A Napa Vintner Battles Adversity

Diamond Creek's Al Brounstein is down but not out

James Laube
Posted: September 9, 2005

Three weeks after he fell and broke his hip, Al Brounstein is working on a comeback. It won't be easy.

Brounstein, the owner of Diamond Creek Vineyards in Napa Valley, is 85 years old and has battled Parkinson's disease, a degenerative disorder, for 20 years. For the past several years he has been an active fund-raiser to support Parkinson's research. The effects of the disease likely contributed to this once feisty vintner losing his balance and falling.

Brounstein remains resolute and eternally optimistic despite his fragile state. He has his sights on once again walking through his vineyard. "He's a fighter," says his wife, Boots. "It's a slow, slow recovery. He's working very hard. He's doing everything the physical therapists are telling him to do." Right now, with harvest fast approaching, the affable Brounstein is worried about his grapes.

Like many winegrowers, Brounstein has a strong emotional (and financial) tie to his vineyards, which are a mix of Bordeaux varieties, mostly Cabernet Sauvignon. The evolution of Diamond Creek is one of those storied improbable rags-to-riches tales in Napa. It is a small, 3,000-case business and the current wines, from 2002, sell for $175 a bottle.

Brounstein was 59 when he and I first met in 1980 on one of those blind dates, otherwise known as an assignment.

My editor had asked me to look into a story about Diamond Creek, then hardly known. Its first vintage in 1972 yielded only 65 cases and sold for $7.50 a bottle.

Brounstein, a one-time pharmaceutical salesman, had fled Los Angeles to pursue a career in wine. He was tending a small vineyard tract adjacent to Diamond Creek, near Calistoga, and had the audacity, many thought, to bottle three different wines from the same vineyard. Little did anyone know what would ensue. The label emerged as one of Napa's premier collectible wines—and was the first winery devoted exclusively to Cabernet.

Brounstein had bought a densely forested hillside south of Calistoga in 1967, which he partially cleared a year later, hoping to carve out 40 acres of vineyards. He ended up with 20, but also an important discovery.

The vineyard was a short walk from his home, which happened also to be his cellar, with wines and barrels stored in his garage, bonded as a legal winery. As the trees and underbrush were removed, Brounstein noticed the soils. They had less in common than he imagined. He hired the best vineyard minds of the era for advice—and they agreed. He had three distinctive soil types and, as it turned out, each of the three plantable areas had significantly different exposures to the sun.

As he explained their differences to me, it was the first time I'd heard any vintner from California talk with such passion about soil. Brounstein started planting in 1968. The more he studied the soils, the more he thought about the French notion of terroir he'd learned about in a wine appreciation class.

That class focused on French wines, and specifically those from Bordeaux. But Brounstein also learned about the famous Burgundian Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. This tiny operation produces six different, rare and expensive bottlings of Pinot Noir each year. Among its most famous holdings include its namesake Romanée-Conti, along with La Tâche and Richebourg

For Brounstein, terroir—the interaction of soil, vine and climate as it relates to wine—meant that the same grape (in his case, Cabernet Sauvignon) grown in different soils and exposures would yield wines with similar characteristics, but there could also be subtle nuances between the sites based on factors such as exposure to the sun.

When it came time to make his first wine in 1972, it rained steadily throughout harvest, making it one of the worst vintages of the era.

Brounstein had hired a young consultant working at Freemark Abbey, Jerry Luper, to oversee his winemaking (and only two of the three vineyards were bottled for the 65 cases).

By that point Brounstein had entertained keeping the three vineyards separate, and he'd given them iconic names. Volcanic Hill, at 8 acres, is more of a rounded slope than hill. It faces south and is comprised of volcanic ash.

Brounstein named an opposing exposure Red Rock Terrace. This steep 7-acre vineyard faces northeast and has reddish-brown soil.

A third site, Gravelly Meadow, comprises 5 acres near a creek and is aptly named. Rocks were everywhere. (Later, a fourth site, a 1-acre vineyard near a pond on the property became known as Lake Vineyard).

Luper told him that keeping the vineyards separate made sense. They could evaluate the wines in barrel later and see if there were significant differences.

The rest, as they say, is history. Over the past 25 years I have reviewed more than 100 Diamond Creek Cabernets. Some have been among the greatest wines I've yet tasted. Most have been exceptional, and only a few failed to inspire. Yet never once has Brounstein complained about a score or tasting note.

What Brounstein demonstrated about terroir—and mountain vineyards—for a new generation of vintners merits a small but significant footnote in the history of California wine. Today, in many quarters, terroir's role has reached religious proportions and is often exploited.

Brounstein's determination to carve out an estate out of a remote tree-lined hillside marked a turning point in the evolution of Napa Valley Cabernet. "It's all in the dirt," he liked to say. Now if he can only set foot back in the vineyard. That will be one giant step.