Chapter 28

Sunday arrived with the kind of crystalline clarity that occasionally blessed Austin in early fall. The humidity had temporarily retreated, and the temperature had moderated into a perfect balance. The sky opened to an endless blue canvas unmarred by clouds.

As Matthew and James Harrington drove north toward the Chavez Vineyard, the landscape gradually transformed from Austin’s urban density into the hill country’s live oak and juniper countryside.

“You’re quiet this morning,” Harrington said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them during the drive. “Something on your mind?”

Their relationship had evolved over the past nine months from formal business arrangement to a friendship characterized by mutual respect.

“Just thinking about my next steps,” Matthew admitted. “Alma’s is in a good place, now. Carlos has fully stepped into leadership. The systems are solid. The connections to the original menu concept have been reestablished. All I’m doing is standing around, getting in the way.”

“And you’re feeling the itch that made you show up here in the first place,” Harrington completed the thought, his tone free of judgment.

“Yeah,” Matthew acknowledged. “But it’s different this time. Before, the restlessness always pointed clearly toward the next location, the next experience, the next learning opportunity. Now...”

“Now Austin’s got its hooks in you,” Harrington supplied with a knowing smile.

“Yeah, that’s exactly right. The place is starting to feel like home. I’m torn. Part of me wants to continue exploring, discovering different influences ... but another part of me loves this town and the people I’ve met.”

Their conversation paused as they turned onto a long gravel drive marked by a simple wooden sign: Chavez Family Vineyards – Est. 1982. As they drove on, blocks of vine rows laden with grapes appeared. Then they turned another corner and the view of the overall operation came into view. A gathering of structures that blended traditional Hill Country architecture with more modern, purpose-built facilities.

As they parked beside the building that housed the main winery operations, Matthew noticed a much older structure set further back on the property. It was a traditional hacienda-style building with thick adobe walls, red-tiled roof, and wraparound veranda supported by weathered wooden posts. It showed its age through natural patina and structural settling that spoke of generations of history.

Juliet emerged from the winery building to greet them, her professional presentation at the farmers market replaced by more casual attire appropriate to vineyard work. Well worn jeans, boots dusty from the vineyard soil, and a simple linen shirt with sleeves rolled up seemed to be the work uniform. Her hair was still in its practical braid, though looser tendrils had escaped in the light breeze. She carried a clipboard with what appeared to be harvest notes, suggesting they had interrupted actual work rather than arriving to a staged presentation.

“Welcome to my experiment in agricultural optimism,” she said with the direct warmth Matthew remembered from their market encounter. “You found us without trouble?”

“Thanks, your directions were great,” Harrington replied, extending his hand. “James Harrington. I appreciate you allowing me this visit.”

“Juliet Chavez. And it’s my pleasure. Sunday afternoon is ideal. We’ve completed the morning vineyard work but haven’t yet started processing. Perfect time for showing visitors around.

We process everything, here,” Juliet explained, gesturing around the main production area where gleaming stainless steel tanks stood alongside more traditional oak barrels. “From initial crushing through the fermentation, aging, and bottling. It’s modest compared to larger operations, but the scale suits our production philosophy. We are intimate enough for hands-on attention to every batch, with sufficient capacity for the limited volume we produce.”

That was interesting, her description reflected the same balance Matthew sought in his own culinary journey.

As they moved through the facility, Juliet described their winemaking approach with the precise technical language of formal training tempered by practical experience. She didn’t simplify for their benefit answering Harrington’s increasingly specific questions with obvious knowledge that surprised both men.

“You seem to have formal training beyond family tradition,” Harrington observed as she explained a particularly technical aspect of their fermentation approach.

“I have a degree in Viticulture and Enology from Cornell,” Juliet said. “Class of 2018. The family expected me to study business administration, but I convinced them that formal wine education would better serve our diversification goals.” Her smile held a hint of satisfaction at that long-ago victory. “The science matters, but honestly, the most valuable education came from internships in Spain and Argentina. Different approaches to similar challenges, different traditions informing technical decisions.”

Matthew was impressed. This integration of formal education with diverse practical experience reflected his own approach ... theoretical knowledge deepened through direct engagement with various traditions.

The tour continued to the vineyard itself, where Juliet’s enthusiasm became even more evident. She walked them through two different blocks planted with various grape varieties, explaining the specific site characteristics that informed their selections—soil composition, sun exposure, water access, microclimate variations across the property’s undulating topography.

“These are Tempranillo. A Spanish varietal,” she indicated one carefully tended block. “Perfect for our climate. They’re heat-resistant, and with proper irrigation produce beautifully concentrated fruit despite the challenging conditions. Most Texas wineries focus on it for red production, but the difference is in the farming approach.” She knelt to show particular vine training methods. “We maintain significantly lower yields than standard practice, prioritizing flavor intensity over production volume.”

As their vineyard tour continued, Harrington’s questions became increasingly technical, revealing substantial knowledge that Matthew hadn’t previously witnessed. The conversation quickly evolved beyond Matthew’s understanding as they discussed clone selections, rootstock choices, trellising systems, and fermentation protocols in detailed terms that demonstrated shared expertise.

“I’m impressed. I didn’t realize you were so knowledgeable about wine making,” Matthew commented.

Harrington smiled. “Minor personal passion. I thought about buying a vineyard in Napa a few years back. I did a lot of research before ultimately deciding against it. The operation’s numbers didn’t make sense.” He turned back to Juliet. “Which makes what you’re accomplishing here all the more impressive. Texas isn’t exactly known for world-class wine production.”

“Yet,” Juliet corrected with a confident smile. “We’re where California was in the 1970s or Washington in the 1980s—finding our identity, determining what thrives here, developing techniques specific to our conditions rather than importing practices from elsewhere.”

Their conversation continued, moving deeper into technical territory that left Matthew with an opportunity to observe rather than participate. He noticed subtle cues in Juliet’s presentation. The technical challenges she’d overcome with an owner’s pride in their solutions. These weren’t random selections but carefully chosen examples that demonstrated both knowledge and accomplishment, calculated to engage Harrington’s evident expertise without appearing boastful. She was an excellent salesperson.

As they reached a viewpoint overlooking the entire vineyard operation, Matthew found his attention repeatedly drawn to the old hacienda building he had noticed upon arrival. Something about its weathered dignity against the backdrop of meticulously maintained vineyard created a compelling contrast. It exuded history and innovation in a visual dialogue across the property.

“What’s the story with that old place down the way?” he asked during natural pause in the viticultural discussion.

“That’s the original Chavez hacienda,” Juliet replied, her expression softening with evident pride. “Built by my great-great-grandfather in the 1880s when the family still ran cattle on what was a much larger property. It was the family’s main residence until my grandfather built a more modern home closer to the road in the 1950s.”

“Is it still used?” Matthew asked, his interest piqued by the structure’s evident character.

“Mostly for storage now, unfortunately. The foundation needs significant work before it would be safe for regular use. My father and grandmother would love to restore it, but the vineyard’s expansion and developing the farm has priority for our available capital. Feel free to explore it if you’re interested. The structure is sound enough for visitors, just not for commercial use or regular occupancy.”

Sensing an opening to investigate something that had captured his imagination, Matthew turned to Harrington. “Would you mind if I take a look while you continue discussing wine chemistry?”

“Not at all,” Harrington replied, clearly enjoying the technical exchange with Juliet. “Take your time. We’ll find you when we’re ready to taste the current vintages.”

With that permission, Matthew set off across the property toward the hacienda, drawn by both architectural curiosity and indefinable sense that the building somehow connected to questions he had been considering about his own next steps.

The closer he got, the more details emerged—the intricate woodwork on the veranda posts, hand-forged ironwork on window grilles, and the substantial construction that had allowed the building to endure decades of Texas weather extremes. Though clearly requiring significant restoration, the structure clearly showed superb craftsmanship of the original builders.

Loralee would love this, he thought wistfully. It was times like this when he really missed their relationship. It would be fun to share this kind of adventure with someone. That thought made him think of Chicago. He got a sharp stab of guilt that he hadn’t stopped on his way west to check in with all the people who had helped him. Chicago had so many bad memories that he had neglected to treasure the good ones. He resolved to call and make some amends for being an asshole and ignoring them.

He shook off the dark thoughts and proceeded.

The massive wooden front door stood partially open, an implicit invitation that Matthew accepted with reflexive respect for the history he was entering. Inside, his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light filtering through dust-hazed windows, revealing an interior that balanced grandeur with practical function.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Stepping into the place was — literally — stepping into history. The central hallway extended through the building and onto a vast patio behind the house. The traditional dogtrot design allowing air circulation in the era before mechanical cooling. Large rooms opened off this central corridor, each telling part of the family’s story through accumulated artifacts and architectural details.

The kitchen immediately captured his attention. Located at the rear of the hacienda, its spaciousness suggested its central importance to the household’s daily functioning. Though stripped of appliances, the room retained essential features that fired his professional imagination. There was a massive hearth that was large enough to roast whole animals, built-in niches that once held essential supplies, windows positioned to provide natural light throughout the day while minimizing heat gain.

He walked through it with growing excitement, recognizing elements he had heard about in traditional Mexican and Spanish cooking but never seen in real life. The room showed its evolution through decades of actual use. Of course, adaptations made for changing needs — plumbing and electrical modifications — were evident, but layers of family history were also embedded in the walls and surfaces that had witnessed generations of meals prepared and shared.

Continuing his exploration, he opened the door to the huge courtyard patio. Clearly it had once served as an outdoor cooking and gathering area. The central feature immediately commanded his attention: a magnificent brick and adobe oven (a ‘horno,’ he reminded himself). This again was a traditional wood-fired oven built in the Spanish colonial style. Perfectly adapted to a Texas rancho.