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Vito wrapped his hands around the chair back and leaned on it. “Would you want to import Barbera grapes from Italia?”
Bruce and I exchanged a glance. I mean, what dummy would say no? But I didn’t want Vito’s help. With anything. “We’re good with our current arrangement.”
“But maybe we could discuss it,” Bruce offered, his mind no doubt spinning with blend and aging possibilities. “It would certainly be unique.”
Vito looked at me. “What other grapes do you grow?”
“Cabernet Franc, Riesling, Merlot, and Cayuga White.”
“So, five varieties? Isn’t that a lot of work?”
“Not for me,” I snapped. What was he implying?
He straightened off the chair. “Should we get started?”
Bruce took a glass over to a barrel by the wall. He turned the spigot and a small amount of wine splashed into the glass, which he brought back to the table. He repeated this three times, so we all had a glass. “This is the special reserve Cabernet Franc.”To Vito, he said, “It’s been barreled for fifteen months. We’re tasting it to see if it’s ready.”
I picked up a piece of white paper off the table and held the wine in front of it to study the color. “Looks clear.”
Bruce did the same. “I agree. Brighter than the last time we checked.”
Holding the glass by the stem, I swirled the wine, round and round, watching the red liquid on the side of the bowl. When I was sure enough air had helped the wine breathe, I put my nose into the glass and inhaled. “Oh, that’s nice.” I paused and did it again, letting my brain fill in the scents. “Blackberry. Clove. Black raspberry.”
Bruce’s forehead creased as he did the same. “I’m not getting any violet. Are you?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” Bruce took a sip and swished the wine around in my mouth. I did the same.
It was . . . okay. “Not as rich as I’d hoped.”
“I agree. It needs two to three more months.” He wrote some notes down in the book he always carried around. “But it’ll be great fornextwinter.”
Vito sipped from his glass. He swallowed and said nothing, expression unchanging, then returned the glass to the table.
I waited for a reaction. When none came, I prompted, “Nothing to say?”
“I don’t like it.”
Bruce didn’t appear offended in the least. “It might take some time for your palate to adjust to American wine and the sulfates. Try this again in a few months. It’ll be fantastic.”
“I look forward to it,” Vito said—at the same time I blurted, “Too bad he’ll be in Toronto.”
“I have a wine that might impress you,” Bruce said to Vito before he took three fresh glasses to a different barrel. “Try this.”
Upon first sniff, I knew this was our dry aged reserve Cabernet Franc/Cabernet Sauvignon blend. There were notes of tobacco and woodsmoke, along with the dark fruits. It was fantastic, full-bodied and balanced, thanks to two years in an oak barrel. The price would be upwards of fifty dollars a bottle.
Vito swirled the wine a few times, then sipped. “Decent.”
Did he realize what an arrogant asshole he sounded like? And how offensive to Bruce, whose literal job it was to produce this great wine? After I stared daggers at him, I turned to my vintner. “Well, I love it. Bruce, this is a winner. When can we start bottling it?”
“Next week. We need to finish with the dry Riesling first.”
“That’s good news. We should do a promo campaign for it. Maybe Valentine’s Day, when people are ready to splurge on a more expensive bottle of wine. I’ll talk to Celeste.”
We tried a few more of the wines Bruce was tracking. Vito grew bored, I assumed, because he started wandering around while Bruce and I discussed the status of each wine. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him examine the barrels, then study some of the bottles resting in a rack on the far wall.
The urge to tell him to mind his own business was strong, but then I reminded myself that thiswashis business. Literally.