The Napa Wine Auction

The old dog has a new trick.

They were handing out scholarships and otherwise recognizing worthies at St. Helena High, and one of the speakers actually said, Judging by all the fine, young people I've met tonight, we can rest assured that our future is in good hands.

Really. It was touchingly nostalgic, and everything else about the pleasant June evening followed that course. The Saints played one of their last games of the season on the diamond behind the school, and further along the road, Crane Park hosted ladies doubles games, some players wearing matching pastel outfits. Between sips of wine or beer and bites of food, members of the St. Helena Bocce Club who held the courts that Wednesday night amiably chided each other over their play, and on one of the small greens tucked under the trees, half-a-dozen Mexican kids kicked around a soccer ball.

The land and weather filled in the scene to great effect: The Mayacamas Mountains slowly darkened to the west, a pale smudge of white outlining the hills below the baby blue sky; a faded Mt. St. Helena, named for a Russian aristocrat, loomed dimly in the north, and the already set sun left behind a temperature of 70 degrees and a slight breeze.

All over St. Helena we were confronted with the kinds of small town American vignettes familiar to Norman Rockwell from the turn of the 19th Century to sometime in the Fifties, and we marveled that the delightful life that was once so representative had in the intervening years become exclusive to the rich and the lucky. The communities of hundred-year-old houses built on an old-fashion grid, the Main Street of cafes and stores where neighbors visit and do business, the rural character, imparted by agriculture and an awareness of the seasons...all these things, once so common, are all but unknown to great chunks of a suburban-bred populace, for whom small town life means nothing but vaguely evocative words dismissed by sarcasm.

It was all too good to last, and St. Helena just barely maintains the balance through a mix of outside money, a chic locale, and a dogged core of townies committed to fostering those ineffable values so difficult to define and promote. That week's edition of the St. Helena Star featured a front-page story about the changing face of Main, the demise of Keller's Market, the sale of the building housing Ana's Cantina, and half-a-dozen other storefronts undergoing transfer or change. Rising real estate values and the overwhelming influences of trendiness and wealth result in odd, discordant pressures: the sort of out-of-control development that might arguably provide more affordable housing and big-store retail jobs is discouraged, preserving a sense of the traditional, but at the same time driving out local kids who can't afford to live and work in the town that bred them. The cost of maintaining those hints of past delights is too high for many to pay, who find themselves driven away on behalf of newcomers with money who revel in the prospect of the life young natives are denied.

The self-appointed elites go through the motions of compensation with their manic charitable activities on behalf of the unfortunate, who often enough are comprised of other newcomers, typically vineyard workers and their dependents, who always get moved to the front of the line because they're always so much more needy than the homegrown poor, people unable to claim a minority status and language barrier. We sometimes find it all very confusing.

Chances are, however, that few of the people at Tra Vigne that night gave much thought to these myriad issues. They were busy indulging in the first round of Wine Napa Valley Auction events, in this instance a lavish dinner heralding a new era in the history of the annual extravaganza.

The major fund-raiser of the Napa Valley Vintners Association turned 25 this year, and it marked the changing of the guard from founders to scions, a second generation stepping into ranks vacated by the retiring or deceased. This would seem to guarantee a certain continuity, but there are substantial differences between the old icons and the children they sired. Men who shook calloused hands to conclude big deals and went drinking at the old St. Helena Hotel bar dressed in jeans and dusty boots raised children who grew up in designer clothes and their own Beamers. They identify with the aristocracy of the global business world, aspiring to personal jets and second or third homes in Tuscany, a natural evolution given that so many of the new faces dominating the wine industry come from that rarified milieu.

Our consiglieri explained the transition he has noted over time: the friends and collaborators who came together through the shared endeavors of making wine at the first wine auction fetes, later joined by successful captains of industry who bought new lives in a glamorous business. They were accompanied by the odd, under-funded eccentrics capable of creating their own fantasies through hard work and clever management, and the three constituencies got along easily enough, bound as they were to a personal commitment to making their own, unique wines in the most literal hands-on manner.

Much of that is slipping away, though, as great conglomerates enter the valley, buying great names and traditions while keeping it all at arm's length through vast corporate hierarchies. He quite humorously described their manifestations at Tra Vigne: the young, slick-hair minions representing Global Wine Company A, who all wore expensive black slacks and Tommy Bahama shirts; the young tousled-hair minions of Global Wine Company B, in khaki and Polo button-downs. People who once came with wives of longstanding and other couples of long acquaintance have been replaced by entourages of corporate officers on the make and bosses with their new, young spouses.

This advisor of ours is a man of great substance, an insider among insiders, an individual who has crafted many deals in the valley and posesses his own considerable estate. He's a man worth knowing if only for the connection, yet now he finds himself an irrelevancy despite past status; the new powers see him merely as someone else's servant. They shake his hand, if necessary, and trade as little small talk as possible while scanning the room for someone more important to cultivate. They're the kind of people the old guard once laughed at for their transparent social climbing. Now that ilk runs things, and simple money, influence and personality have been supplanted by the trappings of naked corporate power.

Our friend has come to avoid the very events he once enjoyed, given that roomsful of friendly faces have been repopulated by faceless mega consumers. As a somewhat detached observer, we are generally unaffected by the antics of prestige mongers, so we're able to enjoy these very same events in a different light; we love the opportunity to be snubbed by the cluelessly smug.

Organizers altered many aspects of the Wine Auction for this year, reflecting the concerns of past attendees. They desired more contact with winery owners, for one thing, and a shorter, more focused auction. In years past, there were small dinners at wineries, but these seemed to be relatively modest affairs, and the best of them were difficult to get into. The auction itself was a daylong ordeal, the interminable bidding often accompanied by excessive heat; people trickled in and out, and while there were a few frenzied highpoints when prize lots went up for bid, the venue revealed a wealth of empty seats.

For this edition, something like a hundred parties at as many different wineries were available for the choosing over the course of the long weekend, and a Friday afternoon barrel tasting would be included, allowing the locals to attend for somewhat less than the thousands of dollars otherwise required to participate. The actual auction would take place on Saturday evening, followed by dinner and dancing. We have no idea how organizers determined who got to go where, or the extent to which guests made their claims on a first come, first served basis, but as endless as the possibilities were, it is still obvious that some parties are going to be better than others. We couldn't begin to choose, so we just went to everything we could squeeze in.

We commenced the Friday evening at Beaulieau's Las Vegas night, situated on a property a quarter-mile east of the Rutherford winery. The strains of Frank Sinatra crooning "The Lady is a Tramp" drifted unevenly across the parking lot, and on walking around some greenery we were confronted by a beautiful woman in a maroon bodice above a short skirt of black fringe and a young man in a red bellman's costume who assaulted us rather too aggressively with a small hand broom, rather as if he were someone's insane valet. These greeters conducted us toward the fine, old Craftsman house that dominates the property and to the nearby entrance of a tent bearing the name "Vino Casino," where we were greeted yet again by another beautiful woman, who dispensed champagne when she wasn't being chatted-up by the Sammy Davis, Jr., impersonator.

Why anyone who paid $7500 a couple to go to a weekend of parties in the Napa Valley would choose an ersatz Las Vegas as the illusion of choice is completely beyond us. We couldn't stand the place even when we flew in on the private jet to be met by a fleet of burgundy Hilton limos which then took us to the hotel's penthouse where we partied with Paris's parents, grandparents and scores of celebrities. The very idea of a phony Las Vegas is not only preposterous, it's redundant.

But we digress; presuming you like that sort of thing, you would have loved this. Rat Pack impersonators abounded, and the Sinatra clone did a credible vocal imitation of the deceased thug. And his resemblance was eery not so much for the resemblance to Sinatra, but rather for his resemblance to a caricature of Sinatra, as if he were one of those hideous dolls you might find--in Vegas, of course--that had come to life and started belting out "I Did it My Way."

Blackjack, roulette and craps tables dotted the room, and stylishly dressed folk slinked around, drinks in hand, the other free to snag samples from the unending parade of edibles. By merest chance we ended up speaking almost exclusively to the beautiful hirelings, all of whom earned their regular keep as 49er cheerleaders. The girls worked many events at Beaulieau, they revealed, and loved every minute of it. Unlike the rest of the crowd, they did not wilt in the heat, nor did their smiles.

Just across and down the road Francis Coppola hosted his own dinner, set in the 1880s, about the very time Gustave Niebaum presided at his masterpiece of a building. We've been attending affairs at Coppola's for almost 30 years, and--forgive the cliche--we never cease to be amazed. Some parties are better than others, certainly, but the worst of them--and that is not really the appropriate word--the worst of them are as good as most others' best.

Think back to those parties portrayed in the Godfather; they were nothing compared to the director's annual harvest fiestas held each September at the old mansion. You really felt as if you were taking part in one of those age-old rituals where the grand patron held court for his friends and dependents in a display of mutual respect and gratification. No restricted areas, no special VIP tables, just an abundance of food, music and goodwill sheltered under the great oak tree, to be shared by guests equally valued.

Even though we knew the theme, even though we knew Copolla could stage a magnificent evening, we were still mildly surprised. A horsedrawn carriage awaited arriving guests, who rode along the drive between the rows of trees and radiating vineyards to be deposited in front of the handsome stone edifice. There stood perhaps a dozen domestics in a line, the men in tails, the women in long, black skirts under white aprons, each of whom sequentially offered a welcome as we entered the grand hall. Off in one of the many cellar caverns a string quartet played classical standards and guests congregated to claim a glass of wine or bite to eat.
The adjacent cellar caves stretched into an infinity of darkness, dimly lit by hundreds of votive candles atop barrels; retainers hovered discreetly on the periphery, quickly offering to conduct the derirous on a tour of the tunnels. Our guide carried a candelabra to his front while he shared the recent history of the 1880s wine industry, even using the measured tones and words of the day; deep into the mountainside we came upon a lone violinist--or cellist? We forget--pervading the hollows with haunting melodies.

By then we were thoroughly disoriented by the sense of dislocation in time; no hint of the post-19th Century remained so complete was the illusion, and we marveled anew at Copolla's ability to transport his audience. After our little tour we proceeded outside to regain our bearings and have a cigarette at the foot of the master, who engaged in deep conversation with some man as he puffed lazily on a cigar. There we met a German commercial photographer, one of the many non-paying guests, in attendance by virtue of a client's largesse.

And that's one of those funny anomalies of the myriad fundraisers we visit; we never encounter anyone who actually paid for a ticket. Everyone gets in for free except for those who do not. We wonder what those unlucky who pay must think when in the course of conversation they discover that no one else did.

Finally, the signal went out that dinner was ready, and the assembly filtered up the massive staircase into a candlelit gallery dominated by a monument of a table and a dazzling dinner service; the only fixture missing was Captain Niebaum himself. Magic happened that night, even if Copolla couldn't pull off an actual resurrection.

After Las Vegas and time travel, we dropped in at Mondavi, where dinner had already proceeded as far as dessert and dancing. A band of negroes in matching red sequin tunics played mid-'60s staples like "Mustang Sally" and "The Midnight Hour," while the old man and his wife sat at a table front and center, where guests took turns paying their respects to the king who had lost his domain to Constellation, one of those global wine concerns. It's all so disconcerting, even to disinterested observers, but Robert Mondavi seems to have made his peace with reality, as indicated by his presence in the seat of honor.

Outside, a gentleman admired the view.

You forget how beautiful it is here when you're caught up in work and everything, he said.

The darkening sky had turned to that soft, velvety blue before the fully descended sun left absolute darkness, and the first stars twinkled above the hills. There was nothing to offer in return but complete agreement with the sentiment.

His name was Brad, and he managed Auberge du Soleil resort; previously he'd worked at New York's 21--or maybe the Stork--and Windows on the World, the sky scraping restaurant at the World Trade Center that maintained a legendary wine selection. We lamented its destruction on 9/11, and the conversation drifted toward the effect of the phenomenon on the hospitality industry; after several years, it seemed, business had returned to normal.

Further exploration brought us to the plaza of commerce, where The Robb Report organization displayed a variety of luxury goods, ranging from large, exotic gems, to several Aston Martins. We plead ignorance of the complexities of modern marketing, and are at a loss to explain what was being represented, but it smelled faintly of an upscale home-shopping-style effort. We saw no cash registers, no one seemed to be filling out orders, and no one drove off in one of the cars; even so, we were reminded of one of those old Sears catalog stores where you went in to buy things shipped to you later if they weren't on hand.

Departing, we walked by the oversize, truncated bust of Robert Mondavi, positioned so it gazed past its real life model, figurehead disregarding figurehead as a roomful of people danced in blissful oblivion.

As fortune would have it, Margrit Biever Mondavi's unmistakable face was grinning at us from the video screens on entering the mammoth tent as the frenzied auction hit its final strides a day later. We don't know what wine lot they were attempting to pump up in bids, but the auctioneers made it clear that this was now a competition to honor the legend's wife. One hundred thousand dollars had just been reached, and then exceeded by another ten, where bidding stalled; a minute of hectoring brought another ten, and then another, and the pace accelerated to two hundred thousand. That, apparently, constituted sufficient monetary veneration, the gavel came down, and the crowded room exploded into applause and cheers.

The preceeding few days had devolved for us into a pastiche of lavish hospitality, the various events blending into a seemless whole. Salsa dancing at Beringer in the lee of the Rhine House, bocce ball at Signorello, where the swimming pool appears to become one with the sky, languid drinking at Chappelet, Lake Hennessy glistening in the valley below. Then we'd lingered perhaps too long at the Culinary Institute that early Saturday evening, nursing our Manhattan through a sunset. One group after another stopped on the patio to pose and take the pictures that would memorialize the day and meal, and a particular moneyed dowager was overheard to say, The day was just perfect, wasn't it? The wine, the dinner, the valley...you couldn't ask for anymore.

We always find it gratifying to note the joy so many people take in their visits to the valley, just as we always find it difficult to give up the current pleasure for the next; but we finally felt compelled to leave as darkness fell. By the time we emerged on the expansive glade at Meadowbrook Country Club, the revelers were well into their third, fourth and fifth glasses of wine, and more than a few women tottered uneasily on high heels amidst the many small tents arranged on either side of the space leading up to the big tent where the auction took place. Between treks to the myriad wine bars, guests settled into the overstuffed white chairs and divans clustered here and there, allowing for intimate little sub-parties and conversations in al fresco lounges when the auction action became too intense.

We engaged in conversation a pretty young woman who turned out to be working on posgraduate studies in one of the chattering professions. She expressed a commitment to social justice, a desire to make the world a better place, affiliated herself with all the most noble sentiments. Her fiance, it developed, held an impressive position with Constellation, the very company that now owns Modavi.

He loves it, she said, because Constellation tries really hard to maintain the traditions of the wineries it buys. They don't change anything more than they have to, and they want to keep as many of the original people involved as possible.

A little while later, the fiance joined her, revealing himself to be a fine, earnest young man who had all the jargon down pat, said all the expectedly correct things, and demonstrated every talent a callow MBA could leverage into corporate stardom.

Then the auction was over, and guests flooded from the tent into rivulets toward a dozen or so dinner tents, each devoted to a special theme: Moulin Rouge meets Cirque du Soleil, said a sign at one, and we think it was there that we heard the harpist; belly dancers wiggled away to frenetic Middle Eastern music down the row, and Frenchified accordion music lilted out from the folds of yet another tent.

We left before the dancing, but expect there was precious little of that given the late hour and the windy cold that had swept through the glen. That was unfortunate, because otherwise, the whole affair seemed as well-choreographed as humanly possible. We encountered a Meadowwood insider some days later, who explained that they were already planning next year's event, a process that broke down all the events to the minute. It showed. The respective winery staffs pulled off equivalently laudable coups in this year of a new format, and that there were so many doing such an exemplary job at such a wide variety of locales indicated an extraordinary level of expertise.

But our thoughts turned bitterseet as we disappeared onto a path in the forest, wondering how long it would take for that nice young couple to thrive and prosper to the point that they would have no time to talk to strangers serendipitously encountered at a party, but would instead be scanning the crowd for someone more important to cultivate.

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Copyright WineMerchant.com 2006