“Do you help pick the grapes every year?” I ask as Armani turns onto the gravel path. “I know Frankie likes to be hands-on with the harvest, but I never realized it was a family affair.”
“We have workers for the bulk of the harvesting, but I always help with this varietal. These grapes are special.”
“Is that because they make the most expensive wine?”
“That’s part of it, yes. But these specific grapes are from a small plot of exceptional vines that Frankie managed to finagle from a family vineyard in Burgundy.”
“That’s right!” I blurt, remembering. “The French noir grapes from Domaine Du Palladium. She was so proud of that deal.”
“I have no idea how she did it,” he says, nodding. “She doesn’t even speak French! I tried to work out a deal with them for years, offered obscene amounts of money, and they wouldn’t give me the time of day. But Frankie worked her magic, and now we have a waiting list a mile long for this wine.”
I frown. “So…does it really make that much of a difference in the end product? I know people get all caught up in the ‘notes of apricot skin and forest floor’ and all that, but really.”
“There’s a difference. Trust me,” he says firmly. “We’ll have ourselves a private tasting sometime. Unlike our signature pinot noir, we age this one in French oak barrels and produce only a very limited number of cases, hence the waiting list. So every grape counts. And when you pick them, you’ve got to be exceptionally careful not to squeeze or bruise them.”
“Wait, we’re actually picking themwith our hands?”
“Versus what?”
“I don’t know. A machine or something?”
He scoffs as if I’ve offended him. “A machine. Christ. Grapes are delicate. They require a soft touch.”
With that, he reaches over to squeeze my thigh. Meow.
The ride turns a little bumpy as we begin our ascent to the rolling hills of the vineyard. The main gate is already open. It’s still pitch black, stars twinkling overhead, when we pull onto a flat, packed dirt lot where three other vehicles are already parked. I recognize a few faces as our UTV’s headlights wash over the figures waiting in the darkness.
Frankie and Dante stand with Marco and an owl-eyed Karina, along with two men in jeans, battered work boots, and flannel shirts. When we reach the group, Armani introduces the two men as leaders of the harvesting crew, the rest of whom are on their way.
Paper cups and a thermos are passed around. Though I can feel the cup of coffee I already drank working its way through my veins, I figure too much caffeine doesn’t exist today, and pour a cup. Karina holds hers between both hands while she blows on it. I move closer to her.
“Did Marco drag you out of bed, too?”
She rolls her eyes. “He already had the shower started and my clothes picked out before pulling all the covers off to wake me up.”
“That sounds better than what I went through. I just got pounced on. Almost had a heart attack, to be honest.”
We laugh around our coffee cups. A long white passenger van with the Bellanti Vineyards logo on the side pulls in and a bunch of men and a few women climb out. The harvesting crew, I assume. Armani waves me and Karina over so we can get pairs of cutting shears and instructions from one of the workers.
We’re told to cradle each cluster of grapes in our palm before snipping it gently from the vine. Then the cluster will be carefully placed in our collection basket, which we can’t overfill in order to avoid bruising. No squeezing. Any bruised or broken grapes should be saved for seeds; broken skin can mean the grape will start to ferment before it gets to the pressing room.
Baskets are handed out and then we all head toward the sacred vines of Palladium grapes. Dante and Frankie lag behind, bickering quietly. It sounds like he’s trying to talk her into going back to the house to rest. Which, ha. Even I know better than to try talking Frankie out of anything to do with her work here. She loves these vines, every last one of them.
Her response is to rip her collection basket out of Dante’s hands and waddle-stomp ahead of him with one hand on her enormous belly for balance. I can’t help suppressing a giggle.
The workers shine large spotlights down the rows of vines to illuminate them until the sun comes up. Armani and I start on our own row. He keeps me at his elbow to show me how to clip the delicate clusters off the vine, and I pick up the method pretty quickly. He wasn’t kidding when he said these grapes are valuable. They’re getting the white glove treatment.
I work slowly but with precision, and a few times I catch Armani’s eagle-eye gaze homed in on my technique. Although I brace myself for any criticism from the Grape Master, each time, he says nothing. So I keep going. Armani fills two baskets by the time I finish my first one, and then a worker comes by to collect our grapes and drop off more empty baskets.
Armani stays glued to my side as we work. I start to relax into the work and a warm, fuzzy feeling goes through me. Even though this is really more Frankie’s forte than mine, I’m delighted to be a part of the process of making the wines I represent. I imagine being able to tell clients about how the vines look as the first rays of dawn spill over them, how the entire family comes out to pick grapes alongside the vineyard workers.
It’s not just a sales pitch, either. I can tell by the happy chatter and the sense of camaraderie all around that this is really special. I see now why Armani was in such a rush to get out here this morning. The harvest is a whole family tradition for them, and honestly something I never expected the Bellanti brothers to do. But it makes sense. This is the true heart of Bellanti Vineyards. This is what their legacy is really all about.
Before long, my hairline is damp with sweat and my arms ache, but my heart is full, so I keep going. No one seems to mind the hard work, not even Frankie with her baby belly. We’re all in this together. Reaching a small rise, panting with exertion, I pause to take in the view.
It’s around six thirty now and the sun is finally coming up, a spill of warm golden light peeking over the horizon. The spotlights suddenly snap off, as if to pay homage to this exact moment. It’s literally breathtaking. The gently rolling hills stretching ahead of me, the folds of clouds in the sky reflecting a rainbow of soft pink, fiery coral, deep indigo, and orange over the vines, the first clear calls of the birds…
“It’s something, isn’t it?”
