Oriental Wine

A study of grape skins at Kelsey See Canyon Vineyards

There’s evidence of the fog machines here — the ones that turn on early and churn slowly, spilling into the valleys of SLO by lunchtime. Maybe it’s not fog. Maybe it’s wool and milk and mist. After a full day on the road, Kelsey See Canyon approaches us like your driveway as you roll in on Monday night. It’s home if home had a barn and a hundred peacocks. And a defunct tugboat warehouse that stores barrels and barrels of oak. And Keith.

Keith Kelsey of Kelsey See Canyon Vineyards. The guy’s walking around his grass lot in a red hoodie, a little boozed up from hanging out with guests all day, and he gestures hello at us with his wine glass in hand. He definitely wants us to know that Kelsey is not Big Wine. Big Wine with corporate motivations and 11 wineries in Napa and distribution channels across the nation — “Certainly not,” says Keith. But despite its relative lack of prestige, I’m told that Kelsey attracts top talent — winemakers who grew up in small towns, tried the big leagues, but came back because they hated the Machine. And I get it. Who hasn’t thought about the cost of selling their soul?

Keith takes us to the back, where stainless steel tanks loom over our heads in front of a wooden picket fence. It’s industrial and not: intimidating, but in a barn. Our wine glasses line up one by one to get filled with wine we didn’t pay for. Hospitality! Keith tells us about his craft for the better part of an hour, then we wrap up and I have an article to write.

It’s not boring — a short character piece about small towns and sturdy roots. But it’s not the story. Not the story.

The guy’s walking around his grass lot in a red hoodie, a little boozed up from hanging out with guests all day, and he gestures hello at us with his wine glass in hand.

The first question we ask Keith when he walks up to our table is about his parents, and in his response, he calls his mom “a hot-headed Portagee.”

Noun. Portagee (pl Portagees) (dated, ethnic slur, derogatory) A person from Portugal or a person of Portuguese descent.

At our table, Sasha and Eden look at us and ask, “Did he just call his mom a slur?” I laugh it off for now; people are brought up with different ideas of what’s appropriate to say. 

Keith takes us to the back, where stainless steel tanks loom over our heads in front of a wooden picket fence.

While Keith is showing us through the process and the machinery, he occasionally takes time to dive into odd digressions about his new homes in Tennessee, his hatred for Gavin Newsom, and the 20-year age gap between him and his wife. The last two minutes of our conversation capture the heart of it:

“And the great thing about Tennessee, I went back there… last April? No mask mandate, at all. I saw a few guns on people’s side — I never felt so safe, because if someone tried anything, you can’t always count on police but someone’s gonna be armed there. Because as of July 1st, you can carry concealed… I didn’t see any homeless people there, it’s clean American Pie. The supposed, according to our government and our media, ‘racist’ Dixie flag, flies everywhere. And my wife is so pissed at that, cuz she considers that —” 

I’m not sure why I interrupt here — probably because I don’t really enjoy listening to Keith defend the Confederate flag. In any case, I blurt out, “but you’re never gonna move down there, right?”

Keith pauses, ignores me, and moves right back to his last train of thought: “Well, but all the Dixie flag means is that you’re a proud southerner. It’s nothin’ about racism. And you know, I’m moonshine tasting with all these ethnic groups — I didn’t see racism. I just saw happy people trying to be normal!”

Right when “ethnic groups” form on his lips, my eyes shift right and before they can shift back,

I’m no longer tasting wines in SLO. I’m an Asian tasting wines in SLO. And if Keith ever tells my story, maybe he’s going to reduce me to a happy ethnic person who’s trying to be normal.

Mom says we have perfect, All-American accents because we were raised next to Hollywood — I roll my eyes to hide my relief. Once in a while when Dad messes up his order and I step in to help, it feels like I’m relieving the waitress of some burden. Like – Miss, I’m sorry you had to hear a couple extra seconds of comprehensible English. Let me fix that for you with my Southern Californian accent. She’s one of the many white people I’ve convinced into thinking I’m ordinary. Just like Them.

July 2021

My family’s rental car is somewhere between Utah and Idaho. Breakfast was five hours ago and our bellies hate us. Mom gets the “oriental” salad; it’s either that or a selection from two laminated pages of a burger’s theme and variations.

[Jimmy Fallon reads from the teleprompter]

“What’s it like getting called oriental by a plate of Utah coleslaw sprinkled with fried wonton strips soaked in sesame oil and honey?”

[Cued laughter]

The waiter comes up. Look, sometimes, you just get a dry waiter. But damn, she’s got some jokes at the other tables she’s waiting on. I feel what my siblings feel, what Mom and Dad are starting to feel. But every time she comes to our table to deliver a drink or ask for an order, we’re complimentary and charming with our words, getting her to break a little. She never gives in, but we are not losing this game. And after we’re done eating, Dad tips her extra.

[Dad sits down at Jimmy’s desk]

“So you’re telling me you gave her more money for doing a bad job?”

“Yep!”

[Laughter]

I don’t know why I started this magazine, this club. People ask me that a lot, and most of the time I just recite something from our mission statement. To our members, I preach about yearning for places unexplored, but I’m not sure that’s quite it either. I used to think that travel was only about hearing other people’s stories and watching them live. But now I’m thinking about how every new place I visit is also experiencing me for the first time. Somehow in that relationship between place and self, I see who I am more clearly.

“Someday, someday, 

someday I, 

I will wear a starry crown

Some day, some day, some day 

I’m gonna

lay down, like God did, on Sunday”

—Kanye West, “Ghost Town”

Maybe the next time I drive through white America, I’ll be the proverbial apple that fell from the tree and pay a microaggression tax. Probably not. Someday, I’ll be able to go anywhere I want and not have to be reminded of where I lie in the demographics of this place. And when I’m lucky enough to take my family exploring, I’ll tell them, “You know, you couldn’t always do this — just be yourself around strangers in a place you’ve never been.” The little ones will look at me with unbelieving eyes, lay down, and go back to sleep. Maybe, someday.

Words: David Chen

Photos: Eden Porras Harth