From The Far Side of Eden:
(Nero)
The final price was just over nine million dollars. Heublein would take back about half that amount in a note; Francis’s cash would all come from Dracula.
After a day in San Francisco with the lawyers, when it was a done deal, Skupny drove up to the old carriage house through a setting little changed in a century. Navalle Creek, lined with stone by Chinese laborers, wound down to the broad plain of Rutherford. He told the winemaker, “A year from now we won’t be able to remember what this was like,” and called the staff into the library above the stable and told them, ”Everything’s going to change.”
The final agreement was six inches thick; Skupny’s hand grew tired signing it. Francis didn’t get the Inglenook name, but he got everything else he wanted—vineyards, property, architecture, Rubicon . . . tutti.
He told the winemaker, “A year from now we won’t be able to remember what this was like,” and called the staff into the library above the stable and told them, ”Everything’s going to change.”
The final agreement was six inches thick; Skupny’s hand grew tired signing it. Francis didn’t get the Inglenook name, but he got everything else he wanted—vineyards, property, architecture, Rubicon... tutti.
The logo was redesigned and all labels made similar. That was the fun part. Francis constantly came up with creative ideas: a rum from Belize to be stored in old Rubicon barrels, a grappa from Oregon, bottled water from a spring up on the mountain. Not all of it worked out. Any profits were to go to the mother ship, Zoetrope, but meanwhile there were huge expenses involved—renovating old Inglenook, replanting, redesigning. The money had to come from somewhere, and it had to come fast.
When the winery was stripped, before all the new equipment went in, Francis threw a party and invited everybody in Rutherford, St. Helena, and Oakville. The comedian Don Novello was the master of ceremonies. There was a battle of the bands, fireworks, and two cakes—one for the Coppolas’ acquisition of the Niebaum house, the other for the acquisition of the winery—both devoured.
Francis hired Dick Maher, a short, feisty former Marine who drank soda from a customized Howitzer shell. Maher was supposed to build the business, to go from zero to sixty in about a year. He had a long, spotty history in the wine business. While working for Heublein, Maher had been the brand manager of the cola-flavored bubbly wine called I Love You, and while working for Seagram had earned a reputation as a corporate ass-kicker, capable of either affability or unpleasantness, whichever was required. Maher had headed up Christian Brothers after it was bought by Grand Metropolitan, another swallowing-up of an old Napa property by the alien conglomerate.
Maher hired a winery manager not from the wine business but from a large retailing company, and the writing was on the wall, Skupny thought. In addition, Francis always had some guru type around, first a studio guy, then a young economist, then somebody else idea-oriented, enthusiastic. This person would say, “I’ve been thinking about something, Francis. Why don’t you . . .” And Skupny would think, “Who the hell owns this place, anyway?”
Traveling with Francis was great fun. He was a world-class gourmand, a consumer of life. In New York, Skupny watched Francis being interviewed by Charlie Rose and five other journalists. Francis taught Skupny the importance of the journalistic file, by which he meant any newspaper or magazine story that became part of the public record. He taught Skupny to make sure he was always the source of a story, never the story, a crucial distinction. Francis was, of course, always the story.
Together they staged a Niebaum-Coppola celebration party at the Four Seasons, and it sold out. Francis sat up on the dais, surrounded by ingenues, and confided to Skupny, “I feel like a Roman emperor.
Skupny concentrated on the the “hospitality” issues, getting customers into the chateau while the renovation was being done. Everything was to be “related”; synergy was the high concept. For instance, guests at Francis’s lodge in Belize would watch Francis’s movies while drinking Francis’s wine. Gift packets at Niebaum-Coppola might include a Coppola movie and a Coppola wine of the same vintage, along with a Niebaum-Coppola T-shirt.
There were things they couldn't do legally, part of the controversial winery definition passed a few years before that prevented the sale at wineries of anything unrelated to wine. But historical structures had a great advantage, one that would prove decisive: whatever had been sold before, whatever had been done, was grandfathered—that is, exempt.
Skupny was told, as he later recalled it, “to access the rights to everything ever sold here, to establish precedents.” He pored over all the old Inglenook inventories. There had been a cheese deli then, so they could sell cheese now. A knife had been used to cut the cheese in the old days, so presumably today they could also sell cutlery. That was the idea. But where, Skupny wondered, were the limits?
(Continued)
To order the first book, Napa:
The final price was just over nine million dollars. Heublein would take back about half that amount in a note; Francis’s cash would all come from Dracula.
After a day in San Francisco with the lawyers, when it was a done deal, Skupny drove up to the old carriage house through a setting little changed in a century. Navalle Creek, lined with stone by Chinese laborers, wound down to the broad plain of Rutherford. He told the winemaker, “A year from now we won’t be able to remember what this was like,” and called the staff into the library above the stable and told them, ”Everything’s going to change.”
The final agreement was six inches thick; Skupny’s hand grew tired signing it. Francis didn’t get the Inglenook name, but he got everything else he wanted—vineyards, property, architecture, Rubicon . . . tutti.
He told the winemaker, “A year from now we won’t be able to remember what this was like,” and called the staff into the library above the stable and told them, ”Everything’s going to change.”
The final agreement was six inches thick; Skupny’s hand grew tired signing it. Francis didn’t get the Inglenook name, but he got everything else he wanted—vineyards, property, architecture, Rubicon... tutti.
The logo was redesigned and all labels made similar. That was the fun part. Francis constantly came up with creative ideas: a rum from Belize to be stored in old Rubicon barrels, a grappa from Oregon, bottled water from a spring up on the mountain. Not all of it worked out. Any profits were to go to the mother ship, Zoetrope, but meanwhile there were huge expenses involved—renovating old Inglenook, replanting, redesigning. The money had to come from somewhere, and it had to come fast.
When the winery was stripped, before all the new equipment went in, Francis threw a party and invited everybody in Rutherford, St. Helena, and Oakville. The comedian Don Novello was the master of ceremonies. There was a battle of the bands, fireworks, and two cakes—one for the Coppolas’ acquisition of the Niebaum house, the other for the acquisition of the winery—both devoured.
Francis hired Dick Maher, a short, feisty former Marine who drank soda from a customized Howitzer shell. Maher was supposed to build the business, to go from zero to sixty in about a year. He had a long, spotty history in the wine business. While working for Heublein, Maher had been the brand manager of the cola-flavored bubbly wine called I Love You, and while working for Seagram had earned a reputation as a corporate ass-kicker, capable of either affability or unpleasantness, whichever was required. Maher had headed up Christian Brothers after it was bought by Grand Metropolitan, another swallowing-up of an old Napa property by the alien conglomerate.
Maher hired a winery manager not from the wine business but from a large retailing company, and the writing was on the wall, Skupny thought. In addition, Francis always had some guru type around, first a studio guy, then a young economist, then somebody else idea-oriented, enthusiastic. This person would say, “I’ve been thinking about something, Francis. Why don’t you . . .” And Skupny would think, “Who the hell owns this place, anyway?”
Traveling with Francis was great fun. He was a world-class gourmand, a consumer of life. In New York, Skupny watched Francis being interviewed by Charlie Rose and five other journalists. Francis taught Skupny the importance of the journalistic file, by which he meant any newspaper or magazine story that became part of the public record. He taught Skupny to make sure he was always the source of a story, never the story, a crucial distinction. Francis was, of course, always the story.
Together they staged a Niebaum-Coppola celebration party at the Four Seasons, and it sold out. Francis sat up on the dais, surrounded by ingenues, and confided to Skupny, “I feel like a Roman emperor.
Skupny concentrated on the the “hospitality” issues, getting customers into the chateau while the renovation was being done. Everything was to be “related”; synergy was the high concept. For instance, guests at Francis’s lodge in Belize would watch Francis’s movies while drinking Francis’s wine. Gift packets at Niebaum-Coppola might include a Coppola movie and a Coppola wine of the same vintage, along with a Niebaum-Coppola T-shirt.
There were things they couldn't do legally, part of the controversial winery definition passed a few years before that prevented the sale at wineries of anything unrelated to wine. But historical structures had a great advantage, one that would prove decisive: whatever had been sold before, whatever had been done, was grandfathered—that is, exempt.
Skupny was told, as he later recalled it, “to access the rights to everything ever sold here, to establish precedents.” He pored over all the old Inglenook inventories. There had been a cheese deli then, so they could sell cheese now. A knife had been used to cut the cheese in the old days, so presumably today they could also sell cutlery. That was the idea. But where, Skupny wondered, were the limits?
(Continued)
To order the first book, Napa:
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