Read Online The LeBaron Secret by Stephen; Birmingham - Free Book Online Page A

see, Mrs. LeBaron, what we have been proposing is some sort of advertising campaign that would begin to add some respectability, some dignity, to the popular image that the Baronet label now has, in preparation—”
    â€œIn preparation for what?”
    â€œIn preparation for the possibility of introducing a new line of higher-priced wines. Of château quality. With new packaging, with a new label—retaining the Baronet signature, of course. ‘Château Baronet,’ in fact, is one of the labels we’ve been tossing about.”
    â€œWho’s ‘we’? Is this some new idea of Joanna’s?”
    â€œNo, actually it was mine,” Eric says.
    â€œOnly a suggestion, of course,” Mike Geraghty says, “in an effort to capture a share, at least, of this upscale market.”
    â€œBelatedly,” Eric adds.
    â€œWhat do you think of the name Château Baronet, Mrs. LeBaron?” Mike Geraghty says. “We rather like it.”
    Sari makes a face. “ Château Baronet,” she says. “Sounds kind of pansy to me. Well, I’ll tell you what I think. I think this is all a terrible idea. I think it’s worse than terrible. I think it’s a lousy idea, I think it stinks.”
    Now the sighs are audible.
    â€œLet me tell you something about wine,” she continues, folding her hands across her desk and adopting the attitude of an all-wise mother superior in a convent addressing a group of unschooled novices. “Wine is crushed from grapes, and grapes grow on vines, and vines grow in soil, in earth. In the earth, they depend on rain and on sun—on nature—on sunny days and cool, dry nights. In some of our northern vineyards, like Napa, we let wild mustard grow between the vines in spring. Why wild mustard? No one knows exactly, but wild mustard seems to nourish grapevines in certain areas. Up in the foothills, weeds like clover and vetch seem to work better—no one knows why, but they do. Nature again. Later, closer to harvest time, these weeds are all plowed under, and this also seems to help the vines. Provides soil texture. You see, that’s what I think all you boys sometimes seem to forget—you, in your Madison Avenue offices, Joanna in her duplex on Fifth Avenue, even Eric here in his office in the city. You’ve forgotten the wild mustard, and the clover, and the purple vetch. How many of you have ever watched the bees, the way a hive of bees will attack a vineyard? A single bee can suck a grape until it’s as dry and empty and wrinkled as a dead balloon. I’ve watched this, watched with tears in my eyes, and watched as those bees fell, one by one to the ground, drunk from their drinking on our vines.
    â€œAnd the larks! ‘Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,’ you think, but larks can be some of our worst predators. Those pretty songbirds can be some of our most voracious scavengers—insatiable!—and a summer of larks for us is a summer of disaster. As a girl, I used to watch the Chinese field hands chanting, shouting, flapping their arms, beating gongs, trying to frighten off a flock of larks from the vines. Did no good at all! Forces of nature, you see.” She pauses for effect. “That’s what I think you’ve all forgotten, sitting there in your ivory towers. We’re not Park Avenue aristocrats. Hell, we’re farmers . We work the land. We study the sky and sniff the air for signs of rain. We battle nature every day. We’re real people, and we’re ordinary people, and those are the people who drink our wine, and that’s how we’ve made our reputation.” And she brings down her fist, hard, on the top of the walnut partners’ desk. “And that’s how we got rich.”
    After a moment, Eric says dryly, “Well, thanks for the lecture, Mother.”
    â€œThat wasn’t a lecture,” Sari says. “That was a sermon!”