The Winemaker, by Noah Gordon

The wine cellar in the book
looked nothing like this. It
was in a cave. 

The Winemaker is the second book I've read by Noah Gordon, both at the urging of Jeannie Graetz, who is actually a more-avid reader than me, if you can imagine that. During her recent visit, I most often saw her reclining against a stack of plumped-up throw cushions with a book in her hand--sometimes one I was trying to read. Good books were a bulwark for her as supportive as the throw cushions she leaned on. I could easily see the little girl still residing in her, little Jeannie and adult Jeannie together with the same nose in a book.

Josep planted roses next to his vines--they were
like the canary in the coal mine--they would show
damage before it effected the grapes.

I like The Winemaker much better than The Physician (see previous review). The story was much less epic in scope, allowing me to "drill down" (to use an obnoxious currently popular buzz phrase) rather than spread out. The focus was young Josep Alvarez, who was exiled from his rural Spanish village after witnessing a crime, and on his education in the world of the grape. The exile journey was told mainly in reminiscences--I learned about it through its influence on Josep and his life rather than through tedious narrative (a flaw in Physician). Still, as with any hero journey, Josep gained valuable tools and allies through his exile. When he returned home, he was ready to take up his true inner calling--the making of wine from his own grapes.

Captain Picard in his family's vineyard.

In Josep's village, the entire grape harvest was sold to vinegar makers. A good yield was more important than flavor and the vines were tended carefully, but not expertly. The book tells the story of Josep's struggle to transform his father's neglected vines into fine wine. And, niftily, as Josep transforms the winery, he finds that he has transformed himself into a man. His relationship with a neighbor woman is sweet. His relationship with her son is even sweeter.

A casteller

One of the key images of the book, its scaffolding, is the tradition of the casteller--an acrobatic enterprise engaged in by many of the villages and performed at festivals and fairs. The casteller is a pyramid of men, with, say, eight on the bottom row, six on the second row, four on the third row, and so on. As the rows grow higher, the participants grow smaller, until a young boy finally climbs the whole pyramid and takes his place at the pinnacle. The casteller represents Josep's journey; it represents the vines, which must have sturdy roots to hold the fragile grapes; it represents the tradition of wine growing. It would have been a great title for this book, The Casteller, but I understand why the marketing people maybe wanted something a bit more obvious. (And, the title fits in a long line of Gordon's books with job titles as the title.) The casteller represented physically a multiplicity of key dynamics and served as a unifying element.

As in The Physician, I did not greatly relate to the main characters in this book, although they were much better drawn in The Winemaker. There is a sustained underlying danger in the book, which is very nicely done and made Josep more human, more fragile, than the superhero of The Physician. Good job, Mr. Gordon.

Wine and me...

A glass of wine in college was more
likely served in a red Solo cup, if
they had been invented yet.

OK, I was 20 and almost legal for wine. I was a college junior and tired of beer, which I never acquired a taste for, although I would drink it for the effect and to fit in socially. (I learned to like beer between my junior and senior years of college, when I spent several weeks in England--yum Guinness stout.) I was invited to a wine party by a guy in an English class. Well, wine certainly tasted better than beer! It was like juice, but rich and dark (I was on red--it seemed fruitier). I drank and drank and drank and then...oh, no...I could hardly stand up. I was in this guy's house and he took me up to his room to chill out (thank god he was gentlemanly) and I threw up all over his stuff. And I remember laughing and laughing. No shame whatsoever. And I remember talking extravagantly in an English accent, alternating with third-year German--as he walked me home and somehow I woke up in my own bed, still fully clothed, and with a headache unbelievably hideous and then the shame hit me. (Although I can still giggle about this story to this very day.) It was a long time before I had wine after that.

Now I appreciate a good wine. I also appreciate a bad wine and a cheap wine. My friends the Wallaces have great wines at their table (and in the middle of the afternoon as well). In honor of The Winemaker, I recently picked up a bottle of screw top at Walmart (vintner to the masses) for $5.65. And it was wonderful--a sweet wine made supposedly with blueberries! Finally, a wine that really did taste like juice. I have been quite juice-dicious in drinking it.

I guess everyone is due one or two incredible hangovers. During my time at Ohio State, it was a badge of honor. And, I learned that the alcoholism gene passed over me. If I was going to have developed a dependency, that would have been the time. Most of the time, I found that drinking and trouble were closely linked in my life and as I set out to survive my own experiences, I became more and more abstemious (been looking for an opportunity to use that word). I didn't have enough resources to keep squandering them in recovering from drinking-related incidents!