The Palm Beach Post from West Palm Beach, Florida on December 7, 1976 · Page 11
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December 7, 1976

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The Palm Beach Post from West Palm Beach, Florida · Page 11

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West Palm Beach, Florida
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Tuesday, December 7, 1976
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Page 11
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The Palm Beach Post B SECTION TUESDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1976 mm FIRST YOU CRY... By BETTY ROUIN -'1 I publihd by J.B. lippincott Careful Research Leads Him To California By CHARLES CALHOUN Pott Staff Writtr Brillat-Savarin once observed that the discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a star. Ely Callaway has gone the great French gastronome one better. He has discov 4Si Confidence Gives Way To Fears .t: inn , - 1 . " ? . , ,., . , , .. . fl. ' iii i ii T in ' i 1 1 i iim mi " . . .mfK - J ! . i . ered a new vineyard. He did not stumble upon it. A careful, methodical man, Callaway sought expert help eight years ago to find exactly the right combination of soil, humidity, temperature and sunshine needed to produce fine wine. That he found it on a hillside in the ranch country near San Diego was only the first surprise this Georgia-born innovator had for the California wine establishment. From being president of one of the world's biggest textile firms Burlington Industries Callaway has gone to being head of one of the state's smaller wineries. But rather than sit back a generation or two and let his wines' reputation spread slowly, Callaway has used the merchandising techniques he learned in his first career to make a name for himself in his second. That's why he was in Fort Lauderdale recently introducing his wine to South Florida at a tasting held by Les Amis du Vin, under the direction of wine consultant Joseph Shagrin. Although some of the experts found Callaway a little pushy for a newcomer, they usually changed their minds once they tasted the seven wines produced in the last three years by Callaway Vineyard and Winery. Public reaction was enthusiastic, with stocks of the 74 and '75 vintages quickly running out. What really put Callaway on the map was the decision to serve his 74 White Riesling instead of some better-known California wine at a luncheon given in New York City last July for Queen Elizabeth. Callaway thinks it was chosen simply because it could "carry" a menu that included striped bass and a beef-and-pate aspic, but "the wine fit for a queen" made headlines. When Callaway retired early from the textile business, he set out to produce fine wine with as much careful planning and determination and, it might have seemed at first, with as little chance of succeeding as his fellow Georgian Jimmy Carter set out to become president. "The degree to which we have been successful can be found in our bottles," he says now. Instead of falling back on the flowery adjectives and poetic figures of speech so common in talking about wine, Callaway prefers as a rule to discuss reducing oxidation or cluster-thinning or to cite figures on residual sugar and sulfur dioxide levels. "It's one of the most difficult products I've ever known anyone to produce," he says of fine wine, and his account of starting a winery bears this out. Callaway has proved himself a master of taking small -and usually expensive pains to improve his product. For example, he pays pruners and harvesters by the hour instead of on a piece-rate basis (which might encourage sloppy work), and he has imported special German yeasts and specially aged German oak barrels (both of which help produce the style of wine Callaway wants). Not surprisingly, the traditional cliches of wine-making barefooted peasants stomping the grapes while the jolly little old winemaker charms the tourists are far removed from the Callaway operation. The winery is a streamlined, absolutely up-to-date place, constantly scrubbed, in fact, to discourage bacteria harmful to wine. Although California is known for big wines almost bursting with flavor, Callaway's approach has been more subtle, more European, aimed at producing wines with great intensity of flavor but with a more elegant finish than many California vintages. To achieve this, he has combined traditional techniques going back centuries such as "polish-ins" wine bv using egg white to remove impurities, Third in a Series "Have you seen Gloria Swanson lately?" Eugene asked me. "She looks marvelous. My dear, it's what she eats. Even her grapefruit she has flown in." Eugene is my'hairdresser and he gets ecstatic a lot. That was one of the reasons I went to him that Saturday morning. The other reason was to get my hair done. If there was about to be a tragic occurrence, I wanted to look nice when it happened. After the Singermann appointment on Friday, the immediate problem was how to get through the weekend. (I was due at the hospital Sunday afternoon.) Saturday morning, I decided what would get me through the day best: trivia. Besides Eugene, that meant Bloom-ingdale's. I am not proud of what this says about my character, but I feel really good in Bloomingdale's. I bought an expensive pair of silver earrings. I bought an expensive pair of shoes. I hung around the cosmetic counters and stuck my fingers in pots of lip gloss. Then I went outside. Bright sunshine. My stomach suddenly flipped. It occurred to me that the Valium might be wearing off. I went home. Arthur was there, writing. He was working on a book about an earthquake. He came out of the study when he heard me come in. "Are you okay?" "Not bad," I said. "Just came home for another fix." The Valium was on the bedside table. I took one. "You don't look so hot," I told him. He did look awful, worse than I. His imagination, I found out many days later, had gone much further than mine. I was afraid that I might lose a breast. That horror was as far as I could go. Arthur thought and knew it was reasonable to think that I might lose my life. I took my clothes off and went into the bathroom where my nightgown was hanging on a hook on the door. I reached for it and stopped. There was a mirror on the door and I looked at myself. I looked at my breasts. They're nice, I thought, they've always been nice. Somewhat small, but small breasts are better for clothes. And they stay up better. I never wore a bra much anvmore except to go to work. It used to make me self-conscious, at first, that when I was braless my nipples stuck out, but soon I noticed that other women's nipples stuck out sometimes, too, so it stopped bothering me. When I was young - 12, 13, 14 - I used to worry that I would be flat-chested. Those were the fifties, the-bigger-the-better days, when adolescent boys liked you directly in proportion to the size of your bra cup. Perhaps it just seemed that way to those of us who were small-breasted. When a boy liked one of us, at least we knew it was for us, not our mammary equipment. Now, without taking my eyes off the breast in the mirror, I put my hand over the left one, the one with the lump. I flattened the breast as much as I could, trying to imagine what it would look like if it weren't there. I wondered if they would scoop it out like a melon ball, and whether there'd be a hole. I took my hand away and looked at the breast the way it was. I looked at it as if it were a person I loved whom I would not see again. My throat swelled and my eyes filled up. I pulled my nightgown off the hook and over my head, fumbled in the medicine chest for another Valium, found it, swallowed it, blew my nose, got into bed, and then it was Sunday. There is a lot of work when you check into a hospital, and that's good. The man who gave me the cardiogram had an accent I recognized. "You're Haitian, aren't you?" He looked at me and smiled such an enormous, white-toothed, gorgeous smile that it almost made me feel good. "How you know that?" he said. "I was there once." Another dazzling show of teeth. "What you here for?" he asked, after I was wired up. "Breast cancer," I said, and then I was sorry. He flinched. The smile was gone. "Oh, you not know for sure," he said. "Maybe you all right." Then an aide escorted me to my room. Arthur came along. The insurance only covered the cost of a se-miprivate room, but I had taken a private room anyway. I figured if It Happened, I wouldn't want a roommate. The room was bare and clean, with a window that looked out over the parking lot. I unpacked my suitcase and put everything away, deciding carefully what should eo in which Dlace. There was one chair. Arthur sat on it If If-. if I From being president of one of the world's biggest textile firms Burlington Industries Callaway has gone to being head of one of California's smaller wineries. He was in Fort Lauderdale recently to introduce his wine to South Florida. I Ml 1 Hm III mkmLW " Hm in i - ..-- all l mm : I i y ' 1 1, i f T 1 1 i' . .rll the same way a cook clarifies a soup with the most sophisticated new devices such as a centrifuge that helps purify the wine without damaging it and special presses that extract the grape juice without crushing the bitter stems and seeds. "It's a very complex business," Callaway says. "You have all the problems of a normal agricultural product. Then you take that product and transform it into something totally different. You put it in a small package, at a high price, and, if you're going to do it right, you need some very sophisticated merchandising. Then it's up to the consumer and his judgment is almost totally subjective." During the wine boom of the 1960s, owning an interest in a Bordeaux chateau became a new status symbol for rich Americans many of whom had been relying on farms and ranches as tax write-offs for years. But neither motive inspired him, Callaway says. "I was serious about making wine from the start. It takes too much money, even on a small scale, not to be." He began studying weather and soil conditions in California after many years of traveling through Europe as a Burlington executive had made him a student of wine. He discovered that all along the coast were little pockets - microclimates, as the experts say - with the same granitic soil and cool weather as in the Napa Valley, where most of California's quality wines originate. In 1969, while still working in New Ycrk, he planted a vineyard at Temecula an Indian rame meaning "land where the sun shines through the mists " This was a good description of the 1,400-foot-h gh hillside, 23 : 1. 1. AWAY " um f k Staff Photos By C.J. Walker and read the Sunday New York Times Magazine. I looked at the bed. I got undressed, put on my nightgown, and got underneath the crisp white sheets. "I feel silly," I said to Arthur. "What am I doing in bed? I'm not even sick." He looked at me, started to say something, didn't, and went back to the paper. But I am sick, I thought. Then I said it again to myself as if 1 were 8 years old and writing it on the blackboard as a punishment for telling a lie. I am sick. I am sick. Suddenly, Dr. Singermann walked in. "How are you?" he asked brightly. "Fine," I said, just as brightly, anxious to show him it wouldn't be like last time. Turn to BREAST B2 Turn to WINE, B4 Housewives Have Language That's All Their Own- The Jet Set: Teenager who lives under a water pik. Flood Pants: Slacks worn by Mom that are too long to be shorts and too short to keep your daughter from locking you in the closet. Sieve Syndrome: First few months of a baby's life when every opening in his body has to be plugged up with something. Ma Bell's Umbilical Cord: A phone with a 35-foot extension. The Pot at the End of the Rainbow: Toilet training. The Six Million Dollar Man: Son in college. The Oval Office: The garbage can. Paradise Lost: A missing charge card. $20,000 Pyramid: Women who eat their way from November through Christmas. Bubble Gum Buggy: Station wagon full of kids. Breach of Faith: A guidance counselor who talked. The Second Car: Any car in the driveway that isn't running. Mary Popplns: New daughter-in-law. Four-on-the-Floor: Twins born 10 months apart. The Other Side of the Mountain: An average ironing. Gray Liberation: A 49-year-old mother entering her last child in first grade. One Flew Over the Cuckoo'i Neat: Teaching a teenage son to drive. Oversudsing Problem: A woman who watches 138 soap operas a week. Charmin Squeezer: A woman with time on her hands. One Size Fits All: Porsche. Hamburger Helper: More Meat. Miracle on 34th Street: Beauty shop. If there's one thing that has come out of the Citizens Band (CB) radio craze, it's a new kicky vocabulary. CB senders have a unique way of expressing themselves in a language all their own. Of course, this is nothing new for housewives. For years, we've had our own form of communication that to my knowledge has never been translated to the American public. These are just a few of the more popular phrases. The Bermuda Triangle: A washing machine that returns one sock out of every pair thrown in. Erma Bombeck

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