fact, he’s creating quite a name for himself as part of the new generation of old Beaujolais, so I’m anxious to try their new offerings.”

“Sounds great, Ned,” I said, glad to see him perking up.

“And I’d like to find out what you think of them, Sam. I consider you to be the perfect representative of my professional millennial customer base, so your opinion carries a lot of weight with me.”

“Whoa! The perfect rep, huh? I’d be honored to help—let me run home and change. Be back in an hour.”

My friend’s confidence in my taste in wine sent me dancing out of the shop. I hopped over the steaming puddles on the streets and sidewalks while any lingering stress dissolved like the remnants of the August rain. Ned’s Fine Wines had been named one of Manhattan’s ten trendiest wine shops by New York Magazine for the past three years and had gotten a glowing write-up by The New York Times wine reviewer Eric Asimov the previous summer. Knowing that someone who’s so well-respected in the wine world valued my input was the tonic I needed after my awful day at work.

Ned had been a positive force in my life since I’d moved to Manhattan. He’d often soothed the pain I suffered in my struggles with Tracy, and when dealing with the drama of my parents’ disastrous marriage by knowing when to open a vibrant Pinot Noir, or a wonderfully aromatic Chenin Blanc. He’d shared my triumphs by popping a 2006 Dom Perignon to celebrate my job offer from DeMoine, and a 2010 Brut Cuvée when I passed my CPA exam. But all hope of the day ending on an up note went out the window when I arrived at my co-op and unlocked the door.

“Sam! It’s been too long! I’ve missed you!” My college roommate Chelsea Langer met me inside with a hug.

“Chelsea, what are you doing here? And how’d you get into my place?” The last person I wanted to see that day was the girl who used to “borrow” my great grandma’s 1920s Cartier watch for weeks at a time, who opened my birthday year bottle of Krug to serve to her friends while I was having knee surgery following a somersault on skis, and who stole my boyfriend senior year. Upon graduating Skidmore College by the skin of her teeth, Chelsea had the nerve to use my name to land a job at my dad’s ad agency. Now, after happily having no contact with her for several years, I stood there wondering how she’d managed to find her way in to my apartment and became even more confused when I heard my dad call out from the kitchen.

“I let her in—to my place, Sam,” he said as he leaned out into the hallway wearing jeans that were way too skinny for a man his age.

“Dad! Why are you here? What’s going on? Where’s Mom? And what’s with the skinny jeans—and what’s with your hair? You dyed it, didn’t you?” I looked from my dad, to Chelsea, and back to my dad, who walked up to Chelsea and put an arm around her.

“Your mom’s out of town, honey. You know as well as anyone that our marriage has been on the rocks these past few years.” He looked down at Chelsea, who returned his puppy dog gaze, and pulled her in closer. “And I’ve moved out of the house. Because this lovely young lady and I have fallen in love.”

“What?” A wave of nausea was beginning to rise in my stomach. “No, please no! This isn’t happening. This is a joke, right?”

“No joke, honey,” my dad answered, giving Chelsea a sickening smile. “It’s pretty darn serious.”

I glared at Chelsea. “You’ve borrowed and destroyed my most precious things too many times! And just as I thought you were finally out of my life—you pull this?”

“I’m not borrowing your dad, Sam. Borrowing is temporary. This isn’t just a passing fling for either of us—it’s for real. I mean, in college I knew Greg as your dad. But at work, we connected on a level that was like, ya know, both visceral and cerebral.”

My head snapped towards my father. “This is ridiculous! What are you thinking? She’s twenty-five years younger than you and her IQ is 100 points less than yours. I’m calling Mom.”

“Call her, hon, if you can find her. Your mom and I have worked out an amicable settlement, pretty generous on my end. She’s keeping both the Scarsdale and the Hamptons houses. And you know as well as I do that she’s happy as long as she keeps following that Ashtanga yogi instructor to whatever God forsaken place on earth he leads her to.”

“So, what are you two doing here anyway?” A terrible thought crossed my mind. “You’re not moving in here?” I looked at Chelsea, now snuggled tight in my dad’s arms. “Please Dad, you’re not moving in here with her?”

“This is my apartment, honey.” This did not sound like my dad speaking—he’d been coached. “But we’re happy to let you stay until you find your own place.” I knew Chelsea had put those words in his mouth. “You’ve been talking about doing that for a while now, anyhow.”

“Let me stay? How generous of you both!” The nausea was now creeping up my esophagus. “Hold on—do you think I could actually sleep here knowing you two are doing whatever in the next room? Oh yuck—you guys are perverts!”

“Sam, you’ve got to be more adult about this,” my dad scolded.

“Adult? Me? You’re the one who’s hooked up with this child, and you’re telling me to be ’more adult’?”

“We’re all adults, Sam,” Chelsea piped up with a smile. “I get that this must all seem pretty weird to you right now, but you’ll get used to it. And won’t it be fun to be roomies again?” She cocked her head, now pitying poor me. “Even if it’s only for a little while?”

“So, you’re kicking me out of my place, is that your plan, you conniving phoney?” I asked her.

“Sound familiar, Sam?” she hissed, with head bobbed forward. “Now we’ll see how you like being homeless for no good reason!”

“I call stealing your roommate’s boyfriend a very good reason for getting thrown out of a place you hadn’t paid rent on for seven—”

“Ladies, please!” my dad called out. “Enough! Whatever differences you’ve had in the past, it’s time to let bygones be bygones.”

“Oh please! I’ve gotta get out of here,” I said as I walked into my bedroom and slammed the door. Minutes later I stormed out of the apartment in jeans, a tee shirt and ballet flats wondering how my once-perfect life had gotten so fucked up.

“Here’s my girl!” Ned said as I walked back into his shop. “You’re looking better. I trust your day got a little better too?”

“No, not hardly, Ned.” I didn’t have the stomach to go into details.

A man spoke from behind the shop’s bar in a French accent. “I’d say this lady is too beautiful to have had a bad day.”

“You must be from France,” I called out. “Because French guys are the only ones that talk like that in this city.”

“Sam, this is Henri LeMont,” Ned said when the man appeared. “The son of the old friend I was telling you about. And this is his family’s wine.” Ned handed me an open bottle of Domaine LeMont Old Vine Designate Beaujolais. The wine’s label was printed on what looked like ancient paper. There was a family crest with a design of a lion on a feudal banner above a pen and ink illustration of a stately château surrounded by vineyards.

“Tell us what you think,” Ned said, as he took the bottle and poured the wine for me to taste.

The long and delicate Zalto glass felt light as a feather as I cradled it in my hands. Ned only broke out this hand-blown Austrian stemware for special occasions. I twirled the dark cherry-colored wine before breathing in the bouquet and taking a sip. “Well . . .” I started out, hoping not to sound foolish. “There are hints of violets, and buddleia as well as a smoky aura of black tea. On the palate, I taste red berries with bright acidity and a silky soft finish.”

“Ned was right,” Henri said, giving me a wink. “You do have an intuitif palate, Miss Goodyear. So overall—what do you think?”

“I think . . .” I twirled the glass again and took another sip. “I think I want to spend however much time it takes me . . .” I held the up the glass and looked deep into the dark liquid. “. . . to learn the secret of how this amazing wine got into that beautiful bottle.”

I was serious. I’d sampled some pretty mind-blowing wines with Ned. But this Beaujolais was a game changer for me in that it truly captured the essence of its region. There was something so pure and honest about tending and cultivating a supreme offering from the earth and allowing it to have its final burst of beauty in this glass.

“The only secret is to allow the vineyard to speak for itself,” Henri said, fixing two blue eyes on me that had flecks of lavender sprinkled through the irises. The man was way handsome, but looked to be about thirty-six, so he was a bit too old for me. But the way he was checking me out made it clear that our gap in age didn’t pose a problem for him. “If you’d really like to learn about how we make our wine, you have an open invitation to visit our domaine on your next trip to France. My petite brother Julien, of only twenty-seven years, is in charge of the cellar. I’m sure he’d be happy to take you through the property and have you taste from the barrels.”

“Sounds nice,” I said. “But I want to learn the whole process from the ground up, starting in the vineyard.”

“Well then, if at all possible, why not join us for our harvest season? Starting next week, we have those we call the vendangeurs, who arrive at our domaine to pick the grapes, work in

the cave, enjoy the beauty of the land, and of course, to drink the wine. And if you’re very sérieux about learning, Julien will be content to work closely with you. Many very good winemakers in this country and in France have learned their techniques from my brother. But I must tell you about him from the front—Julien is gay, in case that is a probléme for you.”

“A problem?” Was he kidding? “Henri, this is 2014, not the Dark Ages. It seems like half of my friends are gay and proud of it.”

“Maybe so, but our land is not so moderne. Julien accepts that he must remain in the closet for the sake of our domaine. The qualité of LeMont wines has only gotten stronger under his direction, so we depend on him to remain discret. But you can trust that if you spend harvest with us to study with my brother, you will learn from the best.”

“Not gonna happen, my friend,” Ned told Henri with a chuckle. “This young woman has a good job at a top accounting firm here. She lives in a four-bedroom pre-war co-op on the park and spends weekends in the Hamptons. No way would she leave all that to sleep in a barn and break her back for eight hours a day in the sun and rain picking and lugging baskets of grapes through the vineyards—no matter how great a teacher your brother might be.”

“Ned’s right, Mr. LeMont, I’d really have to think about it,” I added. “Plus, there’s no way could I take that kind of time off—I’d have to quit my job. And that would be a huge step.” I took another sip of the wine, picked up the bottle, and glanced again at the label. “Okay, I’ve thought about it. So, when can I start?”

two

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Decant adj. Transferring wine to from a closed to an open

container to let it breathe and express itself more fully

“Bonjour Mademoiselle. Crémant? Vin Blanc?” the cute man in uniform asked me from behind his service cart on the TGV, France’s high-speed rail system.

“Now this is the way to travel! Crémant, s’il vous plait!” Having only studied Spanish in high school, I was glad I could at least say ‘please’ in French as I handed him eight Euros for my glass of sparkling wine.

“Merci. A ta sante,” he answered with a smile. After I took a generous sip of the bubby, he gave me a wink and refilled my glass to the top.

“A ta sante to you, too,” I said, holding my glass in the air.

Seven days after Henri LeMont made me the offer I couldn’t refuse, I had flown into Paris’ Charles De Gaulle airport and was now on a train traveling through France’s Côte de Nuits on my way to work harvest in Beaujolais. Upon arriving in the city of Beaune, I would head to the weekly farmer’s market to meet Henri’s brother Julien, who would drive me south to the domaine that had been in their family for six generations. I took another sip of the crémant, and toasted myself for saying my goodbyes, booking my flight, getting international cell service, exchanging two thousand dollars for fifteen hundred euros, and stuffing six weeks of clothes into two duffel bags, all in less than a week. After spending the night in Paris, and checking out of my hotel early that morning, I’d had only two hours to shop for my harvest wardrobe of work boots, work shirts, a sun hat, a rain coat, a sleeping bag, and plenty of bug spray. And oh yes—I had allowed myself to splurge on four glorious sets of bras and panties before boarding the train to Burgundy. Though I certainly didn’t expect to have any use for them during harvest, I couldn’t resist the delicate crochet lace and beautiful embroideries that makes French lingerie so desirable.

Tracy was a combination of shocked and pissed off when I gave her my resignation, probably because she hated the idea of having to go through the hassle of replacing me. She even had Scott Talley call me into his office for a pep talk about how the team spirit is thriving at DeMoine, and how fortunate I was to have a manager like Tracy. My mind was already made up, so I resisted the temptation to tell him that Tracy wasn’t fit to manage the firm’s self-service espresso bar. When Scott asked me why I was leaving, I told him that wine had become my passion, and I’d decided to find a place for myself in that industry. I was surprised when this low-key accountant suddenly became very animated, and confessed that he’d do the very same thing if he were young and free of the responsibilities that tied him to corporate life. He ended our chat by wishing me success and asking me to send him updates on my adventures.

I was also surprised by what my mom, who had forced me to major in accounting in the first place, had to say when I finally reached her in a part of the world with cell service. Her mid-life crisis (fueled by her marital woes with my dad), had taken her on some sort of spiritual journey to a yoga and meditation retreat in the jungles of Kerala, South India on the Arabian Sea. She told me that she was proud of me for taking charge of my life, and that, as she was learning in her classes on improved well-being, finding the courage to make a major change in one’s life is the first step to reaching the divinity that exists within each of us. When I asked her if finding the courage to make a change also applied to my father, she called him a fucking asshole. I couldn’t blame her.

My dad seemed more relieved than happy or concerned about my decision to quit my job and leave New York. I think he was just glad to get me out of the apartment. Having me around was a constant reminder that he was living with a girl his daughter’s age, though less intelligent and less mature. Chelsea, always one to give me more information than I needed, had even confided to me over breakfast one morning that having me sleeping down the hall from them had made it difficult for my dad to “perform” in bed. This did make me feel a bit sorry for the guy, even though he’d both broken my heart and infuriated me by his actions.

Now, sitting on the cushioned seat of a railcar that seemed to be silently gliding across the French countryside, it seemed like a lifetime ago that I’d stood on an overcrowded, waterlogged, and screeching subway car en route to a job that I hated. My stomach fluttered as I took in the views of endless acres of vibrant green vineyards and tiny, ancient villages that looked like they belonged in a storybook. I began to madly tap the photo button on my iPhone, hoping to share the scenery with the seventy friends who followed me on Instagram, but the shots were mere blurs.

On my lap was the book Inventing Wine, which recounts the journey of wine through history. The more I’d gotten into wine over the past few years, the more fascinated I’d become with its role in civilizations ancient and modern. I’d learned that the vineyards we were speeding through were originally planted by the armies of ancient Rome in the first century BC. By the fifth century, the Roman Empire had fallen, but the vines they’d planted on the Côte de Nuits were thriving. With the rise of Christianity, abbeys and monasteries sprang up along the region, and the vineyards belonging to the church were cultivated by monks. But it was during the Middle Ages that the art of winemaking truly blossomed, as viticulturists of the day studied which types of terroir best suited particular types of grapes, while monks developed winemaking techniques that are still used today.

“So, I see you’re studying up on our region’s illustrious history, mademoiselle,” a portly older man in the seat next to mine remarked as he folded up his copy of La Tribune Internationale. “I heard your American accent when you ordered your beverage. I’m always happy see a member of the younger generation taking interest in on our nation’s glorious culture. Are you here on holiday?”

“Sort of a holiday— I’m here to work harvest, and to learn to make wine,” I said with a smile. I relished the chance to chat with a local—especially one who was fluent in English. “At Domaine LeMont in Beaujolais, if you’ve heard of it?”

“Ah yes! The LeMonts make a good wine. I’ve seen their name on my waiting list.” He gave the tip of his white handlebar mustache a twist with his fingers.

“Waiting list?”

“Yes, please do pardon me. My name is Charles Moreau. I make barrels for many domaines in the region.”

“Samantha Goodyear. Pleased to meet you, Mister Moreau, sir.”

“Please call me Charles. Being called mister and sir by a beautiful young woman makes me feel like a very old, how do you say in English—geezer?”

“Ha! You’re no geezer, Charles. And you must make some killer wine barrels if great domaines are waitlisted for them.”

“We haven’t changed our methods in the seventy years our family has been in this business. We exclusively use wood from the forests managed by the Office National de Forets of France, and our unique techniques have been handed down over generations. Winemakers love our barrels because they only enhance the terroir without clouding the wine with other flavors or oaky characteristics, allowing it to retain its beauty as nature intended. Perhaps I might take you on a tour of our cooperage during your time here—provided the LeMont family can spare you for a few hours.”

“Wow, that would be a great education!”

“Have you traveled through our Côte de Nuits before?” he asked

“No, I’ve only spent time in Paris. This is all new to me.”

“I’d be delighted to serve as your guide touristique—to point out some of our villages.”

“That would be awesome, sir—I mean Charles. Please do.”

“Okay then, but don’t fear telling me to vais fermer ma bouche, or as you might say, ‘zip it,’ if I talk too much.”

“I want to hear it all. I’m here to learn, so go for it.”

“That would be my pleasure. I’ll begin by telling you that each one of our villages has added its most important vineyard to its name. For example, right here . . .” He pointed out the window to the endless rows of lush green vines dotted with purple grapes. “. . . the village of Gevrey added Chambertin to it, to become Gevrey-Chambertin. Chambertin happened to be Napoleon’s favorite vineyard and he always made sure to have a good supply of the wine on hand when going to battle. The wine is known for being meaty and masculine, the kind that will age in the cellar forever. But it’s a mystery that this vineyard is so near to the town of Chambolle-Musigny, where the vineyards are known for soft and pearly feminine wines—very different terroir side by side.”

“Hmmm, just like the lion lying next to the lamb.”

“Well said. But their grapes will never meet as they might in your country, where vineyards are routinely blended at the whim of the winemaker. During the Middle Ages, the Catholic monks who tended these vines were puzzled that vineyards so near to each other could bear such different tasting fruit. They reasoned that this must be God speaking. In deference to Him, the French continue to put great value in the purity of their single vineyard wines—a source of great pride for our domaines.

“I know these vineyards are considered national treasures in your country,” I said. “Haven’t heard about any vines reaching landmark status in the States.”

“Here we have great respect for our old vines. Many have been bearing fruit for over 100 years. And for some of them, it may take decades before they reach their prime. What a shame that in Napa and Sonoma, where many vineyards date back to the 1800s, the mature plantings continue to be uprooted to make way for the new.”

“Your country’s been smart in preserving the treasures of its past. Time seems to have stood still in this land.” I looked out at the old stone houses, some built into the hills, many with their wineries attached to them and their ancient stone cellars lying deep underground.

“Change comes slowly, if it comes at all to the Côte,” Charles assured me. “Many of these domaines were built in the 1500’s, and have been owned by families that go back as far as fourteen generations.” He pointed to a hamlet comprised of ancient stone buildings, its miniature skyline broken by a lone church steeple. Next to the tiny village was a vineyard surrounded by a low stone wall. “And here is Vosne-Romanée, home to the vineyard of Romanée-Conti, that produces the most legendary and most expensive wine in the world. A bottle of even the most recent vintage trades hands at over ten thousand American dollars.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve seen those bottles of DRC, as they’re called, at my friend Ned’s wine shop back in New York. Under heavy lock and key, of course. Getting the chance to take even a sip of Romanée-Conti is at the top of my bucket list.”

“Bucket list?” Charles asked with a chuckle. “Bucket lists are for those my age, not for a young woman of only what, twenty-three years perhaps?”

“I was twenty-five last month, but thanks for guessing on the younger side,” I said, as the train glided to a halt at the Beaune station. “Well, this is my stop. The LeMont winemaker is meeting me at the farmer’s market here and driving me to the domaine.”

“Please, allow me to take you over to the market in my cab. I’m on a mission to shop there for my wife. We have time to see a few sights on the way. If you love old things, you’re going to love this city.”

Charles was right. I loved everything about Beaune, which he explained was first built as an ancient Roman fort in the 1st century AD. He said that during the 1500s, the city was walled with a stone structure that still stands today. On our ride to the market we passed a medieval fortress, a clock tower, a moat and gate with drawbridge, and streets lined with Renaissance style architecture that made me feel like I was on the set of Shakespeare in Love.

When we reached the center of town where the market was held, I had to gasp. I was a regular at farmer’s markets back in the states, but this one was in a league of its own. I whipped out my phone to snap photos to post on Instagram of freshly baked breads, truffles, mushrooms, olives, honeys and jams, fresh eggs, live chickens, meats, fish, escargot, soaps, clothes and antiques. One booth overflowed with puffy garlic heads newly pulled from fertile soil with their stems still attached.

At a booth selling antique wine paraphernalia, I found a kick-ass “thank you for making this adventure happen gift” for Ned; an antique corkscrew stamped Depose JHP Paris Octobre 1885. The beautiful old tool had a handle carved out of horn with a horse on one end and a hound on the other. Charles thought I could do better than the 130 Euro price tag, and haggled with the dealer until the man let me have it for 100 Euros, or 133 U.S. dollars.

“Now what can I bring to my hosts?” I asked Charles. “I can’t very well buy them wine.”

“I know just the place you want,” he said as he led me to a quaint old storefront with a white awning that had an AH in large letters, and the name Alain Hess underneath. “You’re about to experience the most celebrated fromagerie in Burgundy,” he promised as we entered the cheese shop of my dreams filled with hundreds of magnificent, hand crafted offerings. The shop’s signature creation, the élice de Pommard, was invented by 16th-century Cistercian monks, and layered with a soft triple crème cheese shaped as a globe and covered in mustard seeds. I could have stayed in the shop forever, but when I saw it was getting close to three o’clock, the time I was supposed to meet Henri’s brother at the market’s espresso bar, I was quick to select a small wheel of lavender cheese with the flower embedded in the rind, and a freshly made goat cheese coated with ash from an actual volcano.

“So, this is where we part, my dear Samantha,” Charles said as he took my hand and presented me with a graceful bow. “Je te dis merd, or as you Americans say, ‘break your leg’ at Domanine LeMont. But first, please allow this old man to give you some advice.”

“Of course, Charles. You haven’t steered me wrong yet.” I held up my bag of gifts as proof.

My new friend cleared his throat, as if preparing to address an audience. Then he looked me in the eyes and locked his hands onto my forearms.

“Great wine has enriched the souls of men and women for thousands of years,” he began. “But like any commodity, great wine is a business. And with any business, there are those whose livelihoods depend upon convincing you that their new methods are the best methods. But during my years on earth I’ve learned that for the most part, the old ways to make wine, some developed over centuries, are still the best ways.” With those words, Charles pulled out a card from the oldest and most distressed, yet softest and most supple looking wallet I’d ever seen. “The offer of a tour of our cooperage during your stay still stands. Please call if you wish to pay us a visit.”

“For sure, Charles. It would be an absolute pleasure!” I gave my new friend a hug before going off to meet Henri’s brother to begin what I hoped would be the greatest learning adventure of my life.

On my way to the espresso stand, a new revelation combined with a sudden onset of terror sent butterflies twirling through my gut. Even before my college years, I’d fantasized about one day creating my own brand of wine. Henri LeMont’s invitation was the well-timed push I needed to risk everything to make my fantasy become a reality. I’d had no hesitation up to that moment—the moment when I realized just how important the man I was about to meet would be in shaping my future. I crossed my trembling fingers hoping to see someone I believed would inspire and teach me during the next two months. But what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks.

I knew that it had to be Henri’s brother slumped on the counter over a cup of espresso, as he had the same black curly hair waving back from his face, minus the strands of grey. He was checking his watch, and seemed to be rather impatiently awaiting my arrival. Besides the hair, nothing else about him resembled the attractive elder LeMont. His expression was fixed in a sneer, and an unfiltered cigarette hung from snarled, nicotine-stained lips. When I saw him pull a phone from his pocket and punch the buttons with his coarse, thick fingers, I dreaded hearing the opening bars of All About That Bass on my cell.

“Bonjour! Bonjour!” A masculine voice called out from the crowd behind me. Wondering who the greeting was aimed at, I turned around to see the most gorgeous man I’d ever set eyes on. When I turned back to check out the lucky soul for whom Mr. Hot Stuff’s greeting was intended, I saw that the surly man at the counter was now in a heated conversation on his cell, and it dawned on me that the splendid creature behind me could be Julien LeMont.

“Samantha,” my gay prince came closer. “I’m here to pick you up. You are Samantha Goodyear, yes?”

“Yes, I am,” I answered as a wave of relief washed over me. “But how did you know? Henri didn’t tell me how to find you.”

“He said to look for the pretty girl with the curly blonde hair toting duffels. That was enough clue for me.”