The Bootlegger's Grandson

Ben dozed off in the ratty old green chair in the corner of the bedroom, something he hadn't done in quite some time. The kids were all safely asleep, and his wife Mary Agnes was reading an old leatherbound copy of "The Prince" by the light of a small kerosene lamp on the nightstand. His snoring made her smile as she kept reading.

He jolted awake, just an instant before the grandfather clock leaning against the far wall sounded 1:00 a.m.

"Go back to sleep, Ben. You're exhausted." Mary said, not looking up from page 136.

"Can't," he said as he stood up and rubbed his face. "The cattle need attention."

Ben threw on his thick canvas coat and his ever-present grey fedora, something he was never seen without when he was out of doors.

"They're fine," she said, her nose still buried.

"It'll only be a little while." He kissed the top of her head and gingerly walked into the hallway on the creaky old hardwood floor. She never did look up.

Outside, amongst the corn and sorghum, Ben walked briskly toward the ravine.

'Let's get this over with,' he thought. 'I can see my own breath. This is ridiculous. '

Click.

"Why," he thought, "is a gun pointed at me every time I step out of the house. Am I in the right line of work, even considering these challenging economic times?" Grandpa was excellent at both hooch-running and the foreshadowing of events decades in the future.

"Turn around," a deep voice said. Ben recognized it and did as directed.

Staring him right in the face was Ernst Schroeder, his rival for both Mary Agnes' heart and the vast, deep rivers that ran brown with moonshine.

"Evening, Ben," Ernst said, a smirk on his face and his World War I rifle in his hands.

"Ernst," he said, with more sarcasm than one might expect. "Are we going to do this every night?"

"Until I get some of your territory or all of Mary, yes."

"We both know you don't have a big enough operation to handle even one of my customers."

"That's a good point. I guess I'll be needing a few of your men and stills."

"Then I guess I'd better fetch Mary." It was a hilarious rejoinder, but neither laughed.

"You won't be able to control your empire on one leg, Schneider," Ernst said as he leveled his rifle at Ben's knee.

Ben honestly didn't know what was going to happen until it did. Ernst pulled the trigger, but the bolt was so rusty that it sparked when the action pushed down on the chamber, the bullet exploded in the barrel*. Ernst was startled and tripped backwards onto his fat German ass, but he wasn't otherwise hurt.

Until, that is, Ben clocked him in the jaw, knocking out a tooth and giving him a permanent clicking noise that would rear its head every time he ate sausage. In Windthorst, Texas, that meant every meal of his life would sound like a metronome inside his puffy head.

"If I see you here again, you'll end up with the hogs," Ben said as he continued down to the ravine.

Ernst could only rub his jaw and pound the dirt with his fist like Yosemite Sam.

Ben shoved his hands in his pockets and stood next to Armando.

"How are we doing tonight, Armando?"

TO BE CONTINUED

* If it isn't obvious, I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about.

An Alternate Take on Winemaking

Alice Feiring, a very well-respected wine critic, recently decided to make her own wine after a long career in writing about and drinking the good stuff. You can follow her adventures here.

She also runs a personal site where she recommends actual wine made by people outside of their kitchens and pantries. You can check it out here: http://www.alicefeiring.com/

Just so you won't be disappointed, she doesn't drift off into meaningless nonsense very often. It's mostly factual and about the experience, blah blah blah.

Riesling the Body Electric

After going around and around with a grape juice supplier, FedEx, UPS, the grape juice supplier again, a priest, a rabbi, and the ghost of a grizzled old prospector, I now know how Rosa Parks felt when she couldn't just get her six goddamn gallons of Riesling juice.

A couple weeks back, I found a supplier online in Northern California who was willing to send your humble diarist six gallons of premium Johannisberg Riesling juice from a reputable vineyard for only $35. I would have to send a nationally recognized transport company out to get the juice who would then use their well-established shipping channels to get it to me, but that was a mere trifle. I ordered a Steinberg Geisenheim yeast, did a little research and idly waited.

The Federal Express Company of Memphis, Tennessee was to pick up my juice on Thursday and deliver it to me on Saturday. As I watched Texas beat the pants off of Missouri that Saturday evening, I watched with great eagerness for gleam of the FedEx truck's headlights against the gray mailbox planted in our front yard.

Sadly, for reasons that I still don't quite have the capacity to understand, that gleam would not shimmer that day.

Tuesday, I drove home expectantly after the Internet had notified me that my sweet, sweet juice would be resting comfortably on the porch, and indeed it was. I knew it would be heavy, probably upwards of 60 pounds.

But the box couldn't have weighed more than 20. Something was amiss.

It was packed especially well. Two pieces of half inch thick plywood sandwiched a six gallon sealed pail, held down tightly by metal bands. This shit wasn't going anywhere.

After considerable effort, I liberated the pail from the metal and plywood, and pried open the sealed pail. Inside, maybe two gallons of white juice that was bubbling like crazy. I was confused. Did the team member I spoke with on the phone send me five liters? Did a roving band of street toughs abscond with my precious juice? As it was well past 6:00 PDT, there would be no way to know until the morning.

FedEx was nice enough. They said that no notes about juice flying all over the fuck had been placed on the shipment. I said thank you to the chap and bid him good day. Then I called the juice monger with that information.

Also very, very accomodating. The guy who packed my order called and assured me that he had indeed packed SIX gallons of pure Johannisberg Riesling. He admitted that they didn't ship a ton of juice, and that most customers came to their warehouse to pick up their orders. It was then that I notified him, in my mind at least, that I was not most customers.

After a few minutes of discussion, he said he'd be happy to send me a new pail for no cost. I thanked him and bid him good day as well, and dispatched a courier from the United Parcel Service of Atlanta, Georgia to him post haste.

After a couple of missed connections, the new pail was picked up on Monday the 27th of October and is currently scheduled to arrive here tomorrow. It is then that we will see if the fates smile upon the Huevos Caballos 2008 Riesling, or if they demand more sacrifice.

---

As a brief post script, I should inform you that I'm not going to dispose of the orphaned two gallons of juice like some kid of jerk. It was already well into fermentation by the time I got it, nearly to dryness. Since I hadn't yeasted it up yet, that means that the wild yeasts who summer in the grapes had started their dirty business and had eaten most of the sugar already. If I'm careful, it may produce half a case of Huevos Caballos 2008 Riesling Reserva, an ultra-exclusive wine.

---

As another brief post script, I shall now update you on the status of the fruit wines. I racked them all this evening, and they all smell and taste terrible, except the strawberry, which tastes somewhat like something that a human not in prison might wish to drink.

A Slow Descent into Madness

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I've gone totally mental. 

Right now, I have SIX different wines and a beer fermenting, with the ingredients for another wine in the fridge and yet another on a truck on its way here from Lodi. Oh, and Lauren got me a gift certificate for Culver City Home Brewing Supply, so I'm headed out there later today to pick up more beer kits, with an eye on a beer tasting party for the holidays. Seriously, you guys. 

It's not like I even drink that much to begin with. Lauren and I rarely have wine with dinner, and even less often have ambassadors over for fancy dinner parties. "What's that you say, Count Du Rainier? Of course you can have another glass of Pinot. Why yes, that is a hint of burned ammonia on the nose."

I took a couple of days off last week to celebrate my 31st annual gestation cessation celebration, and devoted a goodly amount of time to the creation of some new wines. The kitchen counter tops ran red with the juice of blueberries, strawberries, pumpkin, and blood orange. I'll be posting more when I press the fruit this weekend, for those of you awaiting news with baited breath. 

But that's not the point. One year ago, I had ONE wine, the little Pinot that could, sitting in a plastic bucket. How then, I query, did Huevos Caballos have a 700% increase in wine production in one year? 

It all started in 1929, when my grandfather, Bernard Schneider, made moonshine. At least that's what he told me when I was younger. My mom claims that he bought it at the state fair, but I choose to believe he was a bootlegger criminal mastermind, secretly running Windthorst Texas during prohibition. 

As he snuck off into the cold North Texas night air, Ben scanned the fields around the family farm carefully for anyone watching. Once he felt secure in his solitude, he checked again. 

His was an operation with no room for error. Elliot Ness was after him, and the slightest misstep could spell doom for him and his men. 

As he crept down the rows of corn and sorghum he grew as a cover (Grandpa hated sorghum passionately. "Goddamn sorghum," I often heard him muttering around the hearth) he felt at peace.  He had fooled everyone, including his own beloved family, into thinking that he was a simple dairy farmer. He smiled to himself confidently as he saw the first glimmer of light from his massive distilling operation. 

As he crested the hillock down into the ravine that hosted his "little operation" as he called it, he heard the unmistakable click of a revolver. 

"Freeze!" he heard someone say in a voice barely above a whisper. 

He turned around slowly to see the surprised face of Armando, one of his trusted guards. 

"Oh, Mister Ben, I am so sorry. I did not realize-"

"It's all right, old friend. How are we doing tonight?"

"Good, good. Esteban has stabilized the bourbon. I think you will find it most excellent."

"Very well," he said, as they descended into the hub of the production. 

Copper tanks lined the banks of the ravine, spewing out an obsidian smoke. (Most bootleggers in those days operated with coal-powered stills) A small one-armed boy ran up and handed Ben a blue speckled granite cup, brimming with a corn whiskey that doubled as an engine de-greaser and hobo poison. Ben took a small sip. 

Most men buckled at even a whiff of the undiluted product, but he was no ordinary man.  At his funeral, a family friend told me in confidence that he once drank a bottle of Drano and chased it with a jug of 230 proof horse whiskey, and still made it to church in time to play the procession on the organ. The Knights of Columbus of Windthorst still regard that day as the finest procession ever played in their small town. 

"Good work, son." The boy, whose name no one was sure of, smiled meekly. Someone had left him at the door of Ben and Mary Agnes, and Ben told her that he'd shipped the boy off to the service back in '22. The boy rarely spoke, and did little but make spirits. His blood alcohol level, tests would later reveal, had a standard baseline of 0.30. 

Ben and Armando continued their walking tour of the operation, watching as the hooch was filtered, bottled, and boxed up for shipping all over the country. They smiled in contentment, their empire humming along like the mythical perpetual motion machine. 

They heard a cry coming from the back of camp, and rushed over. Luke, the night foreman, had a worker by the shirt collar. He was red in the face with anger. 

"What's the matter here?" grandpa said, in his stern, managerial tone. 

"I found this man stealing a slice of corn pone from one of the others. He must be punished," Lucas hissed. 

Ben took Lucas' hand off of the man, and comforted the shaking worker. Ben gingerly checked inside the man's lower lip. 

"This man has a tapeworm," Ben said, patting him on the back. "No wonder he's still hungry."

Grandpa laughed and smacked Lucas on the back playfully. The laugh grew and grew, crescendoing until Lucas couldn't do anything but laugh himself. 

WHAP. The back of Ben's hand caught Lucas' unexpectant cheek. 

"Don't ever treat one of the men like that again, no matter their transgression."

"Y...yes, Mr. Schneider. I'm sorry, sir." 

"Now see this man fed and mix up a cup of the rye and two of the malted corn. That'll take care of the worm and any other critters that might've taken residence in his lowers."

"Yes sir."

"You take care, friend. You're a good man, and we need you healthy," Ben said to the afflicted man. A caring look washed away the sternness Ben had exhibited to Lucas. The man smiled. 

"Thank you, Mister Schneider. I will not let you down."

"There's a bright future for you in our little operation, son."

The man smiled as Ben walked away, but then felt uneasy as he noticed the glare Lucas directed at Ben. 

TO BE CONTINUED. 

So you can see how I got into home wine and beer making. 

Aykroyd done me right.

Ray Stantz and the Kingdom of the Expensive Vodka

Thanks to the modern wonder that is John Hodgman, I discovered CRYSTAL HEAD VODKA, a distilled spirit hauked by none other than Elwood Blues. It is, in short, most likely middling quality vodka in a bottle SHAPED LIKE A HUMAN SKULL. Dan Aykroyd explains that Bruni glass of Milan spent over two years developing the skull bottles based on a design by noted artist John Alexander.

I ask you: how am I not supposed to order some?

Distilled? Piss off. Double distilled? Get the eff outta here. TRIPLE distilled? Sir, I demand you leave my parlor at ONCE!

Crystal Head Vodka is quadruple distilled.*

How am I not supposed to order some?

Through Herkimer Diamonds, no less. Until now, I was not aware that jewels of any ilk are important in the distillation process. From now on, I shall put rubies in my wine and emeralds in my beer. Suck it, Mondavi/Jose Cuervo.

I found some at Napacabs.com and placed my order post-haste. I can't imagine what the bottles cost, but at $39.99, I figure the vodka is just a bonus.

A month or so from now, dear readers, you might find yourself smack dab in the middle of a telephonic conversation with your humble diarist similar to the one below.

"Hi Charlie. What's going on?"

"I'm just reclining on a chez lounge, eating a whole roasted chicken."

"That sounds fun."

"Oh, I forgot. I'm also drinking homebrew out of a CRYSTAL SKULL."

* Is this somehow important?

Operation Grape Expectations: A Prologue

The detour to Sonic had been a disaster. Lauren said "DisneyLand" and all I could think was "Sonic is near DisneyLand. I love Sonic. We have time!" Instead of the quick jaunt off the freeway I was expecting, it turned into a 45 minute cluster-eff which saw both my blood pressure and Baja Fresh levels rise. When we finally hopped back onto the freeway, I knew we weren't gonna make it. I had to call the woman I was buying the grapes from to ask if showing up 45 minutes or so late would be all right.

"I'm sticking around the vineyard all afternoon for you guys to buy 60 pounds of grapes," I expected her to say, with a curtness that I wasn't looking forward to. "Fine, just hurry up." I was wasting this woman's time and felt awful, but there wasn't a lot I could do.

I dialed her number and put on my customer service voice.

"Hi, is that Mary?"

"Yes."

"Hi Mary, it's Charlie Fonville, coming out for the grapes this afternoon."

"Of course. Hello."

"I was hoping that it'd be okay to show up around 4:45 or so. We're running a little late."

"Okay, no problem. See you then."

"Great. Thank you." Click.

"Phew," thought I. I'm sure they're busy, with it being harvest time. Probably a lot of work to do around the old vineyard. No problem.

The address was on Grape Street, which lead me think that they themselves had named the dirt road leading to their sprawling, picturesque acreage.

Nope. Two bedroom house at the end of a cul-de-sac with Norteno music blaring from all different directions.

An old pickup parked next to an even older van held the driveway down, and a varitable maze of succulents, pomegranates, and other landscaping made it clear that some serious greenery had gone down here.

"This can't be right," I said to Lauren.

"No, it can't," she replied. "Are you sure this is the right address?"

"Not at all."

I checked my e-mail, and sure enough, it was the right address. The numbers were the same, there was an "N" before the word "Grape," and the zip code matched.

"Ooooooookay," I said, with a specific gravity of skepticism well over 1.100. (If you knew what specific gravity was, as well as normal SG levels, you would find this hilarious). Actually, probably not.

So we rang the doorbell, half expecting to find a kindly woman to take us to the real vineyard, and the other half expecting to get shot in the face.

May answered the door, a kindly woman indeed, but she did not offer to drive us to the real vineyard. Nor did she shoot us in the face.

"Nice to meet you. Come around to the side gate and I'll let you in."

We grabbed our buckets, with a look of confusion still etched on our faces. An old wooden gate swung open, and May beckoned us to come through.

And there it was. A fully-functioning, mini-vineyard.

This delightful couple produced 1,000 pounds of grapes anually. Just for themselves. May's husband, who was in Hungary setting up their retirement vineyard, decided not to make wine this year, leading them to sell the grapes for only fifty cents a pound. Ruby Cabernet grapes aren't the most sought after, mainly due to consistency problems, but I figured that it would be no huge loss if there was a catastrophic incident in the winemaking process, which there almost undoubtedly will be.

Lauren and I dutifully picked grapes, filling up three large buckets amongst the vines and bees. After we were finished and weighed up (70 pounds of fresh grapes, $35), May invited us in to clean up (grape picking puts a gunk on your hands that is damn near indescribable, but I will try - it's gross) in the house and have some of the 2005 Ruby Cabernet that they'd made.

When we stepped back outside, May had laid out a jug of wine along with a plate of brie and crackers. After shrugging off my normal "this woman poisoned this wine and is going to eat us while we're still alive...oh my god why isn't she having any? 'Lauren, head for the car. I'll take care of this.' Wham wham whap. Gunshot. 'You must* have messed with the wrong people, lady.' Walk off into the sunset to the sight of cops pulling up and digging out countless bodies" delusion, which I think we've all had while picking grapes in a stranger's backyard, I had some wine and cheese. And both were excellent.

A glass of wine later, May told Lauren and I how they landed, of all places, in Escondido, California, selling grapes to a weirdo and her boyfriend. She and her husband owned garnet mines in Alaska that they had just sold to buy a retirement estate in Hungary. After he got laid off from his job as an industrial photographer, he and May drove from the northernmost part of Canada they could get to all the way to the Panama canal. Oh yeah, and he escaped a concentration camp.

We asked her about how she found her way over here, and I have to say, her answer was not what I was expecting. It turns out that when May was 18 or 19 or so, she moved from Ireland to London, and through some girlfriends found out about the bars where the American sailors hung out. Nearly every night, she said, she and her friends would go down there to "meet" some "nice" sailors. Please note that she was not doing air quotes as she spoke.

Ladies and gentlemen, we bought grapes from the most interesting people I'd ever met.

*Must (from the Latin vinum mustum, “young wine”) is freshly pressed fruit juice (usually grape juice) that contains the skins, seeds, and stems of the fruit.