Page 21 of The Sweetness of Life

“So, you’re Hungarian?” I honestly have no idea what a Hungarian looks like, but looking at him with his muscular build, trim waist, and long legs, I might become a fan.

“Not really.” There goes that thought. “I would say I’m more of an American mutt—a little bit of everything.” He grins at me.

Oh, look who’s being funny. “Me, too.”

He starts the cart again, and we’re off.

“How big is the farm?” I think about the wineries in Napa as he starts down the trail again. Some of them are huge and have additional crops in other areas.

“Wolff owns roughly one hundred and twelve acres, but not all of it is cultivated. The vines cover about eighty-five.”

“How many wines do you make here?” It occurs to me I should already know this, but I don’t.

“Current is eleven: four red, three white, and four sparkling, but usually it’s nine. It really depends on the production of the crops, how long some have been aging in the cave, and different blends we want to experiment with.”

“You have a cave?” When I looked up the winery online and scanned over the pages, it didn’t mention a cave.

“I do, and we’re headed that way.” He points toward the east side of his property.

“To make these wines, how many different kinds of grapes do you grow?”

“It really depends on our goals for that year, or the few after. We’ve had as many as sixteen varietals growing at one time. Some are for our current blends, some are to mature the vines for later use, and some are experimental. Look there at the bottom of the row—each one is labeled, and back up at the manor I have a log of all the vines, where they came from, when they were planted, harvest quantity, and so on.”

“They look so beautiful and healthy.” The leaves blow around from the wind of the cart as we pass by. “It’s really amazing.”

His head turns. I can feel him looking at me, but I pretend I don’t notice and just enjoy the ride.

Zach parks the golf cart under another tree and climbs out before gesturing for me to follow him.

Together, we wind down a path to an entrance that’s built into the side of the hill. The cave. On the left, there’s a wooden door, and on the right, wooden garage doors with a wide path that wraps down around the hill. He leads me inside and down a short, dark hallway that opens up into a long, wide tunnel. Zach flips a switch and wall sconces light up the cave.

When my eyes adjust, I’m stunned speechless. “Zach, this is seriously cool.” I feel his eyes on me, but mine trail along the walls, which are covered with white stones similar to those that make up the manor. I gaze at the curved archway entrances to the two rooms in front of us.

“Yeah, it stays around fifty-eight degrees in here.” Zach smirks and then walks toward the room on the right. The one on the left is full of stacked barrels.

“I didn’t mean the temperature, ass, but it is pleasant. I meant the cave in general. I’ve never been in a wine cave and didn’t know they really existed like this.”

“A lot of wineries have moved to building caves. It’s more energy efficient, and it’s easier to maintain a cooler temperature without having to run a cooling unit. Also, the hills trap in the necessary humidity.”

Zach moves through the room and checks the gauges of several tanks.

“How long has the cave been here?” I ask, watching him do his thing and trying hard not to notice how nicely his shirt pulls across the back of his shoulders.

“As far as we know, the caves were here when they started the vineyard.”

“Wow. I’m thoroughly awed right now.” Who knew all of this was sitting under the hillside.

“Thanks. My father had each room in the cave widened in the eighties after the wines took off, and then he had them modernized twenty years later. When I was a kid, I hated coming down here. It smelled weird, the machines were loud, and it was dark.”

He’s right; the pungent smell of fermenting grapes lingers thick and sweet in the air. We pass large vertical steel tanks full of grapes that are slowly turning into wine. My fingers drift across the barrels, and I’m humbled by this age-old process. On the other side of the room, thousands of bottles of sparkling wine are stacked neatly.

“Who helps you with all of this?” I ask, taking it all in.

“I have a crew of four that helps me with anything and everything wine related, especially the bottling. Our operation here is too large for handpicking, so during the harvest, the machines do most of the work. Besides those four, we probably have a dozen other employees who work with Michelle behind the tasting bar, in the manor, or around the grounds.”

“The bottling—where’s that done?” I turn and look around the cave for another door.

“We passed it on the way here, the large barn.” He moves to lean against the tank next to me.