Happy July 1st.
Today I’m going to shift gears a little.
Pinot Noir: A Love Story is nearing completion, and over the next few weeks, I’d like to start sharing a few of the short stories in the collection with you.
But first, I want to give a little perspective—on why I wrote this book and why I created this space.
Honestly, it’s impossible to name all the reasons. But the basics are this:
We’re living in a world filled with stress, sadness, and a constant, deafening stream of noise. At the same time, I’ve been lucky enough to experience something close to magic, a life shaped by wine, by incredible people, by place, and deep surprising moments of beauty. Those experiences need to be shared.
My hope is simple: to change the context of wine.
To help it become more than just another alcoholic beverage.
To help it become a focal point for connection, joy, and appreciation, the kind we’ve been missing and searching for.
You know those Academy Award speeches where someone starts thanking everyone they’ve ever met—and then the music kicks in because they’re taking too long?
Well, the beautiful thing about writing a book is... nobody plays the music.
This is my speech. My thank you. My love letter.
My holy-shit-how-did-I-get-so-lucky monologue.
Pinot Noir: A Love Story isn’t a memoir, and it’s not a wine guide. It’s something in between and far beyond—stories from 45 years in the wine business and beyond, told through the lens of awe, appreciation for the incredible people who made it all matter. The friends. The mentors. The farmers. The wildcards, the romantics, the doubters, the dreamers.
It’s not just about wine. Although I will get geeky once in a while.
It’s about what wine reveals, about place, purpose, and about each other.
Anthony Bourdain, a hero of mine, showed us the beauty and humanity behind the scenes in the food world. He helped a whole generation fall in love not just with what’s on the plate, but with the people, the stories, the heart behind it. He created a world of foodies, where there once was none.
That’s what I hope this book does for wine.
I want to take you behind the scores, the tasting notes, the vintage charts, and way beyond any idea of right or wrong. Because, for me, wine has always been about connection, presence., wonder and appreciation..
Today I’m posting a sample shot story from Pinot Noir a Love Story on Substack. They’ll continue, not in any particular order, just the ones I’m giving one final deep dive before the book comes out.
This is also why I created Love is a Flavor. Because in a world that’s increasingly fast, distracted, and performative, I still believe in slowing down, gathering, contributing to others, and living a life of appreciation.
(Maybe we should all rehearse our Academy Award thank-you speeches on our loved ones too.)
I’ve had 45 years of absolute magic in this business. I’m still in awe of it.
So, this is me, standing on stage, saying thank you, and saying with enthusiasm :
Come check this out.
Chuck
Don’t Hesitate
A short story from Pinot Noir: A Love Story
Granny Lou didn’t just cook. She conjured. She didn’t just gather people, she created gravity. Her kitchen wasn’t a room. It was a field. A place where time bent, where memory lived in every cabinet hinge and countertop crack, and where love wore the scent of hell cakes on the griddle. To this day, I believe if gratitude had a flavor, that is what it would be it.
She was Cajun through and through, born in the Louisiana heat and raised on gumbo and grit. By the time she had her own kitchen, she’d already fed fifty people a day on a working farm. Her hands had measured joy in pinches and scoops long before she ever cooked for family. To her, food wasn’t just nourishment. It was love. Generosity. Welcome. Warmth. And maybe more than anything—a calling.
Every meal at Granny Lou’s was an epic sensory event. You didn’t just eat. You felt. You didn’t just show up. You belonged. No RSVP required. If you were in the house, near the house, or even thinking about the house, you were already invited.
There was no pretense. Just food. And more food. And laughter that shook the cabinets and left ripples in your bones.
Cornbread that crackled on the edges and melted in the center. Carrots that tasted like they’d been coaxed into revealing some ancient, ancestral truth. Meatloaf so tender it bordered on scandal. There was always something strange and wonderful in the back oven. And then—there were the Hell Cakes.
Jalapeños and cheese ground through an old, hand-cranked meat grinder, bound with eggs and just enough flour to hold it all together. Lou fried them up like devilish pancakes. Adults got them with a nod; kids got a warning:
“We’ve got milder ones, made with bell peppers too.”
We earned our way to the real ones. A rite of passage. A slow evolution from mild to wild, with sweat on our brows and pride in our bellies.
Her food changed lives, but two words of wisdom echo even louder than the sizzle of those cakes:
“Don’t hesitate.”
She said it often. Always when she was slapping more mince-ems on your plate—that’s what she called anything edible and shareable. Anything that gave you a reason to gather. I still love that term. As if all food was just a pretext to spend time with the people you love and nibble your way into connection.
But “don’t hesitate”—that was her gospel.
“Don’t hesitate,” she’d say, topping off my plate for the third time.
“Don’t hesitate,” as she handed out seconds before you finished your firsts.
“Don’t hesitate,” while pouring from a gallon jug of Gallo Mountain Burgundy.
She wasn’t a wine drinker, not really. That Burgundy was more ritual than pleasure. Her real drink was a tall hi-ball glass, just enough bourbon to coat the bottom, topped with ice and water. It was her version of iced tea. More aroma than intoxication.
Looking back, I didn’t realize I was being educated. I thought I was just eating. But I was learning how to show up, how to give, how to create a space people never wanted to leave.
She never said, “This is how you host.”
She didn’t have to.
She and her actions were the lesson.
Her cooking wasn’t performative. It wasn’t curated for compliments or cameras. She didn’t care about plating or pairings or stars. But my God—she had a gift. Not just for flavor, but for presence. She served joy as easily as she served food, heaping spoons full of it, no holding back. Her table might as well have been the heartbeat of the world, and we were lucky enough to be pulled into its rhythm.
The older I get, the more I understand what she was really doing.
Yes, her food was extraordinary. The real feast was the gathering, the act of bringing people together and wrapping them—literally and spiritually, in a kind of love that didn’t ask for anything in return.
Unconditional. That’s what it was. No strings. No scoreboard. No expectations. Just presence. Just joy. Just a room full of people taking bites, telling stories, passing the cornbread, and remembering, without being conscious of it, what mattered most.
She was teaching us, without preaching, without an agenda,
How to live the good life.
The Bon Vivant life.
More importantly, how to love. Which is the nucleus of the good life. It’s the flavor of life. Nothing is more satiating than unconditional love.
“Don’t hesitate” wasn’t just about eating.
It was about everything.
Don’t hesitate to hug someone a second longer than feels socially acceptable.
Don’t hesitate to laugh too loud, or cry when it moves you.
Don’t hesitate to say what needs saying, or cook for someone just because.
Don’t hesitate to make a mess if it means making a memory.
Don’t hesitate to gather, to call, to clink glasses, to add one more chair at the table.
And, don’t hesitate to love like it’s the only thing you’re sure of—because it is.
I didn’t know it then, but she planted something in me. A seed. It grew quietly, deeply. It wasn’t a recipe or technique. It was a knowing. That creating space for connection, done with heart, with food, with intention, is one of the most sacred and loving things any of us can do. I now know that wine lives here and plays a special role.
Granny Lou did life so well, without hesitation.
I can still smell the bourbon, hear the pepper cakes spitting on the griddle. I still hear her laugh. The infectious kind that filled a room and stayed long after she left it. I can still see the sparkle in her eye when a plate came back clean.
This story isn’t about wine.
Not yet.
But it’s about everything wine is supposed to be.
Her name was Granny Lou.