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An extract from my memoir


Readers: I’m writing a memoir. The below is a section. I’d like to know if you’re interested in this sort of thing. If not, I won’t put any more sections up here on my blog:

California seems like a big state, but the wine industry is actually a little village. And if there are town criers who know what’s happening all the time and tell everyone else about it, it’s the cadre of public relations experts, whose jobs it is to keep track of every sparrow. Wine critics are very big sparrows, and I was one of the biggest of all. So it wasn’t long before the word went out: “Steve doesn’t travel anymore.”

It was true; I didn’t. But I was aware of the negative side to this. It was that I ran the risk of being perceived as a Diva. It was turning into a case of “If you want to see Steve, you must travel to Oakland, because Steve doesn’t have the time to drive to your place.” Or “If you want Steve to attend an event, you’re going to have to send a car and driver to Oakland and then bring him back again, because Steve no longer drinks and drives.”

You’d think I would have stumbled across the concept of “Don’t drink and drive, ever. Period. End of story.” before 2001, but I didn’t. I’d been drinking and driving all my adult life. When I lived in San Francisco, and especially during my Noe Valley days of the early 1980s, weekend after weekend I’d wake up on a Saturday or Sunday morning and have no idea where I’d parked my car the night before. There were times I’d have to walk the neighborhood for 30 minutes before I found it. I’d have no memory of driving home, or indeed even of what I’d done or where I’d been. I might recall leaving home at 10 p.m. and heading down to my favorite bar, the Headquarters, which was South of Market. I might have a memory of the bartender giving me free drinks. But after that, nothing. Nada. It was even scarier when I’d wake up with a stranger in my bed. Who is this person? Where did we meet? What did we do?

But what really persuaded me not to drink and drive anymore was an incident that scared the hell out of me.

It was Beaulieu’s 100th birthday. They’d arranged for a super-tasting at the winery, which is in Rutherford. I was covering it for Wine Enthusiast, and staying the night at the Embassy Suites hotel, in Napa city, about 20 miles south of Beaulieu.

The tasting was stunning: every vintage ever made of the winery’s Georges de Latour Private Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon, plus the three Pinot Noirs that André Tchelistcheff had said were the only ones he’d ever made that succeeded: 1946, 1947 and 1968. Needless to say, everybody at that tasting, which also included plenty of champagne and white wines with appetizers, was basically blitzed when it was over.

It was past midnight, in the dead of winter. Cold, windy. As soon as I got to the parking lot, the sky opened up, and a deluge of Biblical proportions poured down, from a gale that had descended upon Northern California from the Gulf of Alaska.

Now, anyone familiar with the stretch of Highway 29 that runs from Rutherford down to Napa (and up past Calistoga) knows there are no street lights. Much of the road is two lanes only. As I drove, the rain became so heavy that I couldn’t see a thing out my windshield. The wipers did nothing at all, even though I turned them on full speed. In fact, they made things worse. I had no idea where the center lane was, where the shoulders were. I was driving completely blind, and I was drunk. I figured my blood alcohol must have been well north of the legal limit.

Yet what could I do, but to plow on and try to get to the Embassy Suites safe and sound? So I made a little prayer: Please get me to the hotel without an accident or getting stopped by the cops. If you do, I will never again drink and drive.

He did. And I did. Or didn’t, rather — didn’t drink and drive again, ever, for any reason. It wasn’t just the fear of getting a DUI conviction, although that would have been bad enough. It was the thought of what the San Francisco Chronicle would do with it.

Steve Heimoff taken to jail, booked, out on bail

There was no way I was going to let that happen!

But the price I paid was the Diva thing. Once I started blogging, and became fair game for the criticism of half the wine bloggers in the world, the charges of “limousine Steve” and his “all expenses paid lifestyle” mounted. They were serious enough that I had to spend considerable time and energy refuting them. But tell me, dear reader, how should I have dealt with the matter of drinking and driving? If you’re invited to a wine event, chances are likely that there’s wine to be consumed. I mean, that’s what a wine event is all about! If I want to go to an event, but I won’t permit myself to drink and drive, then my only option is to tell the people who want me to come to the event that they have to provide transportation. I am single, and thus don’t have the luxury of bringing a designated driver-spouse with me. So it’s not because I’m a Diva that I insist on these arrangements.

Yet, to this day, I get phone calls from people, both P.R. types and winemakers, who say, “I know you don’t have a car, but we were wondering if you’d visit us, if we send a car.” I have a car! I drive almost every day! I just don’t drink and drive. So I patiently explain my situation, and then hope that people don’t think I’m a Diva. But I guess sometimes they do.

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