When my dad asked me to accompany him on the Napa Valley Wine Train, I wasn’t sure what to expect. As a native of Napa, I regarded the Wine Train the same way I regarded Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco: it was an attraction constructed for tourists, a place where no self-respecting local would be caught dead. I always figured there was nothing worthy about the train, and imagined the dining to be as slow and stodgy as the hulking beast itself.
But my dad, invited aboard to pour his wines for the Friday Vintner’s Luncheon Series, had room for a guest. Not one to turn down a free meal, especially one accompanied by wine, I agreed. No twisting of arm needed.
I drove up to Napa from the Bay Area one Friday morning in May. When I got to my dad’s house, situated on the same two acres our winery is on, he was wearing long pants. This was my first indication that the Wine Train was something to be taken seriously. My father—no matter how low the thermometer gets—only changes out of shorts for major events: weddings, graduations, mosquitoes.
“Wow, dad, pants. This must be big time.”
We drove down to the train station, which is located off Soscol Avenue, one of the main thoroughfares through the city of Napa. Inside the large train depot, soon-to-be passengers were listening (and not listening) to a man onstage instructing how to pick a wine.
“It may have gotten a 97 from the Spectator,” he boomed, referring to Wine Spectator Magazine, the literary last word in wine ratings, “but the best wine is the one you like and that’s that.”
I glanced around the room. It looked like a bunch of Midwesterners on vacation: blue-hairs in shorts and button-down, short-sleeve shirts; men with handlebar mustaches and ladies in sun hats; families with hard-of-hearing relatives in need of liquid placation. I was beginning to think my preconceived notion of stodginess was going to be fulfilled.
“Dad, this looks like the senior citizen special,” I whispered.
“It’s just to make me feel better,” said my dad, sixty-two, who was about the median age.
We walked to the gift shop, where I was introduced to Brent Trojan, the wine educator and host who, among other things, puts together the Friday Vintner’s Luncheon Series. The series is a weekly excursion that pairs wines with a four-course lunch and allows diners to query the winemaker while riding to St. Helena and back. Since there are about 350 wineries, and therefore, just as many winemakers in Napa Valley, Brent rarely asks the same vintner back. But my dad, who started Tulocay Winery in 1975, has been asked back almost ten times. The reason for this, I think, is two-fold. One is that my dad is a hilariously good entertainer (even I have learned to appreciate his humor) and the other is that he is unique among winemakers. At a time when beverage conglomerates and beer companies are not uncommon players in winery ownership, my dad has kept Tulocay small, making about 2,000 cases a year. It is one of the oldest wineries in the valley and my dad, for many years, filled almost every role: winemaker, tour guide, grape purchaser, CFO (that’s Chief Forklift Operator), and marketing department. Plus, his wines are really good.
It was 11 a.m. and the train was scheduled to depart in half an hour. My dad and I ducked outside into the late morning sun. Napa is typically warmer in the spring and summer than the Bay Area, a welcome change from a foggy, cold San Francisco. The climate, in addition to the soil, topography, and geology—four elements known to winemakers as terroir—are what make Napa a good place to grow grapes. Good grapes mean good wine, and thus the reason Napa Valley is a world class wine growing region.
