Keith Saarloos. Lord Saarloos. Flyer than a piece of paper bearing his name. Royalty. He’s clocked years of hustle to reach his presently exalted rank. Best tasting room in all of the wine land. He need not ever leave the friendly confines of Grand Avenue in Los Olivos, as all the wines that he makes sell out, without ever being offered anywhere else except in the house that Keith built. No Stores. No Restaurants. No Distributors. Only one people has he ever entrusted to offer the wine that his family breaks their backs to make every year, and that people is us people.
Tonight is the away game. He leaves the behind the tractors, the trailers, the rolling hills, and magical vines and drives south. Five o’clock sharp he’ll step out of the bone white Ford F350, in full hip hop watch me slow motion, and levitate himself over the threshold straight into Silverlake Wine.
Three wines. Never available anywhere else. Never offered to anyone without him being there to see them on their way. Armed with a sharpie so gold that Liberace would have shown up just to lay eyes. To “Calligraphie” is to use calligraphy at it’s highest level, and Keith’s hand is so deft you’ll ask him to sign your first born. And sign every last bottle he will, stand on the bar when the crowd reaches critical mass he does, and over the top humble and thankful he is. Year 5. Saarloos and Sons and Silverlake Wine. Amazing is the word that comes to mind.
