I’ve always felt a great deal of fondness for this private, highly intelligent man sitting across from me. A feeling that I like to think has been fully reciprocated. Whenever we meet he asks the same question with the same wry smile. “When you coming back….we’ll let you make some good wine?” Ernest Gallo never ceased to amaze me. Ninety four the last time we talked, and still as sharp as when I worked for him twenty five years ago. 

Ernest Gallo and Allen Shoup

Ernest Gallo is revered as the giant of the American wine industry. He’s as responsible as any individual for the international stature of California wine. He dedicated his entire life to the growth of his company and to the expansion of wine consumption in America. Ernest and his brother, Julio, due to the death of both parents while still in their teens, rolled up their sleeves and though deprived of the benefits of higher academic educations, they built the world’s largest wine company in a country where wine drinking was practically nonexistent.

No one ever accused Ernest of being flippant. He is, in fact, intensely serious. But every so often those who knew him best were treated to his deliciously dry sense of humor. It was in full play this night, as he dined with my wife and me in Seattle. We were joined by a mutual friend, Vince O’Brien, whose law firm clientele reads like a“who’s who” of the alcohol industry.

Gallo had just released their reserve Chardonnay a wonderful barrel fermented wine that was receiving a standing ovation from the wine press despite a retail price of over thirty dollars a bottle. This was in the early Nineties and that was a high price for anybody's Chardonnay. They had made only a few hundred cases so Ernest was surprised when I brought up a bottle from my cellar to serve with dinner. Knowing how much Ernest delights in competitive tastings, I brought another bottle up as well. This was our latest Chateau Ste. Michelle reserve Chardonnay, which was very similar in style. I thought it was the better of the two.

As I anticipated, Ernest relished the chance to compare. He slowly went back and forth between the glasses, sipping thoughtfully and mentally recording each impression. Finally he looked over at me.

“This is very good,” he mused. “How much do you get for it?”

“Eighteen dollars.”

His eyes registered a look of surprise. “That’s too little!”

“I agree,” I replied. “But Washington wines are still fighting for recognition. We need to buy consumer awareness with low prices.”

“Yes, I understand,” he exclaimed. “But if I get thirty dollars for my wine, you should be able to get at least twenty three for this!”

I stifled my laugh as I lifted a glass and toasted him as that wry smile broke over his face. It was a night to remember.