Frank was one of the earliest investors in the group. Darkly suntanned wearing a light blue, short sleeve, button down shirt open around a gold chain right from the seventies, which he was probably well into, Zack thought.
“Too early in the day for that. It will get rocking by evening.” Zack spun an empty barrel off a rack and loaded another to fill. He marked chalk on the end of the barrels and flipped the pump switch.
“How many more transfers do we have?”
“Six more barrels. Then I think we grab a snack from the kitchen for lunch –”
“Is Debra making those slab tuna sandwich squares used as tasting room appetizers? She’s a perk they didn’t mention when we signed up for this gig.”
“Those are great. Even the experiments she tests on us before making them available to the customers.”
“Looks like six more barrels,” their wine maker Tom said. “How about I watch that pump and you roll over the next barrel?”
“Sure.” Zack grabbed the edges of the barrel and positioned it.
Zack and Frank looked along the line of wine glasses arrayed on the table flanked by decanters half filled from different barrels of wine.
Martin waved his hand at the table, “Tom finished all the lab quality tests and everything looks great. Since you are the first on the volunteer work program I think it only appropriate you get to have first cut on the blending.” He waved a small index card, “I marked the decanters with a secret code that I have on this lot card. See what you can come up with.”
Frank said, “We won’t need the spit buckets.”
Martin put his hand on Frank’s shoulder, “Frank, you’ll need to use the spit bucket. Otherwise the later blends will get cranky.”
“Sometimes the best blends happen by accident.” Frank added, “I met my wife in San Diego when she tripped on an orange in the market and I caught her from falling. That was just after I got back from the Navy.”
“Were you in any wars?”
“Lucky, no battle. I got a great education and a few adventures. I swabbed the deck a lot though.” They all laughed and Martin excused himself to take care of payroll.
Zack suggested, “We should start with just the straight wine from each decanter and assemble from there, what do you think?”
“As good as any starting point. As long as you start pouring,” Frank’s eye twinkled.
Two hours of filling the spit buckets and sitting before the row of wine glasses smeared with red tints Frank said, “I don’t know Zack. I think we leave the wines as a lot and not blend anything. These are all great wines on their own.”
“I like the finish on this lot and the leather flavor of this one and that over there has the best cranberry taste I’ve had in a wine.”
“Mix them again.” Frank swirled the glass in his hand and sniffed it. “The ratio is important.”
“When I mixed these two the leather vanished.”
Frank looked cross, “Do I want my wine to taste like leather?”
“Close your eyes Frank. Think back when you were a kid, what did that baseball glove of yours smell like?”
Zack splashed some wine from his favorite Cabernet decanters into Frank’s glass.
“Musty. My father’s old glove ended up in a box shoved in the crawlspace storage under the basement stairs. When it came out it was musty and unpleasant. I had to oil the thing until August before I could bend it enough to catch anything.”
“– Then what was your second baseball glove?”
“That one was new. Tangy.”
“And did you have any cars with leather seats?”
“No. But this girl I lived with for a while in my twenties wore a leather jacket and these pants that I could hardly peel off her.”
“Does this remind you of her?”
Zack poured a few more splashes of wine in the glass and gave it to Frank.
Frank smacked his lips, his eyes popped open, “Yes! I can see her jacket now, smell her enter our living room from the street. That was fifty years ago.” Frank looked at the
“Too early in the day for that. It will get rocking by evening.” Zack spun an empty barrel off a rack and loaded another to fill. He marked chalk on the end of the barrels and flipped the pump switch.
“How many more transfers do we have?”
“Six more barrels. Then I think we grab a snack from the kitchen for lunch –”
“Is Debra making those slab tuna sandwich squares used as tasting room appetizers? She’s a perk they didn’t mention when we signed up for this gig.”
“Those are great. Even the experiments she tests on us before making them available to the customers.”
“Looks like six more barrels,” their wine maker Tom said. “How about I watch that pump and you roll over the next barrel?”
“Sure.” Zack grabbed the edges of the barrel and positioned it.
Zack and Frank looked along the line of wine glasses arrayed on the table flanked by decanters half filled from different barrels of wine.
Martin waved his hand at the table, “Tom finished all the lab quality tests and everything looks great. Since you are the first on the volunteer work program I think it only appropriate you get to have first cut on the blending.” He waved a small index card, “I marked the decanters with a secret code that I have on this lot card. See what you can come up with.”
Frank said, “We won’t need the spit buckets.”
Martin put his hand on Frank’s shoulder, “Frank, you’ll need to use the spit bucket. Otherwise the later blends will get cranky.”
“Sometimes the best blends happen by accident.” Frank added, “I met my wife in San Diego when she tripped on an orange in the market and I caught her from falling. That was just after I got back from the Navy.”
“Were you in any wars?”
“Lucky, no battle. I got a great education and a few adventures. I swabbed the deck a lot though.” They all laughed and Martin excused himself to take care of payroll.
Zack suggested, “We should start with just the straight wine from each decanter and assemble from there, what do you think?”
“As good as any starting point. As long as you start pouring,” Frank’s eye twinkled.
Two hours of filling the spit buckets and sitting before the row of wine glasses smeared with red tints Frank said, “I don’t know Zack. I think we leave the wines as a lot and not blend anything. These are all great wines on their own.”
“I like the finish on this lot and the leather flavor of this one and that over there has the best cranberry taste I’ve had in a wine.”
“Mix them again.” Frank swirled the glass in his hand and sniffed it. “The ratio is important.”
“When I mixed these two the leather vanished.”
Frank looked cross, “Do I want my wine to taste like leather?”
“Close your eyes Frank. Think back when you were a kid, what did that baseball glove of yours smell like?”
Zack splashed some wine from his favorite Cabernet decanters into Frank’s glass.
“Musty. My father’s old glove ended up in a box shoved in the crawlspace storage under the basement stairs. When it came out it was musty and unpleasant. I had to oil the thing until August before I could bend it enough to catch anything.”
“– Then what was your second baseball glove?”
“That one was new. Tangy.”
“And did you have any cars with leather seats?”
“No. But this girl I lived with for a while in my twenties wore a leather jacket and these pants that I could hardly peel off her.”
“Does this remind you of her?”
Zack poured a few more splashes of wine in the glass and gave it to Frank.
Frank smacked his lips, his eyes popped open, “Yes! I can see her jacket now, smell her enter our living room from the street. That was fifty years ago.” Frank looked at the
Similar Books
