Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (leveled readers .TXT) 📗

was willing to give it a try. We settled into a routine of making a day-a-week commute between Napa and Sacramento. That worked for a few months before my work demands got in the way. I was more aware of the sacrifices I was making, though, and I started to entertain thoughts of living a more ordinary life on a schedule that would permit me personal time.

“I think it’s time for me to leave, Chef. I just don’t feel like I’m mentally in it right now.”

“I agree,” he said.

“What do you think? Should I move on?”

“I can’t make that decision for you, but it seems like it might be the best thing.”

“I want to leave on good terms. I don’t want to jeopardize the time I have spent here or put my relationship with you in danger. I’ll give you as much notice as you need.”

“How about two months?” His words rang in my ears—it sounded like I had quit.

“Two days left, old man; you’re going to miss me,” I mumbled quietly to DJ as we stood shoulder to shoulder prepping.

“You know, I didn’t think you had it in you to leave. I thought you might follow your bro Mark out the door, but figured they would pull you back in. What are you going to do, Spanky?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe wait some tables and try to make some real money. Have some free time. I’m just not sure yet.”

“I told you—crash and burn. I knew you would fry out.” DJ was making fun of me, but I knew he was sad to see me leaving. “Hey. A friend of mine told me about a winery job that’s open if you want to give that a shot. Seems like a good gig, too. It’s a small place run by an older guy. He basically wants help so he doesn’t have to do everything by himself. I was considering it myself. You know it’s just a matter of time before TK fires me or I implode.”

When I accepted the job at the Laundry I had the unrealistic notion that I would be able to find the free time outside the restaurant to learn the wine trade. Surrounded by vineyards and the core of the American wine industry, there was no escaping that Napa meant wine and that my culinary education should include an immersive experience in the vineyards. Once I began working fourteen-hour days, however, it became obvious that that was never going to happen. Outside of work I barely had time to lift weights, wash my clothes, and try to catch up on sleep.

The job sounded perfect.

The next day DJ slid a c-fold towel across my cutting board. In blue Sharpie it had written on it: LA JOTA. BILL SMITH. 965-4327.

I called Bill the following day to learn about the position.

“I understand that you’ve been at the Laundry for two years, so I know you’re not afraid of work. Still, I need to see if I like you before I bring you on—we’ll be spending a good amount of time together. Can you come up and visit the winery for an interview tomorrow?”

The thirty-minute drive up the valley to La Jota was stunning. After turning off Highway 29 onto Howell Mountain Road the foliage became dense with manzanita and redwood trees. It was a peaceful, quiet world that was so close, yet I didn’t know it existed.

I pulled into a narrow blacktop driveway with the address hand-painted on a white board. As I slowly drove up the road to the winery, an oncoming truck approached and a hand appeared out the window, waving me over to the side of the drive. The truck pulled up next to me and the driver rolled down the window. A small man with big, saggy cheeks and white hair that stood out against his tan complexion flashed me a huge smile. “Howdy. You Grant?”

“I am.”

“I’m Bill. I thought I’d be able to sneak out to the store for some coffee before you got here.”

“Sorry, I’m early. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get up here.”

“No worries. Let’s go back to the winery and drop your car off and then we can go together. We’ll head to St. Helena and get one of those good lattes. They don’t serve any caffeine in Angwin.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I just smiled and nodded. Bill turned the truck around and I followed him back to the winery. I knew from DJ that Bill was an older man, but I was surprised to find that he appeared old enough to be my grandfather. I wondered why he was still working so hard.

We made our way back down the valley to grab a coffee while we chatted. Bill went over his story: He was in the oil business in Bakersfield and did well for himself but disliked the location and the work. He loved food and wine, so in the midseventies he decided to buy some land in Napa and try to make his own wine. He bought La Jota, a small winery that had fallen into disrepair and had not produced any wine since Prohibition. Bill planted most of the twenty-five acres with the Bordeaux varietals of Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc, but his affinity for Condrieu led him to plant a small amount of Viognier as well. In 1982 La Jota made its first commercial vintage.

As Bill wrapped up his life story I asked him about the job.

“Basically the person has to wear many hats. Up until now I have done all of the winery work myself—pressing, pumping over, racking, and maintaining the wines once they’re in barrel. But I’m not getting younger, and my wife, Joan, and I are building a new house on the back of the property. So I need someone to lend me a hand. You’ll do all of those things, plus help the vineyard team prune and plant. You’ll probably help out around the new