It was hot in Oakland yesterday—the city of Pittsburg, in the Delta, hit 93 degrees—and I was doing a lot of running around, so when I got home, around 5 p.m., I was thirsty. I happened to have a bottle of a rosé in the fridge (not Jackson Family), and it looked mighty welcoming, so I popped the cork, poured myself a glass, and sipped.
The label doesn’t say what the blend is, but it’s Provençal. I think there’s some Grenache in there, maybe Cinsaut and almost definitely Syrah, but it doesn’t really matter. We make too much of the varieties in these blended wines. The winemaker isn’t trying to do some cookbook sort of thing, according to some theory, but to craft the best wine she can. But we’re addicted to knowing the blend, so there’s pressure on proprietors to put it on the bottle. In a way, I admire this particular winery for resisting that impulse. They’re telling us, “Don’t focus on the grape varieties, focus on the wine.”
Rosé is red-hot (no pun intended). It’s always been around, of course, but it’s never been this popular. I wonder why. Summer’s coming, of course, and rosé hits that sweet spot of being midway between a white wine and a red wine. When I was on the road last week in New England, I was surprised by how many people I met who told me that they don’t care for (red or white: pick one), but love the other one. I, myself, can’t imagine ever being in that dilemma. But if you are, I’d think a rosé would be the best of both worlds.
How do the critics treat rosé? Not very respectfully. There’s a tendency among them to view it as a simple, inexpensive wine, made from press juice, without complexity. That can be the case, but not always. The wine I’m drinking now—the rosé from my fridge—is quite a complicated thing. It’s bone dry, with wonderful acidity, and the fruit (strawberries barely turned pink, orange zest, pink grapefruit) has a herbaceousness that reminds me of fresh thyme and white or pink peppercorns. Were I reviewing it, I’d probably give it 89 or 90 points, but I’m pretty sure that most other critics would score it lower than that, maybe around 87 or 88.
Why is it that certain wines never seem to rise above a certain score? Sauvignon Blanc is another. I’ve wrestled with that question for a long time, and still can’t really answer it. Since I’m “guilty” of the same thing myself, I can’t accuse other critics of any sort of impropriety. I think what it comes down to is that Sauvignon Blanc and rosé (to mention just two California wines) traditionally never got very high scores, and so critics don’t want to go out on a limb and give them 95s or 97s. After all, they have their reputations to protect. And yet, why shouldn’t a great rosé get 97 points?
Parker says his highest ratings are for ageable wines, so I guess he’s off the hook. The vast majority of rosés aren’t ageable. But one could argue that, within the context of rosé-ness, there are rosés that approach perfection, so why wouldn’t you give a perfect rosé a perfect score? Because to give a wonderful Provençal wine 100 points—the same as Petrus or Verité—would seem a little odd.
But why? Ageability aside, we’re talking about perfection within the context of what the wine is—the sandbox it plays in—and it seems to me to be unfair to say, “This is a perfect rosé” and give it 94 points, and “This is a perfect Cabernet” and give it 100 points.
Well, here I am, realizing stuff after I’ve retired as a wine critic! But if I had to do it all over again, I’d be more generous with my 100s. Break the rules, if you will, redefine them. Wine criticism has turned rather baroque, if you ask me: mannered, adhering to a strict canon, rather rigid. It needs to be shook up—intelligently. Not smashed, not taken over idiotically, but systematically redefined in a way that’s fairer than it has been, when only certain regions or varieties could star. That has got to change.
Haven’t blogged in about a week partly because I wanted to see what the reaction would be when I said I might cease writing steveheimoff.com, and partly because I’ve been on a weeklong sales trip for Jackson Family Wines that has been exhaustive in every sense of the word.
For example, last Friday began with waking up slightly hung over after a very late night, following the previous two days of lunches, dinners, tastings and the inevitable late nights at bars with sales guys. Then it was off on a 250-mile round trip from Boston out to Lenox, near the New York State border, a lovely old town (f. 1767) in the Berkshires. That was for a lunch for local restaurateurs at a place I’d never heard of, The Wheatley. The mansion was built as a wedding gift for his daughter by a wealthy New Yorker in the 1870s. She had married an impoverished Spanish nobleman. (That story is straight out of Edith Wharton or Henry Adams, isn’t it?) The owners have turned it into a fabulous destination resort and restaurant. We saw a room that costs $1,800 a night—without breakfast! Anyhow, it’s a beautiful place and the Berkshire setting was very nostalgic for me.
I lived in those mountains for close to 16 years, enduring blizzards, sub-zero cold and the most wonderful springs, summers and falls imaginable, at a time of my life filled with the wonder, love, friendships and the discoveries of youth.
Then it was back (through rush hour traffic) to the Liberty Hotel, on Charles Street in Boston, where I had an appointment with a blogger, Terry Lozoff, who writes about wine, beer and spirits at Drink Insider.
He grilled me for more than two hours, tape recording the entire session. Nice young guy, smart, and I hope he gets my quotes right! After that, I was ready for a nice martini and some pizza in the hotel restaurant, and then it was straight to bed. Saturday, it was a rental car drive up to Ogonquit, Maine, to a grand old resort on the Atlantic, The Cliff House, where I presided over a dinner for 90 people (more on that later).
In response to last week’s post, I did get a ton of comments on the blog, on Facebook and in my private emails from people urging me to continue blogging. They apparently like reading this blog over their morning coffee! I’m not sure why, but I have a few guesses. I think people crave good writing, and by that I mean not only technically accurate (no misspellings, run-on sentences, etc.) but also honest, colorful writing from someone who might actually have something interesting to say. Terry and I talked about this at some length. He asked me what effect blogging and social media have had on my writing and I told him how I’d discovered (or been introduced to) both transparency and immediate communication. Also that my writing continuously has become simpler and more pared down. But harder to define is how to pour your self, your spirit and soul, mind and heart into the written word. Terry asked me, if I stopped my blog, would I consider podcasts, and I said, no, because, for me, there simply is no replacement for writing.
So why would people like reading about the thoughts and adventures of an aging wine writer, who no longer wields clout as a critic? Search me. But they do. So I’ll keep on writing this blog until I don’t.
Meanwhile, my impression of the wine scene, in Boston, Maine and western Massachusetts, is that it’s very much alive and well, despite this talk about cocktails and craft beer eclipsing wine. I had many conversations with consumers about the popularity of California wine with respect to European, and apparently California is doing quite well. People, both younger and older, like it. So I think in this respect Boston is a little different from New York City. I’m glad that most of the consumers I’ve had contact with on this trip have been below 35 years of age. That’s an age group I feel close to (even though I’m old enough to be their grandfather). It’s exciting to talk with them, and when you really get deep into a conversation you learn that the stereotypes about them (they don’t read books, they live on their mobile devices, they’re clueless when it comes to news or politics or science) are ridiculous. It’s so easy to stereotype individuals and groups until you actually take the time to learn about them.
By the way, at Saturday’s dinner in Ogonquit, I put up a photo of the menu on my Facebook page
where they described me as “Celebrity Host Steve Heimoff.” That elicited the following comment: “You can get fat eating all of that. Mazel-Tov Mr Celebrity. Can I have your autograph please.” That little dig was from my first cousin, Alan. It is a poignant reminder that no matter how inflated your ego gets, your relatives who knew you when you were a snot-nosed, crying little brat will bring you down to earth.
Memory: the first wine I ever tasted was given me by Alan’s father, a legend in our family, the tallest of all the men of his generation, dark as a Spaniard (that was the Sephardic Jew in him), and with a Spaniard’s passions. (Memory-within-a-memory: Uncle Ted once disappeared for many weeks; nobody knew where he was, although we children heard rumors, whispered in hushed tones by the grownups, or in Yiddish which always meant that the subject was juicy, that he was involved in something Important and Secret. When Ted finally showed up one day—as if nothing had happened—there was a new, framed photograph in his livingroom, of him with President Kennedy.) At any rate, I would have been five or six; the occasion was either Chanukah or Passover, both of which meant large gatherings of our Diaspora-ed family, huge quantities of greasy food and raucous conversation. The wine connection? Uncle Ted gave me a glass, one of those thick, stout, etched crystal ones meant, I think, for a highball. It was filled with a red liquid. “Drink, Stevelah,” he said, while the other adults in the family—my parents and all my aunts and uncles and a few grandparents—watched and smiled. I trusted my Uncle Ted; I sipped, and spat the awful stuff out all over my plate. It was Manishewitz. The adults thought it was awfully funny. It is a wonder I ever drank wine again.
Back to the present: The Cliff House dinner was a smash if I do say so myself. Public speakers will understand it when I say that I found myself “in the zone.” I’m reading Lillian Hellman’s memoir “Pentimento” in which she describes how she could always tell, in live theater, whether the audience was enjoying themselves, or if she was losing them. Last night my audience really had a good time. I don’t drink when I’m working like that but nonetheless I get a contact high from the people who do. It then becomes a feedback loop where my excitement excites them and vice versa. The ultimate compliment is when lots of people come up to you afterwards and tell you how great you were, and how much they liked the wines, which really did show well, partly because they’re good anyway and partly because Chef did such a good job creating foods for them. I was invited to the bar by two couples and enjoyed my usual vodka gimlets while chatting with a guy who seemed to have some sort of U.S. security clearance to get into all sorts of classified places, but who also was wild about wine—and his wife was a confirmed Kendall Jackson Vintners Reserve Chardonnay fan, so I told her she was in good company, as that wine has been America’s top-selling Chardonnay for 24 years and counting.
Well, this morning (Sunday) I’m still high from last night, although I shouldn’t be, because I just went through the hassle of driving down from Ogonquit back to Boston. Thank God for GPS and that eerily disembodied satellite lady who tells you exactly how to get where you want to go. At Logan, security wasn’t too bad, although United had yet another problem with their plane, which delayed our departure. By the time you read this on Monday, I will have been reunited with Gus and the thought of that makes me very, very happy.
Years ago, I had a dear friend with a good job. He was the wine columnist for a periodical with considerable influence in Wine Country. One day, he found himself unemployed, because the newspaper he wrote for was downsizing. He took a job doing P.R. for a winery.
He was very upset about it. “I’ve gone over to the Dark Side,” he explained confessionally, as if he’d done something wrong. He meant that, in our little industry, there’s a strong, longstanding perception that a writer who writes for an independent publication, like a newspaper or magazine, is more honest and straightforward than one who spends his days writing for a wine company.
I remember telling my unhappy friend, “Look. There’s no such thing as ‘the Dark Side.’ Wherever you work, and whatever you do, you do it with integrity and honesty. And remember this: Everyone’s got a boss. Like Dylan sang, you gotta serve somebody.”
I meant those words. I’ve worked with public relations, communications and marketing people for decades, and liked and respected the vast majority of them. They don’t “spin” any worse than a winemaker describing his or her wine, and they follow their own ethical principles. We have this belief in the wine industry that independent critics are “honest brokers” who can cut through the hype. That’s true, as far as it goes—but it only goes so far. The wine writer, no matter who he is, always walks a delicate balance, having to take many things into account. There are very few “fearless crusaders” among wine writers, who learn early on how to preserve their relationships, reputations and jobs by understanding where the red lines are, and respecting them.
So it was that, when I took my job at Jackson Family Wines and people made the “dark side” remark, I patiently explained to them that, no, I don’t see things that way. The way I see it is, I’m using the same muscles to do a different sport. In the world of martial arts, there’s much mixing up of different types of fighting: jujitsu, karate, muay Thai. I studied all of them; each is unique, and yet they all require the same skills (strength, speed, awareness). In the case of my career, I utilized my talents in research, writing, wine tasting and public speaking when I worked at wine magazines, and I use exactly the same skills in the things I do at JFW.
So what’s it been like for me? I took the job on March 10, 2014. It’s been a little more than a year now. I work with the company’s Marketing and Communications (MarComm) team, a bunch of smart, young pros whose skills run the gamut from social media to video, event planning and P.R. The kinds of things I do vary widely, and I work mainly from home, in Oakland. As I write these words, I’m in a plane somewhere over the Midwest, on my way to Boston, where tomorrow night (tonight as you read this) I’ll be hosting an Earth Day dinner focusing around issues of sustainability. Next week I’ll be pouring at the Sonoma Barrel Auction, and staging a wine tasting for some people, and reviewing wine for the company newsletter. So the stuff I do is all over the map.
I’ve enjoyed my year at JFW but things are going to be changing. Starting this summer, I’m beginning a new consulting phase. JFW will be my first client; I’m interested in others, provided the work is absorbing. I see this as the cresting of the arc of my career. I’m looking at turning seventy years old next year. While my health is fantastic, I’m thinking of a life beyond wine writing—taking things easier, slowing down a bit to smell the roses (or is it the coffee?). I’ve worked very hard for a great many years, and while I’ve enjoyed 95% of it, there’s also been a lot of stress—as there is in everyone’s life. But I’m just about the only member of my generation in my family who hasn’t retired, and the ones who have tell me the same thing. It’s fantastic, the best thing they’ve ever done. In fact, they’re all in agreement that they’re happier and busier than ever.
Well, I’m not retiring. Call it pre-retirement: I want to do interesting things that call on my talents. (I always liked JFK’s quote about the ancient Greek definition of happiness: “The full use of your powers along lines of excellence.”) But I also want more time for myself, to go to the gym, volunteer at the SPCA, take Gus on long walks, maybe even expand a social life that’s been on hold for too long because of the demands of the job. And I have a bucket list: learn how to bake bread. Study salsa dancing. Maybe even return to the painting I used to love.
And this blog? Well, I don’t know. It will soon be seven years old and, since I’ve already quoted Dylan, I might as well quote George Harrison: “All things must pass.” I haven’t decided whether or not to continue it. I’d like to hear from my readers: Do you still value reading me? Do I still have something to say, now that I’m no longer a F.W.C. (famous wine critic)? When the late, great San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen retired after more than fifty years, due to a deadly illness, he announced it one morning in a column and never published anything ever again. There’s something to be said about unprolonged exits.
Why did I finally quit Wine Enthusiast? Many people have asked me that question. After all, I had one of the top jobs in wine journalism and criticism. I had a good name in the industry, was liked and respected, and continued to enjoy my work. But there were things going on that few knew about, except my family and close friends.
For one, I’d been doing the same thing for 25 years, at Wine Spectator and Wine Enthusiast. And the truth is, when you do the same job for that long—even a job you like—you find yourself thinking about alternatives. I wasn’t getting any younger. The twilight of my career was getting closer every day. I wasn’t quite ready to retire, but I did feel—as I’d been telling my friends for several years—that I was sure Life had one final adventure in store for me, before I hung up my wine writing gi.
(A gi is a martial arts uniform. I’d earlier retired from karatedo, after years of serious practice. When I did, I put away my gi, with its embroidered black belt I had made for me in Japan. So I had a feeling for retirement.)
But what that final adventure was, I had no idea. I just felt in my bones that it was out there. And I’m a person who’s crammed several lifetimes into one, in terms of all the times I’ve reinvented myself.
I thought a little about making some extra money through my blog. After all, it was quite popular. Lots of people seemed to like it: why not try to leverage that popularity? But to make a long story short, it proved not to be possible. Lots of wine bloggers were thinking along the same lines. Advertising? Subscriptions? Some other form of revenue? Alas, nothing was realistic. (One popular wine blogger told me his financial ambition was to sell his blog to Rupert Murdoch for $1 million. It hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t think it ever will.) The truth is, monetizing a blog has been next to impossible for anyone except the likes of Jancis Robinson, who has a worldwide audience.
And the Wine Enthusiast job was getting, well, let’s call it déja-vu. It’s November? Time for another “What wine to drink at Thanksgiving?” column. Summer? Time for another “Fresh, crisp whites to drink by the pool.” Winter? “Zinfandel: the perfect wine for hearty stews,” for the umpteenth time. There was the ever-constant demand from New York to discover fresh faces, celebrity winemakers, offbeat destinations, hot new mixologists, top new somms. In coastal California—my beat—I found myself writing more or less the same articles, on a four- or five-year cycle. (Of course, I still got off, enormously, on reviewing wines. The pleasure of doing that hadn’t run out after 25 years—and still hasn’t.
So I didn’t particularly feel “burned out”, and I think that would not be a fair characterization. It’s just that the template of wine magazine writing had, after so many years, run into its own self-imposed limits. And I can tell you, without mentioning names, that I’ve had this conversation with other well-known wine writers of my age cohort, and they experience the same Groundhog Day sense of déja-vu.
So I was ready for a change. Once again, I didn’t know what it was, or how it would present itself, or when. I just knew, in an intuitive way, that something was out there, lurking just beyond the horizon, and that it would be an exciting new step in my career. And, as things turned out, that’s exactly what happened in the late winter of 2014. I’ll write about it next time.
I’d heard of wine blogs by the mid-2000s, although I can’t say I read them with regularity. Tom Wark’s Fermentation already was famous (and I’d known and respected Tom for a long time), and a few others were up and coming. By 2007, Adam Strum, at Wine Enthusiast, had told us editors he wanted to develop the magazine’s website (he was enough of a visionary to see that online was going to be very big), and as part of that, he wanted some of us, including me, to blog.
But a year came and went and nothing happened. I think the magazine experienced technical issues with software and hardware. Whatever the problem was, all I knew was that I’d developed an appetite for blogging—only I wasn’t blogging.
So I started my own blog. I didn’t quite know what I wanted steveheimoff.com to be, and indeed, its style has changed over the years. What I did know was that I wanted a place to write, be published—and be read—that was entirely under my own control.
When you write for an editor or publisher, that person has the ultimate control. It’s true at wine magazines, and even with my U.C. Press books, it was true to a certain extent. “A Wine Journey along the Russian River” was the closest I’d ever come to writing in my own voice. But that was a one-off. I wanted to do it regularly, and blogging gave me that opportunity, or so I thought.
I began on May 10, 2008. My blog quickly became well-known. Tom Wark gave it an early, good review. It eventually came to be nominated multiple times for American Wine Blog awards, although I never did win. Blogging undoubtedly boosted my image—more on this later. But it also had the unfortunate result of plunging me directly into the politics and wars of social media.
I didn’t understand, at first, what I was getting into. That all changed in the summer of 2008, barely two months after I began blogging. I’d started noticing all these reviews for the same wine—Rodney Strong’s Rockaway Cabernet Sauvignon—popping up on various blogs. I thought that was strange. Coincidence? Then I found out that Rodney Strong’s brilliant P.R. guy, Robert Larsen, had staged a sort of coup: He’d promised bloggers to let them review the Rockaway—and only them, because he wasn’t sending it to established print critics, like me. The only thing the bloggers had to do was promise to write about the wine. Robert didn’t ask them to guarantee good reviews—although I suspect he figured they would be good, because Rockaway is a good wine. So that’s why I was seeing all these Rockaway reviews.
This is the post I wrote about it that summer of ’08. It got me into a hell of a mess with my fellow bloggers. I think the word “manipulate” was particularly infuriating to them. Before long, a few bloggers were writing pieces like “Does Heimoff hate social media?” and accusing me of all sorts of nefarious stuff, including trading sexual favors for high scores!!!!
This opened my eyes to the dark side of social media. Last week, I referred to the camaraderie that marked our wine writing circle in the 1990s. Unfortunately, by 2008, that spirit of friendliness seemed to have evaporated. Younger bloggers were accusing older writers of being faded dinosaurs who were paranoid of losing their jobs as print journalism died. It’s true that print, in the years 2008-2010, was in trouble, but it wasn’t because of social media. It was because the Great Recession robbed it of its chief source of revenue, advertising! Much of blogging descended into silliness, enabled by the fact that the very simplicity of hitting that “publish” button makes it hard for a writer to contemplate what he’s written and form a sound judgment about whether he really wants the world to read it.
The Rockaway situation was a sad one, from my point of view, but I rolled with the punches. I admit to enjoying a little bit of a tussle now and then—I’m from the South Bronx, and you learn how to defend yourself on those mean streets. I never took it personally. Social media had become the poster child for uncharitable, false and bombastic statements, although today, the wine blogosphere has become a much more civil place.
Adam, at Wine Enthusiast, also had problems with my blog. He read it every morning, and told me how much he liked it. But every once in a while, I’d write something that irked him, and then the shit would hit the fan. I never knew in advance what would push his buttons, although as time went on, I found myself holding back a little if the topic was something I thought he’d find sensitive. (I was self-censoring myself.) The way I viewed it, the added fame I got from having a successful blog redounded favorably to Wine Enthusiast—an appraisal with which everyone I knew in the wine industry agreed. In other words, my blog was good for both of us: my brand, and Wine Enthusiast’s brand. The way Adam saw it, my blog competed with Wine Enthusiast, in some way I never could fathom. Adam let it be known on several occasions that he strongly wished I would stop blogging. I never gave in, because I knew I was right, and I think Adam eventually came to soften his feelings.
Looking back on it all, I can see that these various situations—the Rockaway furor and the Enthusiast tempest—were symptomatic of a broader phenomenon concerning social media. It upset many traditional apple carts. Social media changed the way mass communication happens in America, and whenever something as big as that is forced to undergo change, there’s misunderstanding and turmoil, as the paradigm shifts.
At any rate, blogging gave me a taste for something beyond Wine Enthusiast. I’d stored up a lot of investment in the magazine; I wasn’t actively seeking to leave. But I wasn’t seeking not to. I’ll talk more about this tomorrow.
Part Four: The Wine Enthusiast Years
My career really took off when I joined Wine Enthusiast. No longer just second (or third) fiddle, as I’d been at Wine Spectator, but the California guy. To tell you the truth, though, it was several years before I was allowed to review wine. Back in those days, Adam had a third-party organization, the Beverage Tasting Institute (BTI), which I believe was in Chicago. They tasted the samples and wrote the reviews that appeared in the Buying Guide.
I never knew very much about BTI, which seemed like a secretive organization. I didn’t understand how they worked. I knew (or thought) that they charged money for each review. I didn’t know who the tasters were, or if they had any qualifications. I know that, by 1995 or 1996, I felt ready to do my own reviews of California wines, rather than farm them out. I don’t recall the exact timetable, but I remember trying to convince Adam to let me (and Enthusiast’s other freelancers) do the magazine’s reviews. Finally, he assented. This would have been around 1997.
One of my earliest and most passionate goals, when I got to Wine Enthusiast, was to upgrade the magazine’s reputation in California, which wasn’t very good, to be honest. Compared to Wine Spectator—well, actually, no one compared it to Spectator, which stood alone at the apex of wine journalism. People didn’t understand the BTI thing (it must have seemed ridiculous to California winemakers), and the magazine itself was very much a work in progress, artistically and editorially. Hence, Wine Enthusiast didn’t have much clout.
I set out to change that. Believing that the magazine’s credibility was inextricably linked to my own, in my travels up and down the state I worked very hard to come across as professional, hoping and assuming that aura of competence would spill over to the magazine, in a sort of halo effect. And that’s exactly what happened. By the turn of the new century, Wine Enthusiast was firmly established as a force to be reckoned with, especially in California. I take pride in having helped to achieve that.
I took my wine tasting extremely seriously. And I also worked very hard on the other parts of my job: the articles and columns. My library of wine books helped me enormously in this regard. I’ve always loved good writing, and I developed a style, partly influenced by other writers, that I felt was lucid, elegant and informed. Over the years I never stopped paring down the fluff. At a certain point, I abandoned the use of exotic flavor descriptions (loganberries, for example), because I, like most other people, wouldn’t know a loganberry if it walked up to me and slapped me across the face. “Simplify, simplify,” urged Thoreau. I took his advice.
The wine-sample spigot opened up with tsunami force, but it never got to the point where I was overwhelmed. My attitude towards samples was, “If you send it to me, I will review it.” I was, as far as I know, the only prominent critic who reviewed every single bottle I was sent. (In recent years, this issue has exploded in controversy, with some critics taking a rather blasé attitude concerning reviewing. I always felt that wineries weren’t sending me their samples just for the hell of it. It was to get the wines reviewed, and I was honor-bound to do it.)
Sometimes there were periods of incredible quantities of incoming, so much that I could barely keep up; the storage closet I rented in the local UPS store was on occasion filled to the ceiling with dozens of cases of wine waiting to be reviewed. But then, incoming would grind to a halt (often during the summer months and around the holidays), and I could catch up. Over the years, I averaged 15 wines a day—not a great deal, when you consider the volumes some other critics claim to review.
Tasting all that wine did impact my work in an important way: I had less time to hit the road. I liked traveling, but if you do the math, you can see that a week away from home would result in 7 x 15 wines (105) unreviewed for that week—with more wine coming in every day. So I was forced to do more and more of my work using the telephone and, as computers became more ubiquitous, using online methods. This gave me more time to taste wine (which I think was the primary part of my job), but I didn’t like the loss of travel time. I didn’t see any solution to that quandary—never did fully manage to resolve it.
Since Wine Enthusiast was in New York (Westchester County), I only got there once or twice a year. But we had a tight-knit staff, and it kind of felt like family. That implies the good and the bad! I never saw a family (including mine) where people didn’t occasionally get into scuffles. We certainly did—and my relationship with Adam himself could be testy, both of us being more or less cut from the same cloth. But he put up with me for a long time, and I put up with him, and we also had many good moments. I always wished Adam would relax a little more and just be himself, instead of fancying that he had to be this great corporate leader who used intimidation to remind people who was Boss. But I loved Adam nonetheless in my own way and I think he loved me.
By the mid-2000s my career was at its peak. In 2002, Blake Edgar, the great acquisitions editor for University of California Press, had invited me to write a book for him. The topic: Anything I wanted. It was pretty unbelievable, because I’d previously tried, and failed, to get a publishing contrast with any major publisher. And now, here’s Blake, giving me carte blanche to do whatever I wanted on the topic of wine. Was I interested, he asked?
Reprise Duh #4. Do bears defecate in the wood?
That first book, A Wine Journey along the Russian River, was published in 2005. I loved that book and still do. I always called it “the terroir of Steve.” I even did my own black-and-white photographs, because U.C. Press couldn’t afford to hire a real photographer! I had told Blake I wanted to write a wine book that would be read 100 years from now, not one of those books that has about 15 seconds of fame before it disappears into the remainders bin. And that’s what I think I did—I’ll let others be the judge.
Three years later, in 2008, New Classic Winemakers of California: Conversations with Steve Heimoff, was published by U.C. Press. I think it’s a good book, and will stand the test of time because of its historical record, but it’s not in the same league as “A Wine Journey.”
After “Conversations” I met with Blake to discuss a third book, but something intervened to kill that idea. I began blogging in May, 2008. I published a 600-word post five times a week, and as things turned out, that was the word-count equivalent of ten full-length books over the years. So my blog made me sacrifice more book writing, but I didn’t care. Blogging was one of the joys of my life. I’ll write about that next time.
Part Three: The 1990s
You know that story about the Broadway understudy who gets his big break when the star falls ill and he has to stand in? That’s what happened to me one day, when Jim Gordon called and told me Harvey Steiman, who was supposed to write about an event in Napa Valley, was sick. Could I cover for him?
The event was a three-day symposium at Meadowood on Rhone varieties. It was to be attended by all the “Rhone Rangers” of California and their French counterparts. Wine Spectator had planned on giving it major coverage. Could I make it, Jim asked.
Reprise Duh #3. Do bears defecate in the wood?
I worked hard on that event. I knew I had to knock the article out of the park—and I did. I attended every technical session, interviewed everybody, and even hid myself in a stall in the men’s room so I could overhear a conversation that Randall Grahm and Marcel Guigal (I think it was) were having at the urinals. When I turned that story in, four days later, Jim told me everybody at the magazine thought it was great. That story cemented my reputation at the magazine. That summer, I had three major stories in the magazine. Somebody called it the Heimoff issue.
I enoyed my time at Spectator very much. I was never a regular employee, just a freelancer, but it was pretty much a fulltime job. I traveled a lot, setting the pattern for roaming the wine regions of California, everywhere from Santa Barbara through Napa and Sonoma, on over to the Sierra Foothills. They even sent me up to Washington State. I got to know most of the winemakers and owners, not to mention the other denizens of the industry: P.R. folks, business analysts, and, as I’ve already pointed out, collectors. It was major saturation in the inner workings of wine industry, and I quickly learned what parts of it I liked and what parts I didn’t. I early on gravitated towards an interest in the communications side: writing, marketing, P.R. I found I had a natural ability to understand the sales part. As for the technical stuff, like rootstocks, trellising, crushers and fermenters, that never did much interest me. I learned as much as I had to, in order to write intelligently. But after a while, I started feeling like, “If you’ve seen one bottling line, you’ve seen them all.” I still feel that way.
But tasting wine remained my firmament. I not only enjoyed it immensely, I had a talent for it. I developed and refined my tasting practices at home, but at Wine Spectator, I still wasn’t formally permitted to review wine. I remember I sneaked in a review, with a rating, in an article I wrote (the wine had not yet been reviewed by anyone at Spectator), and I was fully ready for Jim Gordon to delete it. But lo and behold, when I got my copy of that issue, there it was: my review and score! I suspect it somehow escaped Jim’s notice, but I don’t really know.
My articles got bigger and bigger. Back in the early 1990s, Wine Spectator was doing a lot of profiles of individual wineries (they do far fewer these days, to the chagrin of P.R. types). Some of my first assignments were feature stories on Flora Springs, Calera, Wild Horse and Chateau Potelle. It was great getting to know these people: The Garveys and Komes, Josh Jensen, Ken Volk, and the inimitable Du Sartels, Marketta and Jean-Noel, whom they called Johnny Christmas. I was learning like a sponge, building up my knowledge base of California wine and terroir, even as my exposure to non-California wines slipped, an inevitable by-product of regional concentration. But I went to every tasting of France, Italy, Spain and Germany I could in San Francisco—and there were a lot of them.
I also made friends with the other Bay Area wine writers and critics, some of whom are no longer with us. We were a friendly, comradely group. The thing to keep in mind about the wine writing community is that it is insanely passionate about what it does, and also, that nobody gets rich from wine writing. For a while, I tried to form a professional organization I called the Northern California Wine Critics Circle, the NCWCC. I pitched it to all my writer friends, but it never did get off the ground. I envisioned us getting together at fine venues, like a restaurant private room, and roasting each other (I wanted to start with Dan Berger). I still think it would be a good idea.
With my increasing visibility at Wine Spectator came a certain amount of fame. I hadn’t been looking for it, and was surprised when it came. I never took it personally. I knew from day one that the only reason people invited me to things, and were deferential towards me, was because of my job. This became even more pronounced when, later, I went to Wine Enthusiast, and was actually able to review and score wines. I always knew that the second I left those jobs the phone would stop ringing. This gave me, I think, a healthy attitude about my work. Some wine critics who become famous get reputations for bloated egoism and pomposity. I always liked to think my reputation was more along the lines of “Hey, he’s a nice guy, he’s fair, and he’s not filled with himself.”
But with that increasing fame came other opportunities to write for publications besides Wine Spectator. By 1992, lots of publishers were asking me to write for them. The wine media was expanding, with the good national economy and the Baby Boomers maturing and finally having enough money to buy fine wine. But I felt honor bound to pass along these requests for other writing jobs to Jim Gordon, who would let Marvin Shanken know what was going on. This led to the first big brouhaha of my professional wine writing career. Marvin, it turned out, was a jealous god—he did not want his “discovery” to write about wine for anyone else. In the world. This led to a little chat I had with Marvin, who had flown out for the Napa auction. I explained to him that I wasn’t exactly getting rich from writing for him, and that, as a freelancer, I would appreciate the opportunity to write for others. He wasn’t buying it. A few days later, after the Spectator crew returned to New York (they’d previously left their San Francisco headquarters for Manhattan), I got a letter from Jim Gordon. It said, “We all feel you’re a great wine writer, with a great future ahead of you. Only it’s not at Wine Spectator.” It turned out, I’d pushed Marvin a little too hard. He felt (Jim explained) that since he’d discovered me and created my fame, he owned me—and he didn’t want me working for anyone in a position to compete with Wine Spectator.
That was a disappointment, but at the same time, I felt like a slave on a plantation, and I didn’t like the feeling. As soon as I got that letter from Jim, I telephoned Mr. Adam Strum, who’d started up Wine Enthusiast magazine to compete with the Spectator. Adam jumped at the chance to bring me onboard. That was in 1993, I think, and in the next chapter of this memoir, I’ll review my Wine Enthusiast days.