Wine was in his blood. It was a reputation that traced back to the old world, to his grandfather. Dino DeLorenzo’s romantic stories – told over the dinner table in broken English – inspired him as a boy. That night, Dino the Third decided he would also become a winemaker, celebrating his semi-retirement. Even at sixty-six, he could not stand the thought of total retirement. He soon realized finishing one bottle and uncorking another was in his blood. The next day, Dino went to the bookstore and bought every book about wine, winemaking, and fermentation. He spent the subsequent months reading them diligently. By the time September rolled around, Dino was confident enough to drive to the Italian neighborhood – where his father had grown up – and get what was needed: demijohns, bubblers, a hydraulic press, a corker, an oak barrel, and, of course, grapes. The variety he chose – Sangiovese, was said to be from “old vines” and promised the taste of Tuscany. It was the region where the original Dino had made his wine and had harvested his grapes. In his garage, Dino put on a Bossa Nova record and unloaded the grapes into a repurposed cattle trough before rolling up his pant legs and climbing in. With every step, squishing the fruit underfoot, there was the feeling of performing an ancient alchemical ritual, transmuting solid to liquid. When he was done, he covered the tub with a piece of sheet metal and a heavy blanket. Every morning and night, Dino returned to the garage and uncovered the grape must to stir it.
After two weeks, he pressed the grapes and transferred the wine into a glass demijohn and later an oak barrel. It was after the process was well on its way, almost done, really, like the novelist who hides his writing, that Dino told his family what he’d been up to. They were so surprised, so proud of him, that his children and grandchildren begged to be included next season. His wife encouraged the idea, promising to cook a traditional Italian feast. It all sounded astonishingly similar to stories Dino remembered of his own grandfather. He could hardly keep from crying. They decided then that Dino and his family would open his wine on the first anniversary. When it was time to bottle, Dino went to a print shop and had elegant labels made which showed the image of a distant village along a Tuscan horizon and read what he decided to name the wine: “Dino’s Vinos.” Just before the grand feast, while his wife cooked, Dino left for the Italian market. Dino felt inspired by his new hands-on experience. He was proud of his year of diligent research. His reading and tasting gave him a sense of accomplishment. Dino had been discovering new blends and styles of wine. A task he saw not as for pleasure but for education, which required him to start drinking nightly. He bought twice as many grapes as the year before.
Dino’s family arrived just after lunch. His children and grandchildren helped him unload the crates, pick out the stems, and stomp in the tubs. When the feast concluded, Dino brought out the absurdly expensive crystal glasses he’d bought for the occasion and put one in front of each cleared table setting, even the children’s. But when Dino reached his own seat at the head of the table, he set down the bottle and did not fill his glass. Though Dino hadn’t noticed what he’d done, the rest of the family did; they insisted he drink. Yet, Dino felt suddenly overfull. Bloated. Nauseous. And it was only after further lamenting that he submitted. Then, someone stood up, likely his eldest, and gave some extemporaneous speech about family, tradition, and love. None of it made any sense to Dino. When it was over, everyone stared at him, and it was clear he was expected to take the first sip. But Dino did not want to. He could see little black specks that somehow, despite his rigorous straining and racking, were in his glass. Dino recalled the hundreds of fruit flies that had invaded his garage and died in the mix. He remembered the yeast that was still alive in the wine. Dino pictured it traveling to his stomach, finding sugar, and fermenting. He envisioned it causing him to swell up and transform into the shape of a demijohn. And now“Drink,” his family ordered. And Dino did. The wine was in his mouth before he knew it. Though Dion tried to put it as fast as possible into his belly, something inside him rejected it. So, the wine stayed where he could taste everything. He could taste how wrong it was. How imperfect. How derivative. Even if the wine had been good. Truly good. It still would have been a style within the past year that he’d outgrown completely. Then came the distinct flavor of vinegar. Dino could not stop thinking about the blisters he got. The yellow calluses. The sloughing skin. It was as if he could smell the reeking stink that his feet sometimes had. The stink of vinegar. He had used those same feet to squash the grapes now in his mouth. When he finally swallowed, tears streamed down his face. His family mistook it for passion. They saw it as some remembrance of his father and grandfather, or perhaps, thoughts about his youth. Cheers erupted around the table, and everyone drained their glasses. Faces of delight, compliments, and praise. It all made Dino furious. His family, ignorant of good wine, could not be trusted. “Excuse me,” Dino said before heading to the nearest bathroom to stick his fingers down his throat. He didn’t stop until he put his wife’s long-prepared meal down the toilet.
When his family left, their arms were full of bottles. Dino demanded they take everything. He no longer wanted his wine in the house. On her way up the stairs, Dino’s wife stopped in the unlit living room where Dino now resided. She whispered in his ear and kissed him on the cheek before feeling his jaw tense against her lips. She headed to bed alone. Meanwhile, Dino hopped in his truck and took off for the nearest liquor store. He bought bottles and bottles of the most substandard wines. Removing their chintzy screwtops, Dino slugged them back and swerved home. When he returned home, he overturned the tubs full of grape must in fits of rage. His brute force sent the mixture across the garage’s cement floor. There was no saving his wine. He retreated to the living room and drank. He drank the cheapest wines he could. Ones with simple profiles. Ones with the least artistic intent. Ones he could mindlessly consume. Ones that would get him so drunk, so utterly wasted, he could forget all about his winemaking. •
