Crush: My Year as an Apprentice Winemaker
Autor Dr. Nicholas O'Connellen Limba Engleză Hardback – iul 2025
O’Connell’s quest to master the art of wine making begins in his garage. From there he embarks on an apprenticeship at Betz and DeLille Cellar and other great wineries in California, Oregon, and Washington. He provides a first-person, ground-up view of a business not yet fully explored despite record interest in wine. O’Connell also includes conversations with some of the world’s most gifted vintners, including Warren Winiarski, former owner of Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars.
Wine is surrounded by a seemingly impenetrable cloud of descriptors—“wet dog,” “kumquats,” “cat pee”—and a fog of pretention. Crush pierces this fog with colorful, concrete storytelling, in-depth portraits of famous winemakers, and a lively, down-to-earth description of the process by which wine is made: not in the critic’s mind but in the winery and vineyard.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781640126312
ISBN-10: 1640126317
Pagini: 248
Ilustrații: 18 photographs, index
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 27 mm
Greutate: 0.54 kg
Editura: Potomac Books Inc
Colecția Potomac Books
Locul publicării:United States
ISBN-10: 1640126317
Pagini: 248
Ilustrații: 18 photographs, index
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 27 mm
Greutate: 0.54 kg
Editura: Potomac Books Inc
Colecția Potomac Books
Locul publicării:United States
Notă biografică
Nicholas O’Connell is based in Washington State and is the founder of the Writer’s Workshop. He contributes to media outlets such as Newsweek, Food & Wine, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and National Geographic Adventure. O’Connell is the author of five books, including The Storms of Denali: A Novel and On Sacred Ground: The Spirit of Place in Pacific Northwest Literature.
Extras
1
Garagiste
Winemakers call it the Long Haul. It’s a three-hour drive from Seattle to
eastern Washington, where the state’s best wine grapes grow. The state’s
wineries are largely located on the wet west side, while the vineyards are
located on the dry eastern side. Every fall, winemakers make the 180-mile run.
My wine-making partner, or garagiste (garage winemaker), Tom Remmers
lends me his ancient Ford f250 diesel, nicknamed “the Beast,” to pick up
1,200 pounds of Cabernet grapes from Ciel du Cheval Vineyard on Red
Mountain—one of the finest red wine grape regions in Washington State and
arguably the planet. I’d prefer to take my van, which is more reliable, but
Tom argues the truck is the better choice for transporting that many grapes.
While I fetch the grapes, Tom prepares for the crush, setting up the big
plastic fermenting tanks, cleaning out the stemmer/crusher, and assembling
the crew. Timing is critical, with little margin for error, as the grapes need
to be crushed as soon as possible after picking. Making the three-hour
run should be a seemingly simple task, but nothing about wine making is simple.
The Beast shudders and shakes as I pull out of the driveway. Climbing a
modest incline, it shimmies, backfires, and belches a cloud of black smoke.
After merging onto I-90, I lean back into the Naugahyde bench seat. I’ve
been making this run for fifteen years now, but this is the first time with the
Beast. I was reluctant to take it, given its 250,000 miles on the odometer, but
Tom encouraged me. “You’ll love it,” he said. “You can have them dump the
grapes in the back. You don’t need to put them into buckets.”
This trip is the second of three runs to pick up grapes to make wine for
our wine co-op, Les Copains (“the friends” in French). While I love the
romance of wine making, I wonder, as do many aspiring amateurs, if I could
take it to the next level. I’ve worked for years to gain access to the best fruit,
with the famous boutique wineries gobbling up all but a fraction of it. A few
years ago, Ciel du Cheval Vineyards (translation of nearby Horse Heaven
Hills) agreed to sell to us as I write about wine and so am considered part of
the industry. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize getting fruit from one
of the best vineyards in the state, a critical step in making outstanding wine.
We’ve won first place awards at amateur competitions. I should be satisfied,
but there seems so much more to learn.
After crossing Snoqualmie Pass, the low point in the Cascade Range
that vertically bisects the state, I turn south onto iI82, which rises steeply
toward Umtanum Ridge. The truck grumbles as the grade increases. I keep
my foot on the gas, willing it up the hill. My coffee cup dances along the top
of the dashboard. A burnt smell seeps out of the heater. I keep it floored,
praying the heap will make it over the top. Black, acrid smoke billows out of
the dashboard vent. I open the window and stick my head outside to avoid
asphyxiation. I ease up on the pedal, but the smoke keeps coming. Finally,
the truck clears the top of the ridge.
I pull off to the side and let the Beast cool off. Leaning against the side
panel, I take a drink of water, resolving never to drive this piece of shit again!
But I’ve got to get the Beast to Ciel. The grapes are ready. If you pick too early,
the grapes taste green and vegetal. If you pick too late, they have too much
sugar and produce a strong, alcoholic wine. You have to pick them right on
time. Our crew of a half-dozen Les Copains members has already committed
to helping with the crush. Turning back is not an option.
With the smoke cleared, I fire up the truck and keep going. The road
traverses the undulating brown hills and scabrock country outside Yakima.
I keep my foot on the gas, coaxing the Beast up the hills and making up time
on the downhill, hitting sixty.
My appointment is at 1:00 p.m. with Ryan Johnson, the manager at Ciel
du Cheval Vineyard, located outside of the Tri-Cities. Ciel has produced
several hundred-point scores from renowned wine critic Robert Parker Jr.,
and dozens of others were rated in the nineties over the last decade. Beyond
the scores, I consider this my favorite site, with bold, powerful red wines that
display balance and elegance, similar to some of the best French wines but
with a richer, rounder new-world taste.
I glance at my watch: 12:30 p.m. Right on track. I’m fifteen minutes away
from Ciel, the Beast humming along the straightaway.
kaboom! The truck bucks violently and veers to the right, heading for the
ditch. I whip the wheel to the left, overcompensate, and swerve into the passing
lane, narrowly missing a truck. I swerve back to the right, tires squealing
on the asphalt. The Beast bobs and weaves like a rodeo bull, trying to throw
me. Slamming on the brakes, I fight to regain control. Finally, I wrestle it to
a stop on the shoulder of the highway.
Breathing rapidly, I look around. What was that? A stray tank round from
the nearby U.S. Army’s Yakima Training Center? The cab doesn’t seem to
have any physical damage, other than the dregs of my coffee spilled on the
floor. I breathe deeply to slow the pounding of my heart. Taking a look to
make sure no cars are heading my way, I open the driver’s door and get out.
I walk around to the right side of the truck. The right front tire looks as if
someone carved it up with a chainsaw. There are scorch marks behind the
truck on the asphalt. The smell of burned rubber fills the air.
At the back of the truck, I spot a spare tire underneath the truck bed. The
bolts securing it are rusted in place. Damn! I call Ryan on my cell phone.
“I’m going to be a little late,” I say, trying to sound calm. “I’ve got a flat
tire. Is there any place around here that can fix it?”
“There’s a Les Schwab in Benton City,” he says. “Can you get there?”
“I’ll try,” I reply, hoping he’s not judging me a bumbling amateur.
I start up the truck again. The diesel engine coughs and sputters to life.
Slowly, I push down on the gas pedal. The Beast lurches forward, making a
horrible metallic grating sound as the shredded tire grinds into the asphalt. I
keep going, the tire smoking and squealing, a ragged cloud of burned rubber
trailing behind. I keep the speedometer at five miles an hour and pray the
truck will make it to the Les Schwab station.
Turning off the highway, I head for downtown Benton City. There’s one
main street with gas stations and feed stores. People stare as the Beast belches
smoke and limps along like a wounded water buffalo. I’m providing the
afternoon’s entertainment.
I spot the Les Schwab sign and turn into the lot. A young man greets
me and frowns at the tire. “Looks like you need a new tire,” he says enthusiastically.
While he replaces the tire, I walk down to a store to buy a diet soda. I shake
my head about the flat; the rubber was probably so old it just fell apart. Would
the other tires do the same? By the time I return, he has replaced the old tire.
I pay and thank him. Then I rev up the Beast and get back on the highway.
The road to Red Mountain rises above Benton City, passing fields of
sagebrush and rusted-out tractors. It looks more like farm country than a
world-class vineyard site, but so did Napa Valley thirty years ago. “Welcome
to Red Mountain,” proclaims a stone and wood sign of a vaguely old-world
design, the only indication I’m approaching a famous viticultural area. Low
brown hills rise in the distance, dotted with sagebrush and covered with
shattered volcanic rock. Beneath them appear the bright green geometric
patterns of vineyards. There are no restaurants, hotels, or wine trains on
Red Mountain; the area is as pure and abstract in its undulating beauty as a
landscape in Tuscany.
It is just after 2:00 p.m. when I turn right on a gravel road lined with
poplars. I’m an hour late, but at least the truck hasn’t broken down again. I
pass a Ciel du Cheval sign, a rusted-out truck, and then strict rows of vines
with carefully tended clusters of Cabernet, Merlot, and Syrah grapes hanging
beneath them, reflecting the perfectionism of owner Jim Holmes and
his manager Ryan Johnson. The astonishing Ciel fruit reveals the power
and elegance of the Red Mountain region. It’s a wine lover’s idea of heaven.
Rising up from the vines is not a chateau but a large wooden outbuilding,
a kind of glorified tractor shed, surrounded by workers. Forklifts ferry bins of
grapes to waiting trucks, loading them up for the long haul to the west side.
The bins are stenciled with the names of the vineyard’s customers: Quilceda
Creek, DeLille, Andrew Will, McCrea Cellars, Cadence, Betz Family, Fidélitas,
Mark Ryan—a who’s who of Washington wine. The place hums with
order and purpose. The harvest is in full swing.
Ryan comes out as I arrive at the front of the building. “Sorry I’m late,”
I say, getting out of the truck. I shake hands with Ryan, an energetic guy in
his thirties with a freckled face, a reddish goatee, and a spring in his step. He
wears jeans, a white shirt, and a floppy sun hat. During the harvest, he serves
as a kind of air traffic controller, overseeing the picking and distribution of
the grapes. This job is challenging, as grapes must be picked on time to the
specifications of thirty or so winemakers, who are a notoriously fussy and
individualistic lot. Johnson deftly handles the job, loading everything from
huge semis to trucks like my own.
Garagiste
Winemakers call it the Long Haul. It’s a three-hour drive from Seattle to
eastern Washington, where the state’s best wine grapes grow. The state’s
wineries are largely located on the wet west side, while the vineyards are
located on the dry eastern side. Every fall, winemakers make the 180-mile run.
My wine-making partner, or garagiste (garage winemaker), Tom Remmers
lends me his ancient Ford f250 diesel, nicknamed “the Beast,” to pick up
1,200 pounds of Cabernet grapes from Ciel du Cheval Vineyard on Red
Mountain—one of the finest red wine grape regions in Washington State and
arguably the planet. I’d prefer to take my van, which is more reliable, but
Tom argues the truck is the better choice for transporting that many grapes.
While I fetch the grapes, Tom prepares for the crush, setting up the big
plastic fermenting tanks, cleaning out the stemmer/crusher, and assembling
the crew. Timing is critical, with little margin for error, as the grapes need
to be crushed as soon as possible after picking. Making the three-hour
run should be a seemingly simple task, but nothing about wine making is simple.
The Beast shudders and shakes as I pull out of the driveway. Climbing a
modest incline, it shimmies, backfires, and belches a cloud of black smoke.
After merging onto I-90, I lean back into the Naugahyde bench seat. I’ve
been making this run for fifteen years now, but this is the first time with the
Beast. I was reluctant to take it, given its 250,000 miles on the odometer, but
Tom encouraged me. “You’ll love it,” he said. “You can have them dump the
grapes in the back. You don’t need to put them into buckets.”
This trip is the second of three runs to pick up grapes to make wine for
our wine co-op, Les Copains (“the friends” in French). While I love the
romance of wine making, I wonder, as do many aspiring amateurs, if I could
take it to the next level. I’ve worked for years to gain access to the best fruit,
with the famous boutique wineries gobbling up all but a fraction of it. A few
years ago, Ciel du Cheval Vineyards (translation of nearby Horse Heaven
Hills) agreed to sell to us as I write about wine and so am considered part of
the industry. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize getting fruit from one
of the best vineyards in the state, a critical step in making outstanding wine.
We’ve won first place awards at amateur competitions. I should be satisfied,
but there seems so much more to learn.
After crossing Snoqualmie Pass, the low point in the Cascade Range
that vertically bisects the state, I turn south onto iI82, which rises steeply
toward Umtanum Ridge. The truck grumbles as the grade increases. I keep
my foot on the gas, willing it up the hill. My coffee cup dances along the top
of the dashboard. A burnt smell seeps out of the heater. I keep it floored,
praying the heap will make it over the top. Black, acrid smoke billows out of
the dashboard vent. I open the window and stick my head outside to avoid
asphyxiation. I ease up on the pedal, but the smoke keeps coming. Finally,
the truck clears the top of the ridge.
I pull off to the side and let the Beast cool off. Leaning against the side
panel, I take a drink of water, resolving never to drive this piece of shit again!
But I’ve got to get the Beast to Ciel. The grapes are ready. If you pick too early,
the grapes taste green and vegetal. If you pick too late, they have too much
sugar and produce a strong, alcoholic wine. You have to pick them right on
time. Our crew of a half-dozen Les Copains members has already committed
to helping with the crush. Turning back is not an option.
With the smoke cleared, I fire up the truck and keep going. The road
traverses the undulating brown hills and scabrock country outside Yakima.
I keep my foot on the gas, coaxing the Beast up the hills and making up time
on the downhill, hitting sixty.
My appointment is at 1:00 p.m. with Ryan Johnson, the manager at Ciel
du Cheval Vineyard, located outside of the Tri-Cities. Ciel has produced
several hundred-point scores from renowned wine critic Robert Parker Jr.,
and dozens of others were rated in the nineties over the last decade. Beyond
the scores, I consider this my favorite site, with bold, powerful red wines that
display balance and elegance, similar to some of the best French wines but
with a richer, rounder new-world taste.
I glance at my watch: 12:30 p.m. Right on track. I’m fifteen minutes away
from Ciel, the Beast humming along the straightaway.
kaboom! The truck bucks violently and veers to the right, heading for the
ditch. I whip the wheel to the left, overcompensate, and swerve into the passing
lane, narrowly missing a truck. I swerve back to the right, tires squealing
on the asphalt. The Beast bobs and weaves like a rodeo bull, trying to throw
me. Slamming on the brakes, I fight to regain control. Finally, I wrestle it to
a stop on the shoulder of the highway.
Breathing rapidly, I look around. What was that? A stray tank round from
the nearby U.S. Army’s Yakima Training Center? The cab doesn’t seem to
have any physical damage, other than the dregs of my coffee spilled on the
floor. I breathe deeply to slow the pounding of my heart. Taking a look to
make sure no cars are heading my way, I open the driver’s door and get out.
I walk around to the right side of the truck. The right front tire looks as if
someone carved it up with a chainsaw. There are scorch marks behind the
truck on the asphalt. The smell of burned rubber fills the air.
At the back of the truck, I spot a spare tire underneath the truck bed. The
bolts securing it are rusted in place. Damn! I call Ryan on my cell phone.
“I’m going to be a little late,” I say, trying to sound calm. “I’ve got a flat
tire. Is there any place around here that can fix it?”
“There’s a Les Schwab in Benton City,” he says. “Can you get there?”
“I’ll try,” I reply, hoping he’s not judging me a bumbling amateur.
I start up the truck again. The diesel engine coughs and sputters to life.
Slowly, I push down on the gas pedal. The Beast lurches forward, making a
horrible metallic grating sound as the shredded tire grinds into the asphalt. I
keep going, the tire smoking and squealing, a ragged cloud of burned rubber
trailing behind. I keep the speedometer at five miles an hour and pray the
truck will make it to the Les Schwab station.
Turning off the highway, I head for downtown Benton City. There’s one
main street with gas stations and feed stores. People stare as the Beast belches
smoke and limps along like a wounded water buffalo. I’m providing the
afternoon’s entertainment.
I spot the Les Schwab sign and turn into the lot. A young man greets
me and frowns at the tire. “Looks like you need a new tire,” he says enthusiastically.
While he replaces the tire, I walk down to a store to buy a diet soda. I shake
my head about the flat; the rubber was probably so old it just fell apart. Would
the other tires do the same? By the time I return, he has replaced the old tire.
I pay and thank him. Then I rev up the Beast and get back on the highway.
The road to Red Mountain rises above Benton City, passing fields of
sagebrush and rusted-out tractors. It looks more like farm country than a
world-class vineyard site, but so did Napa Valley thirty years ago. “Welcome
to Red Mountain,” proclaims a stone and wood sign of a vaguely old-world
design, the only indication I’m approaching a famous viticultural area. Low
brown hills rise in the distance, dotted with sagebrush and covered with
shattered volcanic rock. Beneath them appear the bright green geometric
patterns of vineyards. There are no restaurants, hotels, or wine trains on
Red Mountain; the area is as pure and abstract in its undulating beauty as a
landscape in Tuscany.
It is just after 2:00 p.m. when I turn right on a gravel road lined with
poplars. I’m an hour late, but at least the truck hasn’t broken down again. I
pass a Ciel du Cheval sign, a rusted-out truck, and then strict rows of vines
with carefully tended clusters of Cabernet, Merlot, and Syrah grapes hanging
beneath them, reflecting the perfectionism of owner Jim Holmes and
his manager Ryan Johnson. The astonishing Ciel fruit reveals the power
and elegance of the Red Mountain region. It’s a wine lover’s idea of heaven.
Rising up from the vines is not a chateau but a large wooden outbuilding,
a kind of glorified tractor shed, surrounded by workers. Forklifts ferry bins of
grapes to waiting trucks, loading them up for the long haul to the west side.
The bins are stenciled with the names of the vineyard’s customers: Quilceda
Creek, DeLille, Andrew Will, McCrea Cellars, Cadence, Betz Family, Fidélitas,
Mark Ryan—a who’s who of Washington wine. The place hums with
order and purpose. The harvest is in full swing.
Ryan comes out as I arrive at the front of the building. “Sorry I’m late,”
I say, getting out of the truck. I shake hands with Ryan, an energetic guy in
his thirties with a freckled face, a reddish goatee, and a spring in his step. He
wears jeans, a white shirt, and a floppy sun hat. During the harvest, he serves
as a kind of air traffic controller, overseeing the picking and distribution of
the grapes. This job is challenging, as grapes must be picked on time to the
specifications of thirty or so winemakers, who are a notoriously fussy and
individualistic lot. Johnson deftly handles the job, loading everything from
huge semis to trucks like my own.
Cuprins
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgments
Part 1. Crush
1. Garagiste
2. Ciel du Cheval: A Wine Lover’s Idea of Heaven
Part 2. Washington
3. The Founding Fathers of the Washington Wine Industry
4. Betz Family Winery
5. DeLille Cellars: The Art of Blending
6. Decision-Making at Canoe Ridge
7. Picking Grapes
8. Fermentation and Fruit Flies
9. Tom Cooks
10. Pressing: The Merlot Mobile
Part 3. Oregon
11. Learning the Secrets of Making Killer Pinot Noir
12. Beaux Frères: Avoiding Getting Lee-ed
13. Tony Soter: Pinot Noir as an Expression of Place
14. Ken Wright Visit: Wine as Fundamentally Spiritual
Part 4. My Wine Journey
15. Falling in Love with Wine
16. On Hallowed Ground: Visiting Bordeaux and the Great Growths
Part 5. California
17. Robert Mondavi: Transforming the Tastes of the Nation
18. Stag’s Leap: The Search for an American Arcadia
19. Opus One: The Place Made the Wine
20. Cain Vineyard and Winery: Letting the Land Speak
Part 6. A Question of Balance
21. Taking Stock: Should I Go Pro?
22. Wine with Dinner
23. The Connoisseur: Dan McCarthy
24. The Heart of Hospitality: Searching for the Spirit of Domaine Tempier
25. Bottling Party
Bibliographic Essay
Index
Acknowledgments
Part 1. Crush
1. Garagiste
2. Ciel du Cheval: A Wine Lover’s Idea of Heaven
Part 2. Washington
3. The Founding Fathers of the Washington Wine Industry
4. Betz Family Winery
5. DeLille Cellars: The Art of Blending
6. Decision-Making at Canoe Ridge
7. Picking Grapes
8. Fermentation and Fruit Flies
9. Tom Cooks
10. Pressing: The Merlot Mobile
Part 3. Oregon
11. Learning the Secrets of Making Killer Pinot Noir
12. Beaux Frères: Avoiding Getting Lee-ed
13. Tony Soter: Pinot Noir as an Expression of Place
14. Ken Wright Visit: Wine as Fundamentally Spiritual
Part 4. My Wine Journey
15. Falling in Love with Wine
16. On Hallowed Ground: Visiting Bordeaux and the Great Growths
Part 5. California
17. Robert Mondavi: Transforming the Tastes of the Nation
18. Stag’s Leap: The Search for an American Arcadia
19. Opus One: The Place Made the Wine
20. Cain Vineyard and Winery: Letting the Land Speak
Part 6. A Question of Balance
21. Taking Stock: Should I Go Pro?
22. Wine with Dinner
23. The Connoisseur: Dan McCarthy
24. The Heart of Hospitality: Searching for the Spirit of Domaine Tempier
25. Bottling Party
Bibliographic Essay
Index
Recenzii
"Crush is a lighthearted paean to winemaking as a unique pastime 'combining the ephemeral and the eternal.'"—Rebecca Foster, Foreword Reviews
"A true and enchanting narrative."—Barbara Jacobs, Booklist
"Enjoy a spirited memoir that ferments passion, precision and the pursuit of craft. Nicholas O'Connell's Crush is a vivid, behind-the-scenes journey into the world of winemaking—equal parts romantic and rigorous."—Wendy Kendall, My Edmonds News
"An entertaining read for wine lovers and wine newcomers alike."—Bob Johnson, Inlander
“Nicholas O’Connell’s Crush is a lively, personal tour through the joys—and travails—of making wine and is also packed with information and insights about wine in general. It’s an engaging read for anyone who starts feeling that crazy itch that they’d like, someday, to make their own wine—or for anyone who loves wine.”—Ray Isle, executive wine editor of Food & Wine and wine and spirits editor for Travel + Leisure
“Nicholas O’Connell’s level of experience is phenomenal: his decades of making wine, his writing style, and his obsession with making wine. This feels like a once-in-a-lifetime work because it includes twenty-plus years of living, social drinking, and learning about wine. It is a memoir mirrored by wine making. It is humble and humorous. Nothing else touches it.”—Mike Medberry, author of The Dark Side of the Moon and viticulturist at Frog’s Tooth Winery
“I’d wager there aren’t many wine lovers who haven’t fantasized, at least for a minute, about making their own wine. Nicholas O’Connell helps you scratch that itch without having to deal with swarms of fruit flies or take-their-time fermentations. O’Connell has taught writing for decades, and his considerable skills show in his vivid account of turning grapes into wine.”—Dorothy J. Gaiter, senior editor of Grape Collective
Descriere
Nicholas O’Connell’s apprenticeship at California’s Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars lays the groundwork for Crush, an exclusive look at the daily operations of some of the world’s most prestigious wineries and famous winemakers and a lively, down-to-earth description of the wine making process.