Free The Chardonnay Charade by Ellen Crosby

anything, it was our determination that one day this wall would be covered from floor to ceiling with awards.
    I found him bouncing a tennis ball off a wall in his office.
    “What are you doing?” I asked. “Besides making scuff marks on that wall.” When it had been Jacques’s office, the room had looked like a small museum. Now it reminded me of a locker room.
    “I’m not making scuff marks. I’m thinking.”
    “About what?”
    “The Chardonnay. It’s driving me nuts. I’m going back to the lab to do some more blending. Want to come?”
    “ More blending? There won’t be anything left to bottle if you keep experimenting. I thought we agreed on that sample last week.”
    He made a face. “Nah. Too fruity. I’ve got some new ideas.”
    Last year at harvest we put some of our Chardonnay into oak barrels and left the rest in stainless-steel tanks. Barrel-fermented wine gains an added complexity from the taste of the oak—like adding spice to a sauce—though too much oak will overwhelm, or even dominate, the flavor. On the other hand, wine fermented in refrigerated steel tanks tastes fruitier and brighter. What he was trying to do now was figure out the ratio of oak and steel that would produce a wine we both liked. From this point on—now that the fermentation process had ended—everything we did was about taste and aroma. And the only way to get the perfect blend that suited us was to experiment, tasting the results.
    “Look, you know in Virginia we don’t like it too oaked or too sweet,” I said. “So I hope that’s not what you’ve got in mind. I’m not trying to rush you, but don’t you think we’d better get it bottled soon? We can’t afford any spoilage, especially after losing the grapes from the old vines last night.”
    “We won’t have any spoilage,” he said, “so stop worrying. And I’m still going to do some more sampling.”
    “Well, use the two-hundred-fifty mil beakers, then. Surely you don’t need to make a half liter of everything you try.”
    “You know, Dom Pérignon used to start blending before the grapes were even pressed. Grapes, not juice. He got ’em from everywhere, too. Different blocks. Other vineyards. So it wasn’t the goût du terroir that made his wines world-class. It was the grapes themselves. I’ll bet the Benedictine abbot at Hautvillers didn’t jerk a knot in his chain when he needed more time for blending.”
    The goût du terroir literally means “the taste of the land” and it is that indefinable x factor that gives a wine its distinct taste. But Quinn was right. Dom Pérignon knew some magic the rest of us hadn’t figured out. And he used his own rule book.
    I reached out with the hooked end of my cane and swatted at his tennis ball as it sailed past me. The cane connected with the ball and sent it back at him so it hit his arm and bounced under his desk. He grinned and ducked to look for it.
    “My mother told me that as a bedtime story,” I said. “Dom Pérignon also had a very delicate palate. All he ate was cheese and fruit. He didn’t even drink. You still need to use the two-hundred-fifty mil beakers or we’ll have nothing left.”
    “Why don’t I get those little mouthwash cups the dentist uses? They’re even smaller. Man, you are really tight with a buck, you know that?” He looked disgusted and held up a sheaf of papers. “The order for the new rootstock. I need a certified check for fifty percent so they’ll ship it. We ought to start planting next week.”
    “We’ve got to get the tarps off the new fields first.”
    “It’s done. Crew took care of it after lunch. Tomorrow they’re going to clean up those steel belts from the tires when we’re sure they’re good and cold.”
    “That was fast.” I took the papers. “Can I get you the check tomorrow? I’m going to the bank anyway to pick up the cash to pay the crew.”
    “Sure, fine. But I have to have it tomorrow.”
    I flipped through the papers he’d handed