By the time I’d gone back for it and rejoined a very displeased-looking boss, it dawned on me. “Your name isn’t Clark.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Sorry about that. I meant Mr. Grado.”
He looked as if he wanted to throttle me.
“Cosimo or Cos is fine.”
He wanted to say something, but instead he waved his arm toward the tasting room.
“This was the first building on the property. My grandfather bought 200 acres of farmland in 1933.”
“Two years after he came over from Italy? Impressive.”
For the first time since we met, Clark—or rather, Cosimo stopped glaring so hard at me.
“Right,” he said. “Most of it was sold during the recession, but my father retained sixty-five acres. Still farmland. Fast-forward to nineteen eighty-three when my parents took a trip to Napa. They were already wine lovers, both being from the Finger Lakes, but after that trip, their interest in wine kicked into high gear. By nineteen eighty-nine, they had planted their first vines. Chardonnay, riesling, pinot noir and gewürztraminer. In nineteen ninety-four, the year before I was born, they were open for business.”
“In here?” I asked, wondering why he was talking to me without being a total asshole.
“Sort of. It was a barn at the time. They operated with a card table and a cash register for nearly a year. This was built in nineteen ninety-five and just recently renovated.”
“A brand-new business and a newborn.”
The look on his face was the first thing I liked about Cosimo Grado besides his freakishly good looks. He was clearly very proud of his parents.
“Lots of newborns. Within the next eight years, we were a family of six. The Wine Barn”—he nodded toward the entrance—“was built during that time. Mom wanted to pay homage to the area’s roots, and the women of our family, with a distinct winery of her own.”
We left the 1942 Wine Cellar and walked toward the courtyard, which was the center of the Grado Valley “campus.” He looked up at the very barn-looking structure.
“Was it ever actually used as a barn?”
“No. But it was modeled after the original one on the property way over there.” He pointed to a distant area of the vineyard.
“You said she wanted to pay homage to the area’s roots?”
Clark was back. He seemed annoyed again, likely because I was ignorant about the area. To be fair, I didn’t exactly research the place. I was here for a weekend of wine tasting, not to stay for the summer.
“Two towns over, the first women’s rights convention was held in eighteen forty-eight. Some call this area the birthplace of women’s rights.”
I put two and two together. “Which is why all of the wines in the 1931 Wine Barn are named after women.”
“You got it.” He walked away from the Barn toward a wide-open field. “Did you get over there when you were here Saturday?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“Too busy drinking vodka roadies?”
I caught up with him as he stopped just in front of a covered bocce ball court. Beyond it, there was a stage and a wide-open field littered with firepits and Adirondack chairs.
“You’re annoyed”—I knew this was dangerous territory but went for it anyway—“that we didn’t take our tastings seriously.”
He seemed genuinely surprised by that. “Not at all.”
“Then why did you say it like that?”
He inhaled and then exhaled, his broad shoulders lifting up and down, demanding my attention. “Wine isn’t something that needs to be taken seriously. There are way too many misconceptions about it, mostly perpetuated by wine snobs. There’s only one cardinal rule when it comes to wine. It should be enjoyed as individually as the person drinking it. If you want to get technical and look at vintage charts before you even consider opening a bottle, go for it. If someone else enjoys getting hammered and not tasting their wine, good for them.”