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.