Lessons

With all my things packed up, I am ready for a long drive home to Thousand Oaks tomorrow morning. The brief window of time that was my experience in the Napa Valley has come to an end, and like too many things--more quickly than expected. I wonder now, did I take advantage of my experience here? How will I look back on this month? (How many days and nights did I walk past St. Peter's in Vatican City, as quickly as possible, staring at the ground with headphones on, cursing tourists? What would I not give to be back in Rome now? How many times in college did I leave a bar early, choosing to get more sleep instead of another drink? What would I not give to join my friends for one more beer now? To be a Freshman again at Notre Dame?)

Leaving Napa, my car will be heavier by the three mixed cases of wine I have collected.

I met many people, and learned something from all of them. I have some new ideas in my head--a new appreciation for California wines. For brief moments, I was a winemaker. I accomplished many of my goals. I ate and drank well. I worked hard. I had fun.

But, I also drove past the vineyards too quickly.

I suspect that despite all the fond memories, I will regret the times I did not notice the vineyards--not that I didn't see them there, but that I failed to slow down and appreciate them fully.

Bred for an interesting life

I agree with my brother Jordan, who told me this weekend that some people, like dogs, are bred for an interesting life.

In a not so rare moment of comic genius, Jordan compared himself to Shadow, our cancer ridden golden retriever. Shadow is sick, Jordan says, because he was bred to live an interesting life--to frolic in wooded forests and wide open grassy plains, to fetch recently shot birds, and safely return these prizes to his owner, a proud marksman. In contrast, Shadow lives trapped behind fences, in a relatively expansive, but still suburban, suburban backyard, with a family with no weapons to speak of; he has nothing to live for except two scoops of kibble every morning, and no opportunity to express his true nature, or develop his capacities--no chance to realize his retriever telos.

Jordan likened Shadow's domestic experience to a man bred for an interesting life (e.g., Jordan, a direct descendant of Jan Janszoon, a notorious 17th century Barbary pirate
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jan_Janszoon - to be explained later), who remains unable to reach his own potential because he is stuck behind a desk all day, staring at a computer screen, doing whatever semi interesting job he has, but, placated by a comfortable situation and a recurring paycheck, is able to afford enough distracting objects and experiences to keep him from doing something drastic to change his situation.

I agree, Jordan. If one works long enough, the likelihood of death from cancer is greatly increased.

This exchange was at Bistro Jeanty, near the end of a great weekend, which included a short trip to San Francisco--to a bar called Absinthe, and a German beer hall / restaurant called Suppenkuche, which had great spaetzle, and a dark wheat beer that was almost as good as Franziskaner Dunkelweiss. There was also a come from behind victory by the Giants at AT&T Park on Saturday, and some great conversations with my Grandpa, Dad, brother, Aunt and Uncle, during which I found out I was related to famous pirates, and that I was a distant relative of a bunch of Vanderbilts, Kennedys and Anderson Cooper. On Sunday, we took a day trip through wine country that led to a great discovery, Failla wines, where, after ensuring our recently purchased wines would not overheat by putting them carefully in a portable cooler in the back of the Suburban, I proceeded to lock the keys in the car.

After much shouting, blame gaming, and excuse making, we realized that although the keys were locked inside the car, they were actually in clear sight, on top of my sweatshirt, on top of my bag, and only inches away from corner of the back hatch window.

My Uncle Mark, the only calm one in the crowd, skillfully, (almost suspiciously so!) rigged up a gaff-like pole from one of those small, thin, metal wire flags planted in lawns that, I think, typically delineate sprinkler or underground pipe locations. He threaded our only hope carefully through the small opening between the hatch window and the car's metal frame. Fortunately, my Dad, who closed the hatch (not to name names here), did so without sufficient force to really shut it tight. There was just enough of an opening, enough play when we pulled at the hatch, for us to think this could work. Mark hooked the keys easily enough, and after the rest of us struggled to pry the window from the frame, my Aunt, pulling with determined fingers, yanked the keys, the automatic door opener, and my Mom's awkward spinning heart keychain, all intact, safely through the crack.

Certainly better than calling AAA....

After the group left Yountville I decided to stick around, grab some coffee and a pastry and read the paper. I bought the New York Times and took a seat on a bench between the bakery and the restaurant Bouchon, since at this late hour, the bakery's tables were being converted to outdoor seating for the restaurant.

While reading an interesting story about the Italian economy and high end textile manufacturing, I was interrupted, surprised and frankly a little annoyed, to have to respond to a woman who wanted to know if I still had the Style section, and if so, if she could read it? I told her she could borrow it (by this point I realized her and her friends were waiting for a table at Bouchon), but that I would appreciate it back as I intended to read it. At first, she clearly thought I was kidding, but my body language suggested I was not, and seeing this, and presumably thinking it a good idea to keep the property close to its owner, she sat down next to me on the bench. I gathered from the conversation with her friends, she was from New York. I inquired about this, and found that her and one of her friends had spent time there after school, but now lived, along with the other couple they were with, in San Francisco. We made casual conversation for a few minutes. They asked me for winery recommendations, which I provided. I also suggested they try the P2 wine with their meal at Bouchon. This was the Pinot Noir, Pinot Gris blend, produced by Copain that I had tried at my own Bouchon misadventure, and then tried again at Ad Hoc after meeting Copain's head of winery sales and hospitality (guy who founded Vestry Wines in Tribeca) there last week. The SundayStyles stealer had gone to Yale, worked in LA for a guy who wrote the book Never Eat Alone (funny, given my thoughts here), and was now an "energy healer" working in San Francisco. I nodded with feigned understanding when she told me this. 10 minutes or so later, after some conversation, and some quiet reading, their table was ready and I was again left alone with my paper and my coffee. However, a minute later, her friend came back, told me there was an extra seat at their table, and asked if I would like to join. Since I had no reason not to join them, and since they seemed like interesting people, I made sure I was not intruding, and accepted the invitation happily.

Like many other opportunities I have had here in Napa, this was one I was surprised I agreed to immediately after I said yes.

That being said, I met them at their table, exchanged more formal salutations with the group, and quickly slipped into a wide ranging conversation about food, wine, their stories, my story, San Fransisco, business, tech and software companies, and other nonsense.

The group, included the aforementioned energy healer, a vocation that I now, somewhat, understand, a software engineer working at Twitter, a lawyer, a woman who worked in the marketing department of Puma, and the CEO and co-founder of an internet startup called Storify. Everyone was probably younger than 28. They told me everyone in San Fransisco has an internet start up. While they were obviously exaggerating, the barriers to entry in software are certainly low, and the exalted status of the young entrepreneur is intriguing enough to convince many future ivy league graduates to either not stick around long enough to become graduates at all, or at least, upon graduation, to reject the traditional career paths on Wall Street, to try to become the next Mark Zuckerberg.

Having your startup acquired by Google is probably the best way to buy a winery and make an honest living....

Still got it...

Just completed my first all nighter since the investment banking days.

I will deliver a draft of the production and revenue schedule to the O'Briens and enjoy a well deserved long weekend off, in San Francisco, watching baseball, and celebrating a belated father's day with three generations of Penn men.

Daily Scorecard: 2 workouts, 1 drink, 0 ESV, 0 French

Like Finals Week...

My model is 25 megabytes--large, and I am just finishing the revenue buildup. In the last two days, I have done little else.

At meals, I read to break the monotony of staring at my computer screen. Today, I read some poems by Keats, an essay on John Ruskin's aesthetics by Proust, and parts of a Thomas Pynchon novel. I take solace in Keats's own words: "...Then felt I like some watcher of the skies...", as I struggle with these giants.

Daily Scorecard (Monday through Wednesday): 3 workouts, 3 drinks, 0 ESV, 1 French Lesson (Jordan, take note).

Dining Alone

Rest assured, my inconsistent effort to document my adventure here is not for lack of material. On the contrary, this past week has been a full one.

Besides the good company, the visit from Jilian and my Mom left me with the unfortunate habit of needing to visit Bouchon Bakery for a Bacon and Cheddar Scone every morning for breakfast. Additionally, I did no work on the financial model for O'Brien Estate while they were here. We did, however, visit a number of wineries, frequent an array of fine dining establishments, watch bocce ball with the locals, score some legitimate mexican food (I had "lengua", or cow tongue tacos), fight about the life expectancy of my sick golden retriever Shadow, and, generally, have a great time.

Since they left, I have done nothing else besides sitting at Peet's Coffee in Napa, drinking coffee, and building the financial model for O'Brien.

I have also read The Razor's Edge, gone to yoga a few times, ran some decent mileage, worked as the "popcorn guy" at an event at the winery on Saturday night, and done laundry.

Still, I feel like all I am doing is this model.

This is me as the popcorn guy by the way. The help gets no respect. Stay in school:

After a full day of modeling work, frustrated by the fact that my model is now unnecessarily robust, overly detailed, and cumbersome to navigate, and the fact that my apple computer running Windows 7 is not quite as powerful as my work computer (the model takes 45 seconds to save or 25 seconds to insert a new row or column), I decide to treat myself to a late night meal at Ad Hoc. Today is Fried Chicken Monday, Ad Hoc's most popular night. Every night they offer a four course prix fixe meal--take it or leave it. They are full every night. Reservations are hard to get. Every two or three Mondays, they do Fried Chicken Monday--more people than usual take. Reservations are impossible to get.

Being alone, I am able to sneak into the last available seat at the bar. After exchanging niceties with the manager and a few of the wait staff (I also treated myself, and sat at the bar, on Friday night. They remember me--I am glad I tipped like I might come back, but feel kind of like a lonely, pathetic person, who sits by himself at the bars of nice restaurants), I ask the gentleman to my right how he likes the fried chicken:

"Amazing," he says. "I come here often, but never before on Fried Chicken Monday. I work with a winemaker who has a wine by the glass on the list. You have been to Ad Hoc before I assume?"

Excited to have another interesting neighbor for a meal that I fully expected to eat alone, I tell him I have been here, but never on Fried Chicken Monday. He asks me if I live in Napa, or if I am just visiting. I explain my story, to which he replies:

"Funny, I just moved here from New York five months ago. I lived there for 12 years. Were you in the wine industry in New York as well?"

"No. The finance industry. I am volunteering for a month..." "What did you do in New York?"

"I started and ran a small retail wine shop in the city."

"Where was it?"

"In Tribeca. It was called Vestry Wines."

I live in Tribeca. Vestry Wines is two blocks away from my apartment. I went there at least once a week. Ashley still probably goes there once a week.

"I thought I recognized you when you sat down," he said.

Small world.

~20% of This Blog's Readership

~20% of this blog's readership is visiting me right now: my mom and sister are here for the week.

Monday was my most intense "winemaking" day yet. Since Jesse and David are both leaving for two weeks of vacation on Wednesday morning--both attempts to recharge batteries before the 18 hour harvest days of September and October--there was much preparatory work and cleaning to be done.

In an all day project, we "topped off" all 200 or so barrels of the 2009 vintage red wine aging in the barrel room. It is a difficult two-person job. One guy removes the plug or "bung" at the top of the barrel, fills the empty space (empty because of evaporation) with extra wine, and moves to the next barrel. The next guy uses a tube to suck off any "scuzz" or particulate matter formed on top of the wine, drops the wine into a bucket carabinered onto the racks holding up the barrels, then replaces the bung. Repeat. 200 times. The exciting thing about all this is that you get do it while climbing on the tops of barrels, scaling the stacked barrels by wedging yourself between them, the same way you might have climbed walls in your house when you were a kid. Drop any wine on any of the barrels, make any red drop on any oak barrel, and you are in trouble. David will bring justice upon you (he has a fanatical distaste for red spots on oak barrels). On the other hand, if you fall, injure yourself, or die--it doesn't matter. As long as you do not get any barrels dirty. On one occasion, I dropped my "sucking tube" that was full of wine while I was standing on top of the fourth, and top barrel, in a stack. I watched in agony as it fell to the floor; it was like slow motion, wine spewing out from either end on all nearby barrels. Then it hit the ground with a thud, the remaining wine forming a dark red pool around it. I freaked out, frantically cleaned up everything with a small towel I had dragged around with me to clean up any errant drops, and returned to the lab to get a new towel. Unfortunately, David, was sitting in the lab. He saw my soiled towel, my stained pants and shirt, and made no sound as he put both hands in the air and shook his head in that disappointed way that communicated all too clearly: "what the f*** Jonathon?", "how could you do this to me?" I explained what happened, told him I would take care of it, and walked out of the lab with a clean towel and my tail between my legs. (This probably why it was so hard for me to secure a job out here this summer. Free labor is sometimes more expensive than paying someone who knows what they are doing.)

The rest of the day was better, and after 6 hours straight of climbing all over barrels, I was exhausted and covered in wine. My clothes were ruined, but I looked totally awesome--like a real winemaker. Or, at least, a cellar rat.

Jesse told me I can be proud to wear those stained clothes back in New York or Boston. He told me to wait for people to say (if at a party):

"Jonathon, it looks like you spilled some wine on your shirt (haha)".

And then reply:

"Oh jeez (you say this part slowly while laughing a little bit at your carelessness), I guess that is wine (you say that part matter of factly), probably leftover from when I was (and then pounce...)making wine in the Napa Valley".

Hardwork and enthusiasm was enough for Jesse.

As for David, I tried to buy his friendship: Before he left Tuesday, I bought four bottles of the wine that he makes as a side project to his work at O'Brien. The wine is called Kind, it is fantastic Cabernet Sauvignon, really some of the best Napa Valley Red Wine I have had. Wine that will earn very high scores if he ever submits it to Wine Spectator.

http://kindcellars.com/

Since the winemaking guys have left for vacation, the rest of my time spent here will be working on my financial model and any other analysis that should be done, and working in the tasting room.

Tuesday, I gave a couple of pressure packed tours: one to a future boss at Bain Capital, who was in town with his wife for a co-workers wedding, and one to my mom and sister.

Just 1 bottle of wine sold to four people who actually know me. Thank you Jilian.

Sunday through Tuesday Scorecard (very bad showing): 1 workout, 2+ drinks, 0 ESV, 0 French.

A MOSAIC

Written Today

I just came from a bookstore, a dangerous sort of vacuum for me--a sink for time and money. I was there looking for The Razor's Edge, by W. Somerset Maugham, a book recommended by Anthony (one of his 5 favorites of all time) and Chris (read and enjoyed at Anthony's suggestion), a book that had been on my list of books to read, the same book that was currently on the floor (not bedside table) of the author interviewed in this weekend's Small Talk, the FT's weekly short interview of a notable author I typically have not heard of. That little reminder in the FT drove me to the bookstore. After searching, unsuccessfully, through the S section (for Somerset), I was looking for V (I thought I was looking for W. Somerset Vaughn). T-U-V, W-X, I traced back from W. Nothing.

Infinite Jest, though, caught my eye.

David Foster Wallace's 1,000 page epic, complete with probably 400 pages of footnotes, is on my lifetime achievement list, but I had never picked it up before. I had seen its imposing blue and yellow cover before. I have read reviews of the book before. I had seen Wallace interviewed on Charlie Rose before he committed suicide. I wanted to buy it, and at this point, I was convinced that this bookstore did not have The Razor's Edge. I read the preface, the writer of which was tasked with trying to convince a prospective reader that the book was approachable, readable, rewarding, and worth the undeniably immense effort it would take to get through it. As I read through the preface, I realized sadly that as much as I want to be able to read the book, to commit to an endeavor of that magnitude, to accomplish that goal, I cannot. I have too many other foolish commitments made--daily, weekly, and longer term goals that I consistently fail to accomplish, I cannot handle another.

And then I got pretty upset with myself.

What was I doing in a bookstore anyway. I brought a dozen books with me on this trip and have not read any of them.

These entries record my inability to make the daily sacrifices necessary to accomplish long term goals. There is this constant tension with me. I really want to do all these intellectual gymnastic things I talk about that require hard work and dedication, yet I am constantly distracted by other things--dabbling in whatever epicurian fancy seems interesting at the time, trying to make friends, trying to take advantage of my time here, drinking, and eating my way through my days, falling asleep earlier sometimes (because I am tired), staying up later other times (typically to eat or drink more), sleeping in always, and generally not doing any of the things I have committed to. I am behind in so many things: Behind in my daily writing exercise. Behind on the model I am building for O'Brien Estate. Behind on my reading. Behind on emails. Behind on planning winery visits here in Napa. Behind on planning my trip to Burgundy. Behind on staying in touch with friends. Behind on being a good boyfriend, brother, son, etc.

I look up The Razor's Edge on my phone, realize its Maugham, not Vaughn, find it under M (there are a half dozen copies), and head to the checkout counter, adding one more thing to the growing list of To-Dos that is beginning to crush me. This is vacation.

Written Previously (But Not Edited Until Today)

My first real bike accident happened Friday morning. What was meant to be just a pleasant ride--a quick workout before work--turned into a flying attempt, over the handlebars, like a total amateur want-to-be Lance Armstrong. My chest and shoulder look similar.

As I lay on the roadside next to my mangled bike, I check to make sure I am still alive (I was wearing a helmet, but don't think I hit my head anyway).

Still alive, the adrenaline rush subsided. As the parts of my body that had slid across the rocky, unforgiving asphault began to sting and I laughed a pathetic, ashamed "serves you right" kind of laugh to myself.

My bike, is some 1960s era, bright yellow, skinny tired, Schwinn road bike.

My tragic affinity for vintage things that do not work is no secret. My calculator of choice is a 1983 HP 12c that takes at least 25 seconds to calculate an IRR. It is however, made in America, has great buttons with a solid "button feel", doesn't make any sounds when you shake it (like its Chinese or Brazil manufactured brethren do), but it also runs an antiquated programming language called "Reverse Polish Notation" that is used for nothing else. The HP 12C is probably 100 times less functional than HP's latest financial calculator. It looks badass though. My Dad has the same one.

Written Before The Bike Accident (But Not Edited Until Today Because Of The Bike Accident)

I Took the bike for a spin this morning (Wednesday) so that I could capture some pictures of my loop through the Oak Knoll district, past O'Brien Estate.

Today was a real winemaking day--today, we racked. Racking, is the process of separating the wine from its sediment, or lees. The lees is mostly dead yeast organisms, which in high enough concentrations, will yield wine with a sort of cloudy opacity and a yeasty flavor.

Me and Jesse. Please notice my technique here. I learned this from Cyrus Shirzadi. It is called "coming to watch":

To rack, one simply pours (or pumps) the wine out of its barrel, into another barrel or larger holding tank, until the wine coming out of the barrel starts to look cloudy. What is leftover in the barrel is collected separately and can be used as a blending component later on, or it can be used to "top off" other barrels, as the wine inside naturally evaporates during the aging process.

We had two different wines, 6 barrels of each, each barrel with about 60 gallons of juice, to put into two separate stainless steel tanks, to rest until bottling tomorrow.

First, we had to "taste through the barrels", sampling wine from each one, to make sure none were contaminated with any of the popular enemies of good wine--brett, acetic acid, ethyl acetate, oxidation. Any "spoiled" barrels would have to be dealt with separately--they could not be blended with the rest of the wine in the tank. Fortunately, David's maniacal attention to detail and cleanliness left us with 12 perfect barrels to rack.

As I tasted each of the wines, I witnessed how much of a difference an oak barrel can make--how a different cooper (barrel making company), using wood from a tree in a different forest in France, with a different level of toasting (medium toast plus is pretty common), could yield a completely distinct smell and taste in the same exact wine.

Tasting wines from the barrel at 9:00 AM:

We racked, we gathered the lees, we cleaned the barrels, we stacked the empty barrels back up to dry in the barrel room. We were finished by 1:00 PM, off to bigger and better things--a "trade tasting".

The Rutherford Dust Society was putting on its annual "A Day in the Dust", a free, invitation only tasting of current Cabernet Sauvignon releases from nearly all of the wineries in the Rutherford AVA, one of Napa Valley's 15 official AVAs.

The event was held at Rubicon Estate, Francis Ford Coppola's winery / museum / palace. In attendance, pouring two or three wines each, were probably 50 or more total wineries including some big hitters like Quintessa, Beaulieu Vineyard, Heitz Wine Cellars, Staglin Family Vineyard, and Rubicon Estate (producer of Cask Cabernet Sauvignon) itself.

I have never had so much young Cabernet Sauvignon in my life. My mouth was raw, torn apart by the tannins. My teeth were purple, stained permanently by the youthful juice. It was a fantastic experience. My palate was improving--I could recognize when a wine was out of balance, when it had too much tannin, too much oak character, too much acidity, unripe fruit picked too early, overripe fruit picked too late. I recognized a few corked wines being poured, I recognized some acetic acid in one wine. I recognized how oxidized, but still interesting, the 1991 Heitz Cellar Trailside Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon was. How all its bright, vigorous fruit flavor had softened, and how it tasted like a leather baseball glove.

My French Laundry:

After the tasting, I watched Julie and Julia and finished Kitchen Confidential while doing laundry. All the French cooking talk (Julie and Julia obviously about Julia Child, and Anthony Bourdain talking about Les Halles, his NYC based steak frites place) and laundry, got me hungry for French grub, so I headed to Bouchon, Thomas Keller's Yountville bistro. I was not very impressed. Half of my mussels did not open. The fries were good though, and I had the entire outside patio to myself since it was 11:30 and no one in the Napa Valley stays up that late. It could have been worse, but it was not The French Laundry (I remain on the waiting list for the entire duration of my stay here).

Thursday, we bottled two different proprietary red blends made from different proportions of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, and Merlot. We bottled 300 cases total.

I worked in the tasting room and gave my first tour of the property. This family from Bangalore loved me:

Written Today

Friday, I worked in the tasting room some more. I convinced a guy to join our wine club, sold several bottles of wine, learned how to run a credit card transaction, forgot to return the credit card of my first credit card transaction (he came back to get it the next day), and made $40 of tips from people that were very appreciative of my tour giving skills.

Saturday, I spent in Sonoma. I stopped in Healdsburg for lunch and found great Pinot Noir in the Russian River Valley, a beautiful and welcome escape from the busy weekend tasting rooms of the Napa Valley wineries. I went to Bear Republic Brewery too (maker of Racer 5 IPA).

I had dinner back in Yountville at Bistro Jeanty with Jesse and his roommates. There I had my first snail, and first frog leg, among other treats.

Sunday, I woke early, in time for yoga. Realizing that my scabbed up hands would prevent me from staying in downward dog for more than a few seconds, I grabbed a coffee and read through the Financial Times instead. For an hour or so I was back in touch with the real world. After, I shot up to Howell Mountain to visit a couple of small family vineyards there. "Mountain Fruit" as the grapes are called when grown on Howell Mountain (and other mountains, actually) creates darker, more complex, serious, and ageworthy wines that are simply delicious.

To kick the wine tasting bug, I drove back down to the valley floor to visit popular Duckhorn, on the Silverado Trail. Sure enough, I got made fun of by an older woman who did not respect my practice of spitting out everything I was tasting. I overheard her mention it to her husband. At the exact moment he turned around to look at me, I spat some Duckhorn Merlot into my, by this time, full spit bucket. It splashed right up into my eye, stinging, temporarily blinding me, and staining my face purple. I left dejected.

After a late lunch at a cheap, but authentic, Mexican market in Rutherford, I came to terms with my obligations. I sit in a Peet's coffee with a lot of modeling work to do before tomorrow...

Wednesday through Saturday Scorecard: 4 Workouts, 4+ Drinks, 0 ESV, 0 French.