2018 Editorial Chardonnay Russian River Valley Sonoma County 750 ml

The last Editorial wine our jet-setting journalist friend put us onto was a bombshell, selling out within two days. Somehow, the unlabeled Russian River Valley Chardonnay he’d FedExed to our desk last week was every bit as thrilling—and available at an even lower price. 

Like Kistler’s best releases, it’s deep, rich, and unctuous on the palate, with a nose like a squeezed grapefruit peel. The weighty power with flashy exotic fruit called to mind David Ramey’s work off the Ritchie Vineyard, threaded with a fine acid backbone. Dense waves of lemon curd, melon, vanilla, pineapple, and butter marked it as an AVA release of the highest order.

But what was it, where was it from? “Your buyers don’t get spooked easily, right?” our journo buddy asked. We weren’t sure what that meant, but at $20 for a Chardonnay this stunning from a beloved appellation? Not a chance. “Ok, here’s the story. It’s a doozy—and never before published.”

From: ____________@gmail.com>
Sent: Monday, October 14, 2019 8:44 AM
To: Vanessa Conlin ____________@wineaccess.com>
Subject: RRV Chard from Ernie’s block
 
Vanessa,
 
A while back I started hearing oblique references to a Russian River Valley vineyard that was producing absolutely magical Chardonnays but remained shrouded in mystery—and not the usual, proprietary kind of hush-hush. I half-wondered if the operation was legal. Over time I pieced together enough clues to figure out its location and called up the landowner: a friendly old man who recognized my byline and invited me to come check out the property early the next morning.
 
It’s a remote area of the AVA. The road follows a winding river before veering off into a darkly wooded forest of fir trees, where roads disappear on Google Maps. After a couple unnerving miles you break out into a hilltop clearing with vineyards slanting down steep slopes on either side of the blacktop. The owner met me outside a small farmhouse dressed in overalls and straw hat and we went for a walk.  
 
The fog the appellation is famous for was still drifting along the edges of the woods, allowing for slow, rich maturation in the grapes even as natural acids remain firm. The vines were pristine, the gold-green Chardonnay clusters almost glowing beneath the changing leaves. A lower, shadier section of the vineyard was noticeably cooler; the air had a damp, maritime chill, like Meursault in the fall. The farmer told me this was his best plot, making for Chardonnays suffused with decadent richness—the one all the blue-chip estates came clamoring for. At the far end of one row, I noticed an antique rocking chair under a tree, covered with a threadbare crazy quilt.
 
“What’s that?” I said, pointing at the chair. 
 
“That’s where Ernie sits,” he said. As he walked and talked, I scribbled in my reporter’s notebook.
 
“Is he part of the harvest crew?” I made a mental note to get the spelling of his full name.
 
The old man took his hat off and scratched his head. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose so. He’s a ghost.”
 
He must have noticed my startled expression, because he patted me reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, he won’t bother us now. It’s the moonlight that brings him out.”
 
Over the next hour or two, I got the whole story. The land, like much of the Russian River Valley, flourished in the early 20th century. But when Prohibition hit, the local winegrowing economy was decimated. Many great vineyards went fallow; others were employed by bootleggers to churn out sugary plonk. One man in the area, Ernest K., in a particularly ill-timed decision had sunk his whole life savings into buying the very site we stood on, recognizing its extraordinary conditions. The bank took it from him and he was left penniless, but the man kept cultivating the land even though he no longer profited from it. He liked to sit hidden amongst the vines in a rocking chair he’d dragged in from his clapboard house, admiring his handiwork. The bank had to keep sending police to chase him off. 
 
The old man who inherited the land eventually had trouble with vines not producing well. When he heard the legend about Ernie, he remembered seeing an old rocking chair stuffed away in the barn. He reinstalled it in the vineyard, and ever since, the fruit had become legendary. “If you come out at night, sometimes you can still hear his old rocking chair squeaking,” the farmer promised.
 
The other week he called me. A highly superstitious buyer, learning about the ghost for the first time, and particularly spooked by a delivery date set for the 13th, had backed out last minute. He wanted to know if I knew anyone interested in quietly taking it off his hands at a friends and family rate. My first call was to you…and, well, you’ve tasted the wine.  
 
P.S. I did drive out there one moonlit night—call it journalistic integrity. Fog banks right up to the side of the road like milk, gray-blue in the moonlight. Damned if I didn’t hear a wooden creak from the end of that row and jump back in my car like a scalded cat.

Access to this secret vineyard source is rare, so our supply is extremely limited. You won’t have a ghost of a chance of seeing a Russian River Valley Chardonnay of this rich, clarion quality for this price again.